CIRCE
Fuck, was I ever wrong about Casper not showing off his sexcapades. Hiding out in his caravan with his ample entertainment, everything has slowed to a snail’s pace. Markus—like the asshole he is—took off with Jason in tow to drink away their boredom. With no Casper in sight, staying to the back, behind a monster of a man who smells like week old pizza and stale beer, I wait him out. Hopefully, it won’t be too much longer. Casper’s family stands off to the side, looking relaxed and bored, awaiting his return and leaving him alone with his trinkets. Wondering how often this happens isn’t important. He’s a means to an end for advancement in my job, and a bottle of whiskey with my fifty quid.
Using the camera for something, I decide to take a few pictures of the family and what’s going on around them. Jax Crown, better known as King Crown, is the original wild man of the tribe. Leaning up against one of the trailers with his ankles crossed, looking bored, his unusual six foot four frame makes him distinct. For a Le Mans and Indy car racer, he’s been the champion in the hearts of millions for the last ten years. With his dark, chocolate eyes that pierce your soul, silver, peppered black hair, chiseled jawline with permanently puckered dimples, he’s a beautiful and rugged looking man. It draws the forty-something mommies to him, and his charismatic way of engaging the public also makes him a favorite on and off the track everywhere.
Casper’s older brother isn’t here. Jamieson, better known as Whiskey, is a competitive snowboarder out west. He’s never seen with his family, but from the pictures I’ve seen, I’d say he looks most like his father. They have the same build, and piercing dark eyes.
His sister, China, also known as Doll, is the youngest of the royal family. Doll’s a total diva and a damn good racer. She’s also drop dead gorgeous. With her milk chocolate, pin straight hair that cascades down her back, forest green eyes, petite five eleven frame that dips to a tiny tight waist, which is accented by an overtly voluptuous body that most pay big money for, she’s a pinup in many a boy’s bedrooms. Wearing a brilliant blue cat suit and white heels, she stands out in the crowd. I’ve heard that at their house in California, her and Casper race fearlessly against each other on the family's personal track. It’s all hearsay, though, as press are not allowed. They’re a very competitive family, so I expect it to be true.
Casper’s mother, Marca, who’s always stylish and reserved, sits on a chair in the shade with an oversized brimmed hat, a white pant suit and black heels. She’s stunning. Her straight platinum hair looks like spun silk under her hat. Her soft, cream complexion is blemish free with masterfully applied makeup, making her the picture of youthful perfection. It’s easy to see where Casper gets his looks.
His hair is the same platinum color as his mother’s, albeit wavy. He has classic, strong cheekbones and high eyebrows that frame his brilliant blue-grey eyes. At just over six feet tall, he’s the perfect combo of his parents. Rugged, dangerously gorgeous with wide shoulders, thin frame, and a smile that makes women swoon. He’s the top-billed star to many a night’s dreams in my head.
As I’m filming his family, the object of my affection shows his face. The two hanger-ons from before slip out behind him, grinning like Cheshire cats as they straighten their non-existent clothing. Without acknowledging them as they leave, not even a kiss goodbye, Casper moves over to his family. His race coat is hanging around his waist, leaving him standing in a sweat-soaked fireskin shirt that’s untucked, showcasing his beautiful, tight body. I’m now finding him to be just as much a manwhore as his brother, with complete disregard for the women that left him only moments ago, but I still find him fucking sexy as hell. If the drool on my chin is any indication, I still want him. Bloody libido.
After having some quiet words with his family—terse words it seems—he approaches the reporter’s area with a stiff grin that never reaches his eyes, though none of these reporters care. They accept him any way they can get him, even in his misery.
Moving forward from behind pizza man, I shift closer to the front. From here, I can just make out Casper through the thick sea of people.
“Casper, today was a great run.” The first to start the questioning is a guy that really should be on a diet, and paying for Hair Plugs for Men. His pasty, thinning hair sticks to his oversized forehead as sweat breaks out in rivulets down his face. To boot, the asshole is so pungent, I can’t deal with staying put much longer. Shifting over, I almost forget to turn the camera towards the sexy Crown in front of me. Switching it on quickly, I record what little I can see from here. Jason was right, this will be shaky as shit.
Watching Casper step forward to address the crowd, he plasters on an even bigger fake smile as he leans on his winning ride. “Thanks, Charles. It was a good run.” His voice is contained, with very little emotion. He’s certainly not expressing an ounce of joy from winning for the third time, but Casper is known for his contained, canned comments.
