Author's Note—Thanks to the readers of this story who have been patiently waiting an update. This story takes a little more research than my others, even if I have taken a few liberties here and there with the F1 calendar—though I'm using the race order and dates of the 2015 calendar, when I began the story, as a rough guide.
As I've said in my other recent updates, I promise I've been writing all this time. I just took a posting hiatus until I could get my stories back to places where updates would be more frequent. I think I'm in that place again.
I'm still not on social media (some things never change) but I do welcome PMs here and El continues to put up with me by keeping readers of my fics updated on her Tumblr. Thanks, El, for all that you do and for your friendship. LY.
All mistakes are mine. THG belongs to Suzanne Collins.
~*~Spain, continued~*~
A tickling sensation on my left knee rouses me out of a deep sleep. My eyelids struggle against a feeble effort to raise them. I open my eyes just a crack, bracing for morning's light, but the room is still pitch black.
Another brush against my knee is followed by wet warmth trailing along my inner thigh. A twinge of arousal tugs at my core. I squirm and prop myself up on my elbows just enough to peer down towards the bottom of the bed. In the murky darkness I can make out the slopes of Peeta's broad shoulders from where he's positioned between my legs.
"Peeta," I begin, my voice scratchy with sleep, "what are you—?" The rest of my inquiry is absorbed by a moan as his tongue finds the crease of my thigh. His breath fans across me. My nipples instantly stiffen and the rest of my body tenses in anticipation of his mouth reaching its intended target.
Peeta's hands skim up and down my legs as he continues to alternate pressing kisses and issuing leisurely licks to my inner thighs. Impatience flares in me. I writhe, swiveling my hips in an attempt to direct his mouth to where I want it most. He laughs softly.
"Is this what you want, sweetheart?" He burrows his tongue between my lower lips. I arch my back in pleasure and sigh contently. The tip of his tongue flicks against my clit once, twice, and then retreats. I feel his weight shift slightly, and then his lips graze my stomach and his tongue dips into my navel. A moment later he's looming over me.
"I hope you don't mind me waking you," he says, his voice a velvety rasp. He kisses my jaw. "But you promised me all night." He gestures to the bedside clock, which reads half-past three. A quick calculation tells me we've been asleep for about an hour, having dozed off after rounds two and three—or perhaps passed out would be the more appropriate descriptor.
"And," he continues, taking my earlobe between his teeth to give it a tug, "I was dreaming about you. So when I woke up and realized I have the real thing in my bed, I figured I'd just do this." His lips land on mine for a short, hot kiss, and then he crawls back down my body and coaxes my thighs apart. He inhales deeply, which would have me blushing if not for the very loud, very satisfied groan he emits.
"Already so nice and wet for me. Maybe you were dreaming about me too," he murmurs. His tongue traces up and down the length of me before spearing back between my folds. I whimper and bite my lip to trap another moan as he teases my clit with agonizingly slow revolutions of his tongue. Peeta's hand slithers up my stomach and between my breasts and his fingers come to rest on my bottom lip. He draws his fingers downward gently and my lip pops free from where my teeth had it snared.
"Don't hold back on me, Katniss. Be loud. Scream. No one will hear you but me." His palms glide down to my breasts. "And I want to hear that you're enjoying every single thing I'm doing to you." He settles his mouth over me again and swirls his tongue through the arousal that's pooled there, ending with a slow and deliberate press against the swollen bundle of nerves. My hips buck up off the mattress. Everything in me gathers and tightens as he works me towards my fifth orgasm of the night. Or is it the sixth—I've lost count.
"Oh, god, Peeta," I cry. His thumbs roll over my pebbled nipples and he sucks my clit into his mouth. He kneads my breasts for another few seconds, and then one of his hands slips between my legs. He eases two fingers into me and intensifies his suckling. His fingers curl forward, probing, stroking—and I detonate. The most blissfully intense sensation seizes every muscle in my body. Peeta keeps lapping at me and his fingers keep fucking me and I swear I nearly black out from the pleasure. I'm still mumbling his name and trembling from the aftershocks of my orgasm when Peeta's fingers curl around my upper arms and his strong arms haul me upward.
"Fuck, I love it when you say my name," he growls. "It's better than hearing it from any PA announcer," he adds, fusing his mouth to mine. The kiss is short but intense, his tongue plunging past my lips to suffuse my mouth with the lingering evidence of my orgasm.
"Get up on your knees," he commands, his voice dropping an octave. Though I'm not entirely sure my legs are up to the task, I obey, planting one knee on either side of him. The new position brings my breasts eye-level for him. Peeta grins and leans forward. He flicks his tongue over one peaked nipple, then does the same thing to the other. Fresh sparks shoot through me. He presses a kiss to my breastbone, his lips lingering right above my thumping heart, which traitorously pounds harder and faster. His grin widens. He twists his body across the bed to the nightstand to retrieve a condom. He tears it open and then places it in my palm.
"Put it on me," he whispers, more plea than authority in his tone. I glance down at the condom in my hand. With my other hand I reach for him, stroking him from root to tip. Peeta curses and rocks his hips forward, thrusting into my hand. "You feel how hard I am for you." He grips the back of my neck and draws me to him. He nibbles on my lower lip. "So fucking hard for you, Katniss." I stroke him again, slower this time, craving the power that he's turned over to me. I let myself indulge of the feel of him in my hand, hot and heavy and hard as steel. I close my palm over the crown and rub lightly. Peeta's hips canter. Emboldened, I slide my hand down the length of his shaft and cup his balls. His fingers immediately bite into the nape of my neck with enough pressure that I know my actions are affecting him but not so much that he's hurting me.
I didn't think it was possible, considering how much pleasure he's wrung from my body tonight, but touching him like this has renewed current zipping through me, collecting in a ball of molten heat low in my belly. I palm him again. His breath ghosts over my lips as he growls, "Put the condom on me. Please. I need to be inside you. Right. Fucking. Now." The gravelly timbre of his voice combined with the desperate edge I hear in it has my shaky hand releasing my grip on him. I fumble with the foil square. A blush rises on my cheeks when it doesn't tear easily. God I'm so bad at this.
Peeta's eyes lock on mine, not an ounce of judgment in them. He gently takes the condom from me and rips it open. He guides my hand to his cock. Together we roll the condom downward, sheathing him. His chest rises on a deep breath, a lazy smile crawling across his lips as he exhales. His hands splay over my back before his fingers mold to my hips and he lowers me onto his cock. We both gasp as I welcome him inch by inch, until he's fully seated. He feels even bigger like this, and I have to take a few deep breaths to adjust.
