Page 1 of The Hotshot vs The Reporter

CHAPTER1

ROYAL

“Are you kidding me? What part ofbehavedo you not understand? Do you need me to treat you like a toddler? Because I can.”

I try like hell not to shrink back as Jenny, my agent, lectures me because I don’t back down. I’m Royal Goddamn Dutton. The hotshotonthe track, but just as mouthy and badassoffthe track too.

Still, despite my agent being pint-sized and beautiful as all hell, I’m a little afraid of her—I’m not going to lie. I’m man enough to admit I often have nightmares about the woman kicking my ass.

And while it’s kind of hot, I have no doubt she could take me. And not in the fun way. No, this woman wants nothing to do with me sexually, as she’s informed me on many occasions. Still, it’s kind of fun to flirt with her when she’s not fuming mad like she is right now.

“What exactly are you angry about? I just won the fucking race.” Her eyes meet mine, cold and downright terrifying. I wonder for a moment if Jenny is going to throat-punch me right here on the track.

“Watch. Your. Mouth.”

I shouldn’t say it. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t back down. People are watching and listening, and I’m Royal Dutton. Twice as much of a smartass as the Bad Boy—a/k/a my best friend, Axel Lennon—and if you ask me, twice as charming too. “Oh Jenny, you know I’m far too busy watching that pretty mouth of yours to watch my own.”

Yup, she’s not amused. Not at all. Damn it all to hell. Why did I move my contract from my last agent to her? He was a pansy and totally boring, but he rarely called me on my shit. Not like Jenny. All she does is call me out.

I should be celebrating right now, but no, I’m dealing with this damn she-demon. “Why are you so upset?” I ask slowly, putting on my smooth Texas drawl.

“You hit his car.”

I unzip my firesuit because it’s hot as fuck out here today. Where are we? Atlanta, I think. Yeah, we’re in Atlanta. “Look, I rubbed his car. Rubbin’ is racin’.”

Again with the death glare. “Do not quoteDays of Thunderto me.”

I drop my shoulders, wishing I could move on from this part. I know it wasn’t exactly the smartest move out there. “Look, he hit my car first.”

She quickly interrupts me, which for the record, I’m not at all surprised about. “What are you, in kindergarten?”

I ignore her and go on with my point. “If he wants to play with the big boys, he’s going to have to learn. He hit me, so I passed him and rubbed his car. It went into the wall. He didn’t have the control he thought he had, and I won the damn race.”

She huffs, and I know it isn’t over, but she manages to keep her cool as the media swoops in. I hate the goddamned media. Always have and always will. They put these roles on us.

The Bad Boy. The Pretty Boy. The Hotshot. The Pro. The Rookie. The Ace. And all the others. They give us these stupid names, and we play into them because with social media being the king, we have to play up our roles even more than win on the track.

Our reputations are everything.

I turn on the charm and answer all their questions the way I’ve been trained to do from day one. I don’t apologize for putting one of the new—frankly, pretty insignificant—racers into the wall in order to win the race.

Instead, I play the cocky hotshot role, even though the adrenaline is spiking through my system and causing my damn hands to shake because I know it could have been bad.

I know it was a risky, stupid move, but I couldn’t lose. I can’t go back to being that sick kid no one wanted.

Fuck. Is this damn interview over yet?

Thankfully, Leslie Phillips, Axel’s agent’s wife—that’s a mouthful, but that’s what she is—and a badass reporter chick lets me off the hook, and I haul ass out of there. If there’s one good reporter out there, one who actually cares about the subjects of her stories, it’s Leslie.

Maybe it’s because she’s married to Cash—the racer turned sports agent. Or maybe it’s just Leslie, I don’t know, and I hardly care as I make my way to my car.

I know my discussion with Jenny isn’t over, and when I get out of the shower at my fancy hotel suite, I’m not surprised to see her sitting calmly in the living room, drink in hand.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s scotch.

“No, please. Make yourself at home,” I chide, drying my hair with one towel, the other wrapped around my waist. I don’t bother getting dressed. Jenny’s probably seen me far more naked than this, pulling my hungover ass out of bed one too many times over the two years she’s worked with me.

I settle into one of the other chairs in the room and get a little uneasy when she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move.

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