CHAPTER THREE
GRAY
I was right.
It wasn’t a pleasant talk, and it pretty much lasted an hour on my count.
We had lunch at one of those foodie restaurants that served tiny portions, and I decided to order three courses—not because I wanted to piss Steve off, but because I was actually pretty hungry. Despite the trendy setup, with the waiters hardly giving you any attention, they were pretty fast on the food service, and I ate to my heart’s content as Steve began to rail on me about the pictures that were going around all over the internet.
First, he told me about how irresponsible it was and how he didn’t like that it was ruining my image—and in turn, his image. That lasted longer than I would have liked, and I told him to get to the point, which he did in the long run.
“I am really not pleased about this,” Steve was saying as he cut through his small serving of steak, frowning down at it, then at me. “I’ve invested a lot of money in you, and I want a return on investment, and you’re not helping my case at all. I need those sponsorships, Denton, and those trophies. You need to work harder to get me my money.”
I wanted to spout off that his father was actually the one who invested in me, and I’d been nothing but a dedicated employee to the man because of our mutual interest: I gave him the business start when he’d almost been bankrupt, and he gave me the opportunity to explore my love for the racing sport. It had been a pretty good run until Steve took over ownership, because this time, the interest wasn’t as mutual.
I didn’t change, not one bit since I got in this contract and certainly not when it came to women. But Steve didn’t like it, and he had a habit of pushing threats down my throat if there was something he didn’t like.
Like right now.
“I want you to clean up your image,” Steve ordered. “Fire Mark if you have to since he’s not getting his job done. If you don’t, then I’m dropping you.”
I raised a brow at him. “Even before the Daytona 500?”
His mouth firmed. “After that. You also need to win me a lot of money on that.”
God, the man was an asshole.
I’d have riled him up some more, but I respected his father too much to do so. In the end, I clamped my mouth shut and repeated in my head that the son’s hate for the sport and me didn’t need to disrupt my love for the sport itself. We went our separate ways under not-so-bad terms, though I could feel his dislike radiating off in waves before he left.
Well, that was pretty much the only thing that was mutual between us.
My mood lifted a bit when I got a text from my college friend, surprising me when he said he was in town for a conference. I texted him back quickly, and in no less than twenty minutes, we were meeting up in a different place altogether—a joint that was a bar at night but served fresh fish and chips and great burgers during the daytime.
It was actually owned by Scott McCall himself and his friend Jay, who I’d gotten to know in my frequent visits here. I only discovered the place a few months ago, which was a shame considering it was one of the tastiest food joints there was. Jay was the only one there, and we chatted for a bit before he got me a beer on the house and congratulated me on my win today. I asked about Scott and Julie, who turned out to be on vacation with their firstborn somewhere in Switzerland. I then placed my order and scooted in a corner table, texting my PR agent to let him know that I’d had a talk with Steve and that we needed to talk, too—probably tomorrow. I knew Steve would lay it on Mark and threaten to fire him if they talked first, and Mark just wasn’t that good at handling stress.
The food came just in time. Since the place was still closed and my being there was more as a courtesy, my friend slipped through the back door where I introduced him to Jay before we moved to a table.
Paul Isaacs was just as I remembered him in college—tall, manly, and oozing a broody appeal that had most guys wary and girls swooning all over him. It worked well for his police career, though I knew most of his success there was because of his razor-sharp intelligence more than anything.
I remembered all our crazy antics in college and had to grin at how well we both actually turned out. As if he remembered the same, Paul grinned.
“It’s nice to see you, man.”
“Likewise,” I said. I indicated for him to dig in, and we did. It was infinitely better than the meal I had at that trendy place, and I found myself relaxing once more after the adrenaline rush of the race and that tense lunch with Steve.
Paul was that one close friend I had in college who had my back no matter what. Most of our antics actually involved women and getting raging drunk, which resulted in some pretty bad hangovers. But we never two-timed any of the females we got on with, and we cleaned up our act in our last few years in school when we realized that we weren’t going to get anywhere at the rate we were going.
After graduation, we both focused on our careers—me with my car racing here in Florida and Paul with police training in California, where we both graduated. We contacted each other a lot to keep in touch, and would often gather for drinks whenever he was off duty and I was back in town, or when he visited here. But we hadn’t seen each other for the past year, so catching up took a longer time. I had plenty of that, though—and even if I didn’t, I would always make time for Paul, considering he made time for me, too.