"You okay?" Peeta asks softly. I nod. Using my knees for leverage, I begin a rhythm, rising and falling, rising and falling. After several minutes, Peeta's hand leaves my hip and tangles into my hair, anchoring me. He drags his mouth up the slope of my shoulder and along my neck, landing on the shell of my ear. "Wrap your legs around my waist," he urges, and I comply.
What I immediately learn about this new position is that it's terribly intimate. With the way Peeta cradles me in his lap nearly every part of our bodies comes in contact. For the first couple of seconds we don't move, until eventually he resumes control, coaxing me to move my pelvis in slow, elliptical rolls. His thrusts upward are equally measured and deep. I try not to make eye contact with him, knowing that will only heighten the intimacy of the moment. When my name escapes his lips on a breathless pant I know he knows I'm evading his gaze.
So I lean forward and capture his mouth, plunging my tongue inside. He responds with unhurried strokes of his tongue; not the frantic pace at which mine moves. It's very obvious that he wants the kiss slowed down. That only fuels my resistance more. I pick up my rhythm and slam down on him with more force. Our mouths can't keep up with the pace I set. His lips start to miss their target and my teeth knock against his. I undulate my hips faster and faster. Peeta groans and latches on to my neck instead. The pressure of his mouth is soft at first, but then he sucks a little harder. And then harder still.
It's a coup: If I don't want him leaving a mark that I'll have to explain later I have to surrender to him and give him what he wants. And the last thing I need is the collective prying eyes of Mellark Racing surveying my lust-bruised neck. Defeated, I draw back my shoulders, arching my spine as I ease off his cock and glide back down more slowly. Peeta's mouth slackens, victorious. He begins to worship my collarbone with delicate kisses.
"Thought…you didn't like…playing games," I accuse. I swallow hard against a crest of pleasure that his tongue evokes by dipping into the hollow of my throat. He lifts his eyes to me. His hooded gaze is so incredibly sexy that a weaker girl would immediately cast all irritation aside and melt for him.
Not me, though. I can't. I won't. Sex, Katniss. It's just sex, my inner voice reminds me.
"Not…playing games," he replies, palming my breast. "Just…not ready…for this to end yet. Why…the…rush?" Heavy breaths and delicious little grunts punctuate each of his words. He kneads my breast and on his next thrust he tilts his pelvis in such a way that his cock rubs perfectly against my clit. He stills and then does it again, even slower and more deliberate this time. I grit my teeth as the sweet tension builds.
"That's funny for a guy who's all about speed," I counter. Peeta shakes his head.
"Not with you," he whispers. "Never with you."
The raw honesty of his words strips me of any power I thought I had. A very, very dangerous thought darts through my mind: You could have this. You could have this every day and every night with him. With Peeta.
But almost immediately a more sinister thought supplants the first, coupled with a horrific image of orange flames and black smoke: And it could all be gone in an instant.
Thankfully before my brain and my heart can engage in another heated battle, Peeta's mouth finds a spot just beneath my ear that has my mind going blank. The shallow strokes of his cock yield to deeper plunges. The pressure at my core knots tighter. I spur my hips forward and ride him faster, chasing my next—my last—orgasm. I need to come, and then I need to get out of his bed and retreat to the sanctuary of my own suite. There I won't have his warm, steady breaths on the back of my neck, or his strong arms wrapped securely around me, or his thick cock nestling perfectly against my ass to lure me into thinking that this should be anything more than just sex. I clench around Peeta's cock, gripping it like a vise.
"Fuck, Katniss," he gasps. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." The tendons in his neck go taut. His head lolls back. I feel his cock swell and he stiffens beneath me, his orgasm hitting him. I keep rocking, until the knot finally unravels and my own climax slams into me. Peeta clutches me against him, his hand rubbing soothing circles on the small of my back. His lips nuzzle my ear as he whispers my name over and over again. I wrench my eyes shut and try to tune him out, but the tiny aftershocks that have me spasming in his arms keep all my senses on high alert. He exhales heavily and I can feel his mouth curve upward against my skin. His fingers trail up and down my spine, and his sex-hoarse voice murmurs, "Mmm, holy fuck I told you we make a great team."
As his mouth charts a course back towards my collarbone, I wrest myself off of him. "I need to get back to my room."
"Whoa. Hey." He plants a hand on my knee and attempts to hold me in place. I swat his hand away. His brows knit and his forehead creases. "Katniss. What the…You don't have to—"
"I need to go back. Before Johanna and Delly notice I'm gone." I scramble off his bed and promptly stub my toe on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. I yelp in pain. A moment later the room floods with light. I blink rapidly, letting my eyes adjust. I start to stalk around the room in search of my clothes.
"Katniss!" Peeta quickly deals with the condom, then jumps off the bed. He pursues me, grabs me by the shoulders, and whirls me about to face him. "What the fuck! What's wrong?" His eyes flicker back and forth rapidly, probing mine for an explanation.
"Johanna and Delly," I begin, but Peeta shakes his head vehemently.
"No. No, no, no," he says emphatically. "Johanna and Delly both know the truth about how I feel about you. They won't give a damn if you stay with me all night, so don't you dare use them as an excuse. What the fuck just happened? Why are you in such a hurry to get away from me?"
"I just…I need to go," I echo, avoiding his eyes—and other tempting body parts—as I scan the floor. Dammit. Where did he put our clothes?
"Katniss." There's an edge of panic in the way he says my name that lures my eyes back to his. The bewildered, anxious look on his handsome face nearly breaks me.
"Where are my clothes?" I ask, impatience skirting my own tone. Peeta may be completely unfazed by his nudity, but I'm fully aware of mine. I can't have this conversation with him while I'm naked.
Peeta's shoulders lift on a deep sigh and he disappears into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a fluffy white bathrobe. He, however, is still naked.
"Clothes are still damp," he says, approaching me with the robe held at arm's length, poised to slip it on me. I reach out and snatch it from his grasp. Hastily I jam my arms into the sleeves and cinch it tightly around my waist. I can't even enjoy the feel of the supple fabric against my skin. When I return my gaze to his, my stomach roils violently at the maelstrom brewing in Peeta's blue eyes.
I lick my dry lips. This has to be done. It has to be this way.
"Tonight doesn't change anything between us," I start.
"Like fuck it doesn't!" he retorts.
