Page 53 of Forbidden Game

One thing is certain. I have a week to pull myself together.

ELEVEN

PARKER

She’s avoiding me.

I step on the gas and watch the speedometer tick higher and higher and higher. I swerve between the lines of cars on the freeway. The engine rumbles below me, and I sink into the smooth leather as I let the speed carry me and turn the world outside into a blur.

It’s frustrating as hell.

I know for a fact that she went to the apartment a bunch of times last week, and not once did she come in to see me.

She knew I was there; knew I was grinding. I wasn’t even streaming, so she could’ve come into my room without interrupting. But no. She came up to check on Jackson and just left me a new supply of energy drinks from our sponsor.

My chest aches with the pain that has been present all week. The very same pain I tried to douse with champagne and cars and games.

It isn’t going away.

I went to Suzuka and didn’t hear a peep from Syd. She normally tracks me like a bloodhound and sends me little reminders to “behave myself” and “not make her job harder.” I even made a point of posting a bunch of videos to my stories, at the clubs with the drivers after the grand prix—there was even one of me drinking from an ice luge—and she still didn’t say anything.

I’d heard from Aleks nonstop though. He was chafed that I didn’t bring him along and wouldn’t stop bugging me for photos until I told him I’d bring him to the Vegas race.

The GPS signals my final turn, and I swing into an open parking spot a few doors down from the restaurant. I pull down the visor and touch up my hair before pocketing my phone and lifting the scissor door. Once I’m standing in the warm September sun, I take a second to admire the way my new car shines in the light.

The Lamborghini Revuelto arrived while I was in Japan, and she is a beauty. I’d even gotten it a custom aqua color, which had tacked on a solid chunk of extra change to the already hefty price tag, but I have no regrets. It is hands down the best car I have in the States, reaching sixty miles per hour in under three seconds.

Aleks is going to nut when he sees it.

I shove my hands into my pant pockets as I stroll up to the restaurant, the smell of fresh pizza and pasta permeating the air.

Quiet determination thrums in my blood as I bypass the host desk entirely and walk right into the belly, scanning the tables.

I spot that recognizable head of blonde hair and smile, proud of myself. The mere sight of her after a week causes desire to curl under my skin. That is until I notice the obviously male figure she is seated in front of.

Thick jealously stirs in my stomach when I see Sydney laughing alongside the guy.

Syd locks eyes with me, and a flash of panic has her gaze darting from me to the man and back. My jaw ticks.

Who the hell is she with?

I’m a few tables away when I recognize the guy.

Fuck.

It’s Justin Rivera.

Without drawing attention to myself, I alter my course and slip into an empty chair at a nearby table. It’s not close enough to hear their conversation, but at least if Justin looks around, he’ll have a hard time seeing me.

This isn’t exactly going to plan.

Then again, I didn’t really have a concrete plan in the first place.

Sydney has already regained her composure and is chatting away with Justin.

My curiosity bubbles. Syd wouldn’t just take a meeting with Justin for no reason. He’s one of the few reporters I’m actually wary of. It costs a lot—and I mean a lot—of money to stop him from running a story. Most of the time, it’s cheaper to deal with the fall out than to prevent it, even for me.

Sydney takes a sip of her drink, her lips closing around the straw, and I have flashbacks to the other night. Those lips closing around my own and sucking on them. Her tongue tangling with mine in pure sweetness.

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