I then remembered one of the biggest things I owed him in college and decided to bring that up after we finished our meal and were just lounging around with beer.
“About that tuition fee you paid for me in college…”
After I lost mine to a stupid college bet, was left unsaid. Before I could continue, Paul waved a hand.
“Keep it,” he said, opening a second beer bottle. “We both did that stupid gambling thing. I’ll let you know when I need it.”
I nodded without argument. Paul wasn’t poor, so I doubted the “need” moment would ever come.
“Actually, I’d like to ask you a favor in return.”
That perked me up. Paul never asked me for any favors. It was a pride thing with him. I tilted my head. “What is it?”
I listened as Paul talked about his sister and her move to Florida in a few days, where she had decided to reside and find work for now. The first thought that crossed my mind was that he wanted me to do the typical new-resident thing: tour her around, get her acquainted with the city and help her settle in. But to my surprise, what Paul asked was completely different.
“Can she stay at your place in the meantime, if it’s not too much of a bother?”
My brows rose out of their own accord. But I kept listening as Paul explained the reason why her sister was actually moving here.
“She just broke up with her abusive boyfriend of three years.”
“He hit her?” I asked.
Paul’s mouth flattened. “Twice. I wasn’t there during the first time, but I got him arrested the second time. He’s out on bail now and stalking her, and she’s traumatized as it is. He’s been emotionally abusing her for years, too.”
I could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, and it mirrored in me. If there was one thing I hated, it was abusive men. My foster father had been an abusive drunkard who hit me and my foster mom when he’d had too much to drink—and when my foster mother died, the hitting was purely focused on me. I hadn’t seen the guy in years, and I didn’t ever plan to. My scars were more than physical, and I couldn’t imagine what Paul’s sister was going through.
“How long has it been since they’ve broken up?”
“Almost a year, actually,” Paul said. “But the guy just wouldn’t let up, and it’s driving her paranoid. He says he wants to get back with her.”
“Bastard,” I murmured.
“Wouldn’t you say it,” he muttered.
We drank to that in companionable silence for a while before I replied. “Sure, she’s welcome to stay at my place.”
“She will pay rent and everything,” he said, a worried expression crossing his face. “I normally wouldn’t ask favors like this, but I’ll be all the way across the country for my conferences and can’t really protect her when I’m not here. Our parents are vacationing and won’t be back for months. She was pretty insistent on staying, but changed her mind the moment she got the gift from him.”
“What gift?”
“A collage of pictures of her walking down the streets everywhere. He’s been photographing her.”
That was creepy. I wrinkled my nose, suddenly mad at this guy, too. I didn’t really know much about Paul’s sister, but I remembered visiting their home once during the holidays—just after my foster mom died, and my foster father had decided to get roaring drunk and sleep the whole day. She was basically a kid when we were in college, and had mostly kept to herself after dinner. Christ, I didn’t even remember how she looked.
“That’s sick, man,” I replied, shaking my head. “But seriously, no rent. She’ll stay for free until she gets back on her feet. I assume she’ll return to Los Angeles when everything’s settled?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan.”
I nodded. “Then she’ll be staying at my house as long as she wants. No arguments.”
Paul looked grateful, and he expressed it by clinking our beer bottles together. We drank some more and ordered our second round of food, with Jay joining us for a bit before he went back to his upstairs office. A thought flashed through my mind, and I leaned towards Paul.
“But I’m a man,” I said. “And you know my reputation. What made you ask me?”
For the first time in a while, a look of amusement crossed his face. “I’ve known you for years, pal. And rumors are certainly true regarding your virginity.”
Well, shit. I grinned at him, not contesting a thing. He was pretty much the only one who knew.
“And my sister wouldn’t be caught dead racing through the streets and trying to please you,” he said.
I shrugged. “Her loss.” We both chuckled about it. I told him about our apartment building system and how his sister was free to move in anytime she wanted as I gave him my spare key that I always carried. Paul mentioned that his sister would probably be leaving Los Angeles at dawn, to make sure she wouldn’t be followed by her asshole ex. I promised him I’d beat the bastard up if he ever showed his face here in Florida, and Paul chuckled and said that it would better if the guy was arrested.
“Arrested without messing up his face?” I scoffed. “That’s lame, Isaacs. Fists would make him back off for sure.”
“So would prison,” he said gravely. He tilted his head. “But I wouldn’t mind if you gave him one eye black.”
I laughed, saying I’d do my best.