"It doesn't!" I insist. "You asked for one night. This changes nothing."
"Well, what if I want it to change things?" he challenges, his gaze piercing me. "I knew damn well what I was doing, that by sleeping with you I was going against my contract."
"I didn't—" He doesn't let me get any farther.
"And I'd do it again in a fucking heartbeat! You, Katniss—you're everything I want. You're everything I didn't know I wanted. I want this. I want you. I don't care about any consequences my father and the team could level at me. You're worth any risk I could possibly take."
I close my eyes. His impassioned words gut me. Once again, Peeta is saying everything a girl could want to hear—if only that girl wasn't me. Because the second he utters that word—risk—I'm reminded just how much of a risk it would be to be with Peeta. Every single time he gets behind the wheel of that car, I could lose him. Just like my mother lost my father.
I refuse to ever become my mother. I cannot—will not—let love break me.
And racing, that's what Peeta does, what he was meant to do. The track is where he's most alive. I will not be the one to take that from him, nor would I ever dream of asking him to give that up.
So we're at an impasse.
"What if I don't want it to change things?" I start. "Look, Peeta, you were right that this was going to happen." I pause and exhale slowly, preparing myself for what I need to say next. "But that doesn't mean it should have happened." The lie unspools easily off my tongue. There's no way to wind it back up now. I watch Peeta's jaw set. His abs contract as his chest inflates on a sharp breath.
"Don't say that." He grabs my arm and whirls me around to face him. His eyes search mine frantically. "Don't say you regret it, Katniss. Don't cheapen this," he implores. "Tonight has been the best night of my life. You and I…we are connected in a way that I've never experienced with anyone. And it goes much deeper than just phenomenal sex. You know it does." My heart seizes and I hastily avert my gaze to avoid his anguished stare. Unfortunately, my line of vision lands right on his cock. That glorious cock, impressive even in its flaccid state. My sex clenches almost immediately, remembering how amazing he just felt inside me.
Felt. Past tense. Not present. Not future. Not again. A profound ache pulses in my chest and threatens to steal the air from my lungs.
"We can be something," he urges. "I want us to be something. I want it more than I've wanted anything. You know we make an amazing team."
It takes me several tries to swallow and it feels like a thousand needles stabbing my throat when I finally manage to do so. I take a deep breath and steel myself to utter my next words.
"We fucked, Peeta," I say bluntly. "You asked me for one night. I gave you one night. But this one night can't affect our work. Or our friendship. And I won't say anything about this—"
I lose my voice as Peeta's beautiful blue eyes freeze into two slabs of ice. He glowers at me. "We crossed a line. There's no going back. Not for me there isn't," he replies. A chill slithers down my spine as I process what he's implying.
"You don't mean that," I say. His jaw locks and he nods curtly.
"I mean every fucking word. If you want to pretend like you don't feel the same way I do…" He shakes his head. "If you're okay with throwing away this incredible thing that you damn well know we have between us, then you throw it all away. If we can't be lovers we can't be friends. You don't want personal, fine. It will be all business. You'll be my mechanic. Just another Mellark employee. Nothing more."
Nausea crests in my gut. I blink back the tears that threaten to breach my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I hope to hell his threat is an idle one and once he accepts that this is how it has to be that our friendship can be salvaged, because the thought of not having Peeta in my life terrifies me. But I won't give him the satisfaction of showing him how his cruel words affect me at this moment. And I will not let him see me cry. I harden my nerves—and my heart. I straighten my back.
"Well, that's what your father hired me to be: Your mechanic. So I guess I'll see you in Monaco, boss." I push past him, fully expecting him to grab me, to plead with me to stay. It's only once I'm over the threshold I hear him call my name. I turn.
"Your clothes." He shoves the wet bundle at me. One flip-flop tumbles to the floor from its perch atop the pile. We stare at each other for a long moment. Then his handsome face contorts with open disgust and he slams the door in my face. Sucking in a shuddering breath, I retrieve my sandal, hurry down the hall, and smack the elevator button with my palm. I bounce on the balls of my feet, eyes pinned to the number above the doors, willing the damn elevator to move faster so I can slip inside before the tears start to fall.
~*~Monte Carlo, Monaco~*~
Monaco Grand Prix
May
I hate my birthday.
Okay, maybe hate isn't the right word. Indifferent would be more accurate: I'm indifferent to my birthday.
It hasn't always been that way. When I was younger—when my father was still alive—birthdays were sacred. My birthday, May 8th, almost always fell smack in the middle of a Prix leg, so my father wasn't usually around to celebrate on the actual date. Because of this, he went out of his way to make my birthdays extra special.
My father, despite the success and wealth he enjoyed as a racer, was never big on material things. He was all about experience. He wanted to create memories beyond the pile of gifts that were soon forgotten or the fancy cakes that were all-too-fast consumed.
So, for example, when I turned ten, he flew us to the Grand Canyon—just him and me. We rode burros down into the base of the canyon and picnicked on the south rim at sunset. Even all these years later I can close my eyes and see the canyon walls painted a vivid rusty red and gold. I haven't seen a sunset that rivals that one since.
But when my father died, all celebrations—birthdays, holidays, even good report cards—died with him. My mother certainly wasn't going to acknowledge them. She barely knew what day it was, let alone if that day was a date that held any significance.
So the task fell to me to channel my father's enthusiasm, to try and keep birthdays and holidays memorable for Prim as best I could at my young age. Prim had birthday parties with friends and huge cakes and piles of gifts. Every Christmas she and I decorated a real tree (with some help from Gale Hawthorne and his brothers) and baked cookies for Santa. Easter eggs were hidden. Each lost tooth was five dollars under her pillow.
For all my efforts (and it did bring me joy to watch her awed expression when she tore the paper off a new American Girl doll or her first two-wheeler) I had no desire to put any enthusiasm into my own birthday. I was conscious of what was missing—and it wasn't the big celebrations or fancy gifts. It was him. My father was what made my birthday so special.
And so my birthday became just another day to me.
Which is why, when I awaken on May 8th, I don't have any intention of mentioning my birthday to anyone. I got my obligatory right-at-midnight-"I'm the first to wish you happy birthday" text from Prim. That's all I need.
But as I walk into Mellark Racing's Monaco headquarters, it's clear that the cat is already out of the bag.
"Happy birthday!" Delly squeals, rushing out from behind the reception desk to throw her arms around me. She engulfs me in a rib-crushing hug and then hastily retreats to the desk. She thrusts a large to-go coffee cup at me. "Birthday cappuccino from the best café in all of Monaco!"