“When the spectator crossed the barrier, and you were coming up on him, what was going through your mind? Were you worried about hitting him? Did it scare you to think you could have ended not just his life, but your own as well?” Markus asks. Turning, I see him and Jason shouldering their way to the front, literally pushing everyone out of their way. With a wide grin, Jason turns and winks. Fucking pricks. Slimy, greasy pieces of shit. If it wouldn’t cost me my job, I’d kick their teeth out.
Ignoring them and turning back to the task at hand, I watch through the lens. Casper’s stance is rigid, and he’s pissed off. He’s either ready to leave, or punch someone out. But, he answers the question with a sense of decorum and poise, acting composed and unaffected.
“Markus, I had to make a split-second decision. If I changed course and adjusted the speed, I wouldn’t have known exactly where to go. All I could do was hope for the best. It was blind luck. He took not only his life and mine into his hands, but he took those of the people close by as well. I feel sorry for him. Truly.”
I listen as the same type of questions are asked. They’re all looking to poke the bear instead of congratulating him for his win. It’s crass. Casper Crown deserves to be commended, not condemned. This is fucking shitty.
I feel sorry for him. Bet or no bet, I need to say my peace. Markus had his opportunity and so did the rest, and if these dumbasses don’t want to approach this right, I will.
Knowing it’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have, I steel my nerves and yank up my big girl panties. Putting the camera down, I speak. “Circe Maco, affiliate to KKCO, Wales. I have one more question before you leave, if you don’t mind.” My voice trails off as every eye turns to me, including Markus’. I guess I win that bet. He looks pissed, so I shy away slightly.
“Step forward, please.” Hearing Casper’s gravelly voice directed at me, I curse myself for speaking up. “I’d rather address a lady than this blatant show of male posturing.” I’m sure you would.
Markus motions for me with a wave of his hand to step forward. Grimacing, I attempt to back away as he says, “I can’t fuckin’ wait to tell Kingston this.” His nasally voice and snide smirk scares the shit out of me.
I move forward as the other reporters make room for me. Reaching the front, the only thing between me and the champ is a flimsy folding table, of which I almost collapse as I lean on it.
“Siren, I’m not planning on staying with these wretched blokes much longer. Give me a reason to stay,” Casper whispers low enough for only me to hear. Siren? A reason? How about I want to lick you from stem to stern. Is that good enough? I think to myself.
Relaxing my breathing, I compose my thoughts. “Mr. Crown, my question is this. When you crossed the finish line, did you think of this as your last time on the TT? Or, is this just a building block for another record in the annals of motorcycle racing?”
The hardcore interviewers think my question is trivial and a waste of time. They scoff and titter among themselves like children, but I concentrate on Casper, ignoring the idiots.
Giving me his full attention, I find his gaze unnerves me. Being this close to him gives me the shivers, and it makes me dangerously aroused. My stupid body doesn’t get it. Turning around to look at the others, I see Markus sneering at me.
“Well, Ms. Circe Maco…” Casper pauses. Wandering close to the table I’m leaning on, he picks up a loose throttle before he continues. “I’m a predator, and I’m not ready to give up my position in the pride. If someone wants to try to tip me off the pedestal, they’re welcome to try.”
He looks me straight in the eyes as he finishes. We’re only inches from one another, so close I can see the small scars on his face, the white lightning streaks in his irises, and the slight stubble on his face. It’s hot as fuck.
“Does that answer your question, Ms. Maco?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, thank you,” I stammer, thrown off by his closeness. I’m normally more articulate, but I can’t think straight.
Casper winks at me before turning to the rest of the crowd.
“I’m tired from the race. I really need a bit of a rest before tonight’s party. Good afternoon, everyone,” he says before leaning on the table, focusing again on me. “I’m sure I’ll see you again—soon.”
Smiling, Casper moves off towards his ride, ignoring those vying for more of his attention. As he turns, giving the crowd his backside—which is such a very nice view—I watch his retreating form, unable to pull my gaze from his tight ass. Once I do, I spin as fast as I can and hand Jason the camera as I rush back through the slack-jawed dinks, and away from Casper’s powerful magnetism. If I stay here any longer, I’ll say or do something utterly stupid. Or, I’ll hear Markus tell me there’s no use in me going back to work, ever.
Soon? He’d said it like he expects to see me again.
Fuck.
My toy is getting a workout tonight.