Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) Read Free

Baddum-bum. Yeah. He had a million of ‘em. Pretty tame stuff as far as zingers go. With some effort, he could work up a couple more. But, simply dismissing the prick as a motherfucker was too easy. This guy took every vulgarity to an eleven and then some. If he was on your ass for any reason, watch out.
    Droning a clipped, “Alphat,” Cal tossed back the last of his drink, making the other man wait. When he was good and ready, his insincere smile was just this side of a sneer. “Whose ass is being permanently deleted from the guest list for bringing you along?”
    The guy’s beady little eyes narrowed and darted about, checking to see if anyone else heard the not-too-subtle put down. Watching him reminded Cal of the furthest thing imaginable from a book boyfriend, the character of Uriah Heep. Jeez, even the physical description was similar right down to the skeleton-like hands. The guy creeped him the fuck out.
    “Scoring an invite to one of your sideshows doesn’t require much.”
    The sound of Renzo’s unctuous accent gave him an instant headache.
    It was hard not to pimp slap the weasel. The reporter glanced dismissively at a gaggle of ladies huddled nearby. “’Specially when the price of admission is as simple as a health certificate and an industrial-sized bottle of lube. Wasn’t all that difficult, frankly. Ninety Euros.” His bony shoulders shrugged. “Butt fuck would have been cheaper and probably more interesting.”
    What. An. Asshole.
    Dropping his empty tumbler onto the tray of a passing waiter, Cal mentally counted to ten before responding. “I didn’t know you were taking it up the ass these days, Alphat. Hmph. Explains your fascination with the team. Five guys with big dicks.” Cal didn’t even have to try to make the comment sound derisive.
    Sensory cues when he wasn’t on the track were hit or miss with him. Sometimes every little thing triggered a thought or response. It was part of being a Formula One driver. Even through layers of protective gear, he could feel his car. But when he wasn’t driving he preferred to disconnect from the intense focus and shut down.
    But tonight, he was on high alert. Fighting twin enemies—boredom and restlessness, these ridiculous parties didn’t help any. Too much excess. Not enough control. The whole time the affair dragged on, he worried that some kind of fuckery would break out. More shit for the getting old list he had tucked away in his head.
    “Ah, yes,” Uriah dribbled.
    Dribbled was a good description, right? After all, the asshole spoke in a blend of driveling, drooling and toadying wrapped in a sinister undertone.
    Cal suddenly wished the drink he’d been nursing was actual alcohol instead of his preferred fake-out beverage—apple juice with a shot of seltzer on the rocks. He never drank in public. Ever. The occasional celebratory glass of champagne after a win? Sure. But unless he was in total fucking control and calling every shot, he just didn’t imbibe. But letting others think he did? A necessary evil.
    Ignoring the deepening scowl that would have amply warned anyone else, the dumb shit kept on digging his own grave. “I sometimes forget how vulgar you Americans are.”
    Oh, my God! Did the little fucker actually rub his hands together? Cal blinked, and when he did, his eyebrows shot upward. He mentally reset to bland indifference while making a mental note to put David Copperfield on his Kindle immediately. If a bunch of damn book references were gonna keep coming up, he might as well read the story again.
    “Vulgar is as vulgar does,” Cal murmured, enjoying Alphat’s confused expression. Fuck! The truth was, he had no idea what the well-used phrase even meant. “And I believe the reference you’re searching for is ugly Americans. Vulgarity is universal, and frankly, Italians shouldn’t point fingers.”
    “Bravo, Tyler. Now that I’ve been put in my place, perhaps you’d like to comment on Senora Gianelli’s sudden