"How did you know it's my birthday?" My words come out more accusatory than I'd like as I accept the cup, but Delly doesn't seem to notice. Her ebullient smile doesn't dim at all.
"Mellarks is a family, Katniss, and families don't forget birthdays," she says matter-of-factly.
"Well, thank you, Delly. This is very sweet of you," I say, raising my cup towards her before taking a sip of the coffee. I sigh blissfully. She wasn't lying. It's a very good cappuccino.
Delly giggles absently. "To think I was worried that you wouldn't be coming by the garage today." I swallow my second sip.
"Why is that?"
"Because it's your birthday. Duh," she replies, laughing. "I always take my birthday off. I go to the spa. I go shopping. I eat way too much. But then I remembered it's you that we're talking about."
"I like my job. I'm happy at work," I say defensively, even though I know Delly wasn't being malicious with her comment. "And to be honest, my birthday has never been that important to me. I'd rather no one know about it, but I guess it's too late for that."
Delly's blue eyes gleam. "Oh, definitely. Way too late for that." She lifts her chin and gestures towards the garage behind us. I sigh and trudge through the doors towards my workstation.
I guess I'm expecting balloons or confetti or something, given Delly's mischievous expression, so it takes a moment for my eyes to land on the massive arrangement of roses atop one of my work carts. My stomach knots as I approach the flowers. There must be three or four dozen of them. With a deep breath I reach for the card poking out from among the vibrant red blooms. Elegant script flows across the small cream rectangle, clearly the handiwork of the florist.
Katniss,
Happy birthday to the best mechanic a guy could ever ask for.
All my love, Peeta
The knot in my gut furls tighter as my gaze hones in on that penultimate word. I scan the message a second time. I close my fingers over the card and press my lips together. Something is off.
Since he slammed the door in my face in Barcelona, Peeta and I have only seen each other twice. We have not spoken a word to each other on either occasion. To be fair, I can't say that he's actively avoiding me, because I'm not entirely certain that he saw me either time. I, on the other hand, remain acutely aware of his presence anytime he's in the same vicinity as me.
The first instance was upon our arrival in Monaco. I had flown with Delly, Johanna, and several of the other Mellark team members. Management and drivers rarely travel with the team. Much of the time it's due to other obligations that are crammed in between legs. But on the occasions when they go right from one city to another, as most of the front-of-the-house staff and crew does, they take a privately chartered flight. Mellark Racing takes it one step further: Henrik has his own jet. That jet was how Henrik had traveled to Monaco. I saw him departing our hotel the evening before my flight. Rye and Connor had been with him; Peeta had not. I had wished them safe travels and told them I'd see them in Monte Carlo. I hadn't dwelled too much on Peeta's absence and ultimately reasoned that he would meet up with his father and brothers at the airport. It was the preferable conclusion versus my other speculation, the one that had been tormenting me: that Peeta had already fled the city and was holed up somewhere with some gorgeous, willing warm body until he was due in Monaco.
Unfortunately, what happened when I got to Monte Carlo gave very real credence to that imaginary fear.
I had managed to keep Peeta out of my thoughts (mostly) during the flight. Johanna had dozed most of the way and Delly had been engrossed in some trashy romance novel. I had chatted a bit with Darius, who had been seated across the aisle from me, and then I passed time by absently thumbing through the airline magazine. But when my eyes skimmed over a gorgeous photograph of some pristine beach in Tahiti, the memory of being on the beach with Peeta in Malaysia assaulted me. Before I could indulge in any reminiscing of the sort I had promptly turned the page and "accidentally" drove my elbow into Johanna's right bicep. She awakened, as I had hoped, and we spent the remainder of the flight talking about the fun things we could do in Monte Carlo.
After the plane landed and we made our way down the jetway to the gate, Delly took the lead, since she is the one who makes the reservations with the car services that Mellark employs to transport us from airport to hotel. I followed, half keeping an eye on Delly and half letting my vision drink in the sights of the upscale, glitzy airport.
And that's when I spotted him. Peeta. He was strolling away from a gate about thirty feet in front of me, clad in a suit with no tie and the top two shirt buttons undone. A large carry-on bag was slung over his left shoulder. My first instinct, shameful as it was, was to drop my gaze to his ass, which might have looked even more incredible hugged by the perfectly tailored dress pants than it did in all its naked glory the other night. (Upon second thought, naked glory won. His ass truly is a work of art.) I had quickly diverted my eyes and glanced up at the gate from where he had just emerged. The sign above the counter announced arrivals from Paris.
My mind vaulted right back to the beach in Malaysia, when Peeta had confessed to me that Paris was his favorite place on earth. Guilt curdled in my gut as I recalled the conversation. Had Peeta fled to Paris after our night together? Was he licking his wounds there—or did he have another reason for being in the City of Lights?
Swallowing hard, I had stolen a glimpse back in Peeta's direction. To my shock, he was already gone. I scanned the crowd ahead, puzzled at how he could have vanished so quickly, but his blond head wasn't visible anywhere.
He didn't vanish from my thoughts as easily, though, and for the remainder of the day I had been tormented by my own overactive imagination conjuring up what he had been doing in Paris.
Our second encounter, if you can call it that, was yesterday. I had woken up with a slight twinge in my lower back, which led me to make the decision to swim laps in the hotel's indoor pool instead of going for my usual run on the treadmill. Upon arriving poolside, I found myself staring down at Peeta's muscular body slicing through the water. Watching him swim had immediately hurtled me back to that rooftop pool in Spain. I could taste the regret on my tongue. My faithless subconscious yearned to plunge into the water and recreate that night. Fortunately my legs got the message to get the hell out of there before Peeta noticed me.
"Who are they from?" Delly asks. I lift my eyes to meet hers. She stares back at me expectantly, yet there is something in her expression that suggests she already knows the answer to her question. Delly is many things, but a good liar isn't one of them.
"Peeta," I murmur.
"I told you he'd just need a few days to cool off," she replies cheerfully. She squeezes my shoulder and then flits back out to reception, leaving me alone in the garage. I unfurl my palm and stare down at the florist's card. I read the words again and again until they're burned into my brain. By the 30th or 40th time I read them, a tiny ember of hope has kindled in me. Maybe Delly is right. Maybe he did calm down and the threat he hurled at me in his room in Barcelona was truly an empty one. Maybe he does value my friendship more than any damage I did to his ego by rejecting a relationship with him. I reach for one of the rose petals, rubbing my thumb and index finger along its supple softness, and smile. It's enough hope to put my tortured mind at ease, and I get to work.
I'm so engrossed that by the time my dry throat is begging for water and I stop for a break it's almost twelve-thirty. I frown at the large digital clock mounted above the garage door and grab for my phone from its perch near the portable Bluetooth speaker. The screen reads 12:28. An unsettling realization crawls over my skin: Peeta was due for a team meeting at ten. Team meetings rarely last more than an hour, let alone two-and-a-half. The meeting must be over by now. But if he truly meant what he said on that card, wouldn't he have stuck his head in to wish me a happy birthday before he left?
I jam my phone into my coveralls, wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my thighs, and stroll towards the front-of-the-house. Delly is nowhere to be seen. Relief washes over me when I see the conference room door is closed. The meeting isn't over. Creeping closer, I realize the slats of the blinds covering the windows aren't completely drawn. The first thing my eyes land on is Haymitch's pronounced scowl. My uncle never looks particularly happy, but at the moment he looks very pissed.
Though my curiosity is piqued at what could be transpiring in this meeting to nearly double its usual running time and similarly infuriate my uncle, I step away from the window so as not to make it look obvious I was spying. If I can see them, anyone inside that room could also see me skulking around. So I busy myself rummaging through a small large refrigerator that Delly has stocked with various beverages and snacks. I snag a Fiji water, glad to find something other than Perrier. Sparkling water is everywhere in Europe, much to the chagrin of people like me who will never get the appeal of it.
I've drained half the bottle in an attempt to quench my parched throat when I hear a click and the audible hum of conversation as the conference room door opens. Rye exits first, storming past me without so much as a glance. His palms slam into the glass doors as he pushes them open and stalks out of the building.
I don't have time to consider the cause of Rye's foul mood, because almost immediately Peeta appears in the doorway, his back to me.
"…Or maybe he should just grow the fuck up," he calls over his shoulder as he turns and strides over the threshold. Our eyes meet. My heart knocks expectantly, but there isn't a flicker of emotion in his impassive expression.
Neither of us moves for what seems like an eternity; in reality, only a few seconds pass before Peeta clears his throat. I hold my breath, anticipating his first words to me in almost two weeks. I figure he'll take the easy way out and wish me a happy birthday. But it will be something. A breaking of the ice, so to speak.
When his lips part, he says, in a tone as emotionless as his visage, "There's something I'd like to check on my car."
My heart plummets to my knees. All business. Just as he swore it would be.
"Sure," I reply, my voice steady despite the flurry of disappointment swirling in me. I manage to get my legs to work and walk towards the garage. I hear Peeta's steps behind me.
He doesn't say another word to me as he approaches his car.
"Anything, ah, I can help you with?" It's a silly offer to make, because if it were something that concerned Peeta's performance on the track at qualifying in a few days he would absolutely be discussing it with me. I'm definitely curious, though, as to what he's checking.
"No. All good," Peeta answers, leaning over the seat to study the steering column. He straightens up almost instantly and gives me a terse nod. "Thanks." As he turns to walk away, his gaze lands on the massive arrangement of roses. "Nice flowers," he says. I can't place anything in his tone, and that unsettles me even more.
"Yes, they're beautiful, thank you," I say. Peeta arches a blond brow at me. My stomach twists at the implications of the gesture. "They're from you. That's what the card said. For my birthday…"
The tiniest flicker of something registers on Peeta's handsome face. It's gone almost as soon as it appears. "It's your birthday," he states matter-of-factly. I nod, dumbly. My confusion, disappointment, and whatever else is churning in the pit of my stomach must be apparent on my face.
"Delly handles all the flowers around here," he explains. "Johanna and Effie get the same arrangements on their birthdays."
"Well, your name was on the card, so you can understand why I felt you needed a proper thank you," I counter, hoping the maelstrom in my gut stays out of my voice.
Peeta shrugs, glances down at his watch, and walks away. He hasn't gotten more than a few steps towards the front of the garage when he pauses and turns to face me. "I'd be a hell of a lot more creative than long-stemmed red roses." A ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth. "Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Katniss."
Then he's gone.
I slump against the wall, my eyes locked on the ostentatious bouquet. The dark cloud of uncertainty that's been hovering over me since Spain should dissipate now that I know where Peeta and I stand—that his threat was not an empty one—but in actuality it feels like it's grown in size.
And truly, I have no one to blame but myself. I could have easily stood my ground and not crossed the line with Peeta, but I wanted him as much as he wanted me. I knew full well the heartache that I was inviting by sleeping with him, and I did it anyway.
"There's the birthday girl." I snap my head up once I hear Haymitch's gravelly inflection. I try to muster a smile. Judging by the scowl on my uncle's face, I fail miserably.
"Who shit in your coffee?" he asks, crossing the garage in a few quick strides.
I wave a hand dismissively. "You know how I feel about my birthday." It's an acceptable cover for my drama with Peeta—and it's the truth. Haymitch certainly knows how much the absence of my father affects this particular day for me.
Haymitch stops a few feet from me and hones in on my face, scrutinizing my expression. He's always been able to read me like a book. So before he can be too perceptive, I scramble to evade an impending inquiry. "That team meeting seemed a lot longer than usual," I say. Fortunately, he takes the bait. His grey eyes darken and his scowl reappears.
"What happened?" I probe. "Was it Rye and Peeta?"
Haymitch snorts an affirmative. "When is it not Rye and Peeta lately. Henrik has quite the shitshow on his hands."
I shake my head. "The team is winning. The races Peeta doesn't win he places second or third, and Rye has gotten a few high finishes in there. Hell, he almost beat Peeta in Spain. We finished one-two. You'd think everyone at Mellark Racing would be happy with those results."
Another snort. "Oh everyone ain't happy, sweetheart. Rye is about as far from happy as he can be. And Peeta ain't his usually sunshiny self lately either." He narrows his gaze. "Don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would ya?"
My back stiffens reflexively. Haymitch and his goddamn insight.
"Maybe this tension with Rye is bothering him," I respond. "What was he saying, about Rye, ah, 'growing the fuck up.'" My uncle may have the mouth of a trucker, but I've never been comfortable swearing around him, even if they're Peeta's words and not my own.
Haymitch rolls his eyes and proceeds to give me the rundown of the morning's team meeting. Apparently all had been going well, until Effie brought up several media requests— all geared towards Peeta.
My mind vaults back to the photo session from the driver's party, the one Rye had groused couldn't have been a dual session. I say, "So that's what set Rye off."
"Part of it," Haymitch concurs. "I don't like the way he behaves any more than Henrik does, but you gotta feel for the guy. Mellark Racing spent years grooming Rye to be their number-one driver. No one expected Peeta to be as good as he is, let alone to get there as fast as he did. Hell, before he started driving, no one thought Peeta would ever surpass Rye."
"Really?" That statement shocks me. Everything about Peeta as a driver seems easy. Innate. Like he was born to race.
"The boy merely never showed much of an interest in racing. Not like his brothers. Connor and Rye always knew Mellark was their destiny. Peeta…" Haymitch smirks and shakes his head. "Peeta was a dabbler. Always great at whatever it was he was dabbling in, but never fully settling on anything."
I remember Peeta's confession to me on the beach in Malaysia—his aspiration to be a chef. And I consider his relentless pursuit of me, ignoring the wistful pang that permeates my chest. Peeta has clearly never been one to shy away from what he wants. So how is it that he wound up behind a racecar and not in front of a prep station in some Michelin-rated restaurant? When I pose that query to Haymitch, he shrugs.
"I can't really answer that, sweetheart," he admits. "But if you want my best guess, I'd say his mother had something to do with it. And that is not my story to tell."
A moment later he punctuates his finality on the subject by insisting on taking me to lunch to celebrate my birthday. And though we have a great meal and good conversation, my mind is restless. It keeps wandering to Peeta. I know better than to make any attempt to draw any more information out of Haymitch. I'm going to have to pump a different well for that.
And as luck would have it, the perfect opportunity presents itself just as Haymitch is plunking down his credit card to pay for our lunch. Delly and Johanna appear at our table, as if summoned.
"What are you guys doing here?" I ask, folding my napkin neatly beside my empty dessert plate.
"Spa day!" Delly squeals, her blue eyes dancing. "Boss's orders." I cut my eyes to Johanna, because Delly's incessant ebullience sometimes leads to exaggeration. But Johanna nods.
"Henrik as much as ordered us to keep you out of the garage for the rest of today." Johanna smirks.
Two hours later, the three of us are reclining in the sauna after massages, facials, and mani-pedis. My body feels deliciously light; all the tension is gone from my muscles. Too bad the masseuse couldn't knead it out of my heart and my mind. I can't stop my conscious thoughts from wandering to Peeta and the way he looked at me in the garage.
"Hello!" My eyes fly open and the first thing I see is Johanna's palm waving inches from my face. "C'mon, Brainless. Have you heard anything we've been saying?" She and Delly exchange a look.
"Ah, no, sorry." I shift my position on the bench and hoist my towel higher on my chest. "I was zoning out."
"No shit." Johanna snorts.
"Sorry," I repeat. "What were we discussing?"
Johanna and Delly share another look, and Johanna rolls her eyes. "We were discussing continuing this birthday celebration tonight."
"What? No, guys, you've already done enough for me. This—" I motion around the sauna. "This has been heavenly. This is celebration enough for me."
"No arguments," Delly chirps. "The arrangements are all made." She rattles them off. Time. Place. "Everyone knows."
"Everyone?" I echo.
"Well, not everyone," Delly replies. "I mean, we didn't invite the higher-ups on the team. But you know…Connor, Rye, Thresh, Thom…"
"Peeta," Johanna interjects. "That's what you're getting at, right? You're worried about Peeta. So transparent." She snickers. "And that's where your mind has been too, this whole time. Right?"
I sigh and slump down on the bench a bit. Am I really that transparent?
"We had to tell him," Johanna explains. "If you guys are trying to play it off that nothing happened between you, how fucking suspicious does it look if Peeta, of all people, doesn't come out for your birthday?"
"He won't come," I insist.
"He didn't say he wasn't coming," Delly points out.
"He won't show," I repeat.
"I guess we'll see," Johanna replies. "But Delly has an even bigger surprise for you tonight, so you're coming. No excuses."
I don't like surprises, yet Delly looks so pleased with herself that I don't voice any more objections. I'd be lying if I said my curiosity wasn't piqued.
But since Johanna brought up Peeta, at least now I have my in.
"So, ah, speaking of Peeta—" Johanna snorts loudly at the less-than-smooth segue. I shoot her a look and take a quick sip of my champagne. "If he does show up tonight, do you think he and Rye can manage to be civil to each other, after that blow-up this morning?"
"Please. That was nothing. I've told you before, the rest of us are used to the friction between Peeta and Rye. And they're very good at ignoring it when social circumstances dictate it."
"I guess." It's nothing something I can relate to, since Prim and I have always had a healthy relationship. Perhaps that's because of the tragedy with our father. "It's not getting worse, though?" I add. "Haymitch seemed to think it is."
Johanna casts me a dubious look. "Haymitch?"
I sigh. "Okay, fine. I couldn't get him to give me many details at all. But he did say he thinks a lot of this stems from Peeta supplanting Rye as the number-one driver." I repeat the very minimal information that Haymitch had given me, about how Peeta didn't seem destined to become a racecar driver, despite it being the family business. Delly looks thoughtful.
"I guess it was sort of a surprise when Peeta announced he was going to pursue racing." She shakes her head and her lips tip up in a wistful smile. "He had never really voiced an interest. He wrestled in high school. Played some football. And he was so into baking for a while there. We used to joke about him going to Le Cordon Bleu and becoming a famous pastry chef so that I could follow him to Paris and live there too."
"So what changed?" I hedge, feeling a tick of excitement that Delly might actually be able to give me some answers.
She shrugs. "It's not like he lost his love for cooking. Oh my god, last off-season, we spent a week hanging at Peeta's flat in London and he made this amazing—"
"Peeta has a place in London?"
Delly blinks. "Uh, yeah. He's got one in Paris and two back in the States, too. New York. And California."
I nod absently and file that information away. "Haymitch did say one thing. He said it probably has to do with his mother."
Delly's face contorts with a bitter expression. "Yeah. That's definitely a safe assumption. I remember one time…we were maybe seventeen or so. Peeta made all these desserts for our family holiday party. Like this incredible assortment of cakes and cookies and this trifle that had like 15 layers." She closes her eyes and smiles. "God it was soooo good. Anyway, we're all sitting around Uncle Henrik's living room, having coffee and Peeta's desserts, when Aunt Lydia—"
"That would be Peeta's mother," Johanna interjects.
"Right, Peeta's mom," Delly continues, "well, she bit into a cookie and…I don't remember what Peeta had actually done wrong with that batch, cause it was a long time ago, but I do remember her making this huge production out of spitting the cookie out." She shakes her head. "And the things she said. She laid into Peeta for being interested in baking, saying it was something girls do, and if he had been a girl like she wanted—"
"She said that?" I exclaim, aghast.
"Aunt Lydia said that all the time," Delly whispers. "She used to tell Peeta all the time she only had a third child so she could have a little girl. She was never nice to him. I mean, I guess she wasn't really any nicer to Connor or Rye, but she was downright cruel to Peeta.
"And Uncle Henrik tries not to play favorites," she adds, "but it's no secret he's always favored Peeta. Probably because of how awful Aunt Lydia is."
I can believe that. Peeta is the baby of the Mellark family. My mother always doted on Prim far more than she ever did me. Though, truly, I've always assumed that was more a result of my extremely tight bond with my father. Perhaps it's the same with Connor, Rye, and Peeta.
"Poor Peeta," I murmur.
"Yeah, she's a real gem, that Lydia Mellark," Johanna scoffs. "You'll be lucky if you never have to cross paths with that witch."
"Does she come to the races?" I ask. Johanna's disgusted snort gives me my answer, but Delly elaborates.
"Aunt Lydia hates racing. Like, hates it." Delly drags out the word "hates. "But she loves attention. She comes to one race a year, and you never know which one it will be. It guarantees the press notices her in the team box, and they make a huge deal about her."
I make a face. Peeta's mother sounds like a Grade-A narcissist. I'll never understand people who want the spotlight on them so much.
"It's never Monaco, though," Johanna says.
"Really?" I exclaim. Monaco seems like it would be exactly the kind of place Peeta's mother would enjoy. All of the cities on the F1 circuit go all out when it's their leg, but Monaco is simply unlike any other race, with its glitz and prestige and uber-rich residents.
"Oh she loves Monaco. Spends a lot of time here throughout the year. But never for the actual race. Not enough attention directly on her," Johanna explains. She grins. "But enough about that bitch. Back to the birthday girl."
I roll my eyes, but with enough of a smile on my face to let them know while I am not like Lydia Mellark and do not want or need attention that I appreciate their efforts to make me feel special on my birthday.
Delly explains that the club that they chose—conveniently where this DJ she's been crushing on is doing a guest appearance later tonight—does not serve meals, but for VIPs they cater in a wide range of snacks and upscale finger foods—whatever the hell that means. Johanna suggests we could do dinner at a restaurant just a few blocks from the club, but I don't need another full meal. After my lunch with Haymitch and the treats here at the spa, I don't think I could eat much more. I'll get something small from room service before we head out, which will be at eight.
"You should wear that dress." Johanna grins wickedly.
"What dress?" I arch a brow at her, even though I suspect I know which dress she's referring to.
Her grin morphs to a smirk. "That one that's pretty much missing a back, with the paneling down the side."
"Jo, that was an evening gown. I'm not wearing a gown to a club!"
"Oh, right." Her shoulders slump, clearly defeated by whatever evil plan she was concocting in her head. Which I know involves Peeta. She eyes me critically. "Do you have something to wear to a club?"
I shrug. "I have that lace cocktail dress I wore to the drivers' party. That'll work, right?"
Delly and Johanna exchange a look.
"You can't wear a cocktail dress to a nightclub any more than you can wear an evening gown!" Delly counters.
"Then I'll find something from my extensive wardrobe," I tease. But Delly doesn't look amused.
"It's your birthday, Katniss! I think you need a new dress. Something slinky and sexy and—"
"Guys," I interrupt, "I appreciate all that you're doing for me, but I know what you're up to. Peeta made it patently clear earlier today that he and I are nothing more than employer/employee, and that was my choice. And if he even shows up tonight, what I'm wearing isn't going to change anything." I sigh as a wave of regret sweeps through me and I give Delly and Johanna a wan smile. "And I'm going to just have to be okay with that."
I wind up buying a new dress.
And Peeta has nothing to do with it. Or at least that's what I tell myself when I exit the high-end boutique with the garment bag. After I mentally catalogued the wardrobe that I brought for this leg of the Prix, I realized I did not, in fact, have anything even remotely close to "club attire." A quick Google search on my phone had made that painfully obvious. And being that I'm in Monaco, the stakes are even higher for acceptable nightclub wear.
Fortunately, the sales associate couldn't have been nicer when I explained what I needed, and she found the right thing for me almost immediately. (I did have to reject an outfit that was two pieces. I'm not okay baring my midriff unless I'm at the beach.) From start to finish, the whole experience was over in twenty minutes.
I'm eying myself critically in the bathroom mirror when there's a knock on my door. I glance down at my phone and tap the screen. 7:30. Delly. Right on time. (She insisted before we parted ways at the spa that she wanted to do my hair and makeup.) She sucks in a gasp as I open the door to her. "Oh my gosh, Katniss! That dress! You look hot."
"Really?" I catch my reflection in the mirrored closet door and study myself again.
The dress is, like so many other things I've bought since joining Mellark Racing, not really me. It's short, it's black, and it hugs my body like a second skin. The straps can barely be called straps they're so thin. The bust is almost like a corset, eliminating the need for a bra and giving me far more cleavage than I actually possess. I do hate that I have to wear the heels from the drivers' party. I'm only slightly better walking in those things than I used to be.
"Peeta is gonna lose his shit when he sees you in that," Delly squeals.
"Delly," I warn, admonishing her with my eyes.
"Okay, okay." She sighs dramatically and holds up her hands. "I'll stop. I promise. I just…I know my cousin, Katniss. He's not the bed-hopping manwhore those tabloids make him out to be. It's not just about sex with him—not with you anyway."
My disloyal body responds almost automatically at the mere thought of sex with Peeta.
"He's an amazing guy and he deserves happiness with an amazing girl like you," Delly finishes.
Guilt fizzes in my veins, quickly supplanting the lust that was simmering there, and I feel a lump materializing in my throat. I know Delly means well. And she is right. Peeta is an amazing guy. And he does deserve happiness. But it won't be with me. Because I can't give Peeta the kind of happiness he deserves.
"Let's just get ready, ok?" I say to Delly gently, effectively ending the conversation.
Thirty minutes later, we're ready to go. Thanks to Delly, my straight hair has been transformed into long loose waves and my makeup is flawless. Coupled with the dress and heels, I do feel pretty sexy. And club-ready. Even if I am so not a club person. Delly's excitement is pretty infectious.
Monaco is a place like nowhere else I've been. The entire city just oozes glamour and wealth and beautiful people. Despite my makeover, I feel instantly out of place as Delly and I are ushered inside the exclusive club she's chosen for my birthday celebration.
When we reach the private lounge that's been reserved for our group, Johanna is already inside, grinning at me. I slide my gaze to her left and see the reason for her maniacal smile.
"Prim!" I screech and rush toward her the best my heels will allow me to.
"Surprise! Happy Birthday, Katniss!" she exclaims as I engulf her in a hug. We continue to squeeze each other for several seconds until I release her and step back to take in the sight of her.
My sister has always been pretty, but I guess I'm forever seeing her as the little girl I practically raised, forgetting that she's a grown woman. Tonight, I'm dumbstruck by how stunning she is all glammed up. Her long blonde hair has been straightened and falls around her like a glossy curtain. Her bright blue eyes seem darker under the smoky eye makeup, her pale lashes coated in thick mascara. Crimson gloss stains her lips. And she fills out the clingy lilac bodycon dress way too well.
"Hey, Catnip," a deep voice murmurs. I freeze. There's only one person who calls me by that name. I shift my gaze to Prim's left.
"G-Gale," I stutter. I notice his brother Rory is beside him as well.
"Happy Birthday," he adds, as he moves in for in a hug. His presence is so shocking to me that it takes a couple of seconds for me to slide my arms around him and let him embrace me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, when he releases me.
"Nice to see you too," he scoffs, his eyes sweeping down the length of my body. He jerks his chin towards Prim. "I saw your sister safely here. She got in last night and stayed with us in at our hotel so she could properly surprise you."
"Well, thank you." I give him a sincere smile before adding, "Are you…um…staying?" I cut my eyes to Johanna. I don't know how well it will go over with the rest of the Mellark Racing crew to have a rival driver in our midst.
"If Tall, Dark, and Handsome wants to stay, he's more than welcome." Johanna challenges me with her eyes, reading my mind. "Peeta's always hanging around with Finnick Odair," she supplies.
"In the off-season," I counter, recalling how Peeta reacted when Finnick Odair approached me soon after I joined Mellark. "We have no allies in Formula 1. Not during race season," Peeta had said. I'm starting to feel nauseous, and I know it's from anticipating how Peeta might react to seeing Gale Hawthorne here. It's not only because Gale is a rival driver; it's more that he's my ex. I don't think I've ever mentioned that little tidbit to Peeta, but he does know how close our families are.
Gale's grey eyes grew stormy and he squares his shoulders. "If you don't want me here, Catnip," he starts.
"Katniss, c'mon!" Prim whines. "I haven't seen Gale and Rory in forever! I know it's your birthday, but they're like family!"
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale, then glance over at Johanna and Delly. "You guys know the team better than I do. If you don't think it will cause any problems, I believe you."
"It will be totally fine!" Delly bubbles. "And this club is really insulated from the paparazzi. It's not like word is gonna get out that Mellark Racing and Star Racing are hanging out together."
This isn't a battle I'm going to win. I sigh, defeated, but plaster a bright smile on my face.
"Then you guys should stay," I say. "And thank you again for getting Prim here."
"Hey, we just got her from the airport and let her crash in our suite. We didn't have anything to do with the private jet that flew her here," Rory points out.
"Private jet?" I turn to Prim. She nods enthusiastically.
"It was incredible!" she squeals, and she starts to babble about all the amenities onboard, but I don't really hear anything she's saying. There's only one way my sister would be on a private jet: Peeta.
The nausea in my gut dissipates and a tiny flicker of hope ignites. That gesture is not something that screams "strictly professional."
I cling to that hope as our partying commences, though my nerves remain strung as tight as a wire with each new arrival in our lounge. Within the hour, Thom, Thresh and Darius have joined us. Chaff isn't coming, according to Darius, which he says I should not take personally. And I don't. He had sent me a nice text earlier in the evening, wishing me a happy birthday and telling me why he would be absent from the festivities. Turns out he's newly sober and being around alcohol is too tempting right now.
Delly enthusiastically introduces us all to Pollux, her sort-of boyfriend, when he pops into our lounge for a bit. He's not at all what I expected. I guess my inexperience with the club scene had me conjuring up images of some kind of a stereotypical punk rocker, but other than the sleeve of tattoos decorating his right arm and the piercings in his ear, there's nothing that screams "I'm a moderately famous deejay." He's pretty cute too. Delly seems smitten. I know Johanna is less convinced that anything will come of this flirtation—I think she called him a 'fuck buddy' at the spa—but for Delly's sake, I hope this is the start of something good.
I nurse my vodka and tonic and try to keep my eyes from straying to the entrance to our lounge area. There's a roiling wave of disappointment threatening to crest in me with each minute that ticks by without Peeta's presence. This is one time where I would have liked to be wrong, but part of me knew that he wouldn't show.
But Rye does. He saunters in with a gorgeous brunette on his arm, kisses my cheek, and wishes me a happy birthday. The girl—whose name is Clove—looks me up and down and must not be too threatened by me, because she smiles and echoes Rye's birthday wishes for me.
Rye pours himself a shot from the bottle of Grey Goose and downs it. He plunks the empty shot glass down. "We're going to the dance floor," he declares. "Who's with us?
"Me!" Prim squeals. She grabs Rory's hand and I'm shocked Gale's brother utters no protest.
"C'mon. Let's go dance." Gale plucks my vodka and tonic from my hand and sets it on the table.
"Gale, no, I'm fine right here."
Gale rolls his eyes. "It's a club. Everyone else is going." He motions to Delly, who has convinced Thom to go with her, and Johanna and Thresh who are following. "You can't be the only killjoy. It's your birthday. Live a little."
I have never liked dancing, but I don't have the energy to fight Gale on this. And I probably do need to do something other than sit around drinking vodka and tonics and wondering where Peeta is. Reluctantly, I accept Gale's hand and let him lace our fingers together. His callused palm is rough against mine, but familiar.
He says something to me as we near the dance floor, but the music is louder here and I shake my head at him. He stoops down, his mouth level with my ear, and says, "I said you look really beautiful tonight."
"Oh, ah, thanks." An involuntary shudder moves through me, followed by an uneasy sensation taking up residency in my chest. A sensation that grows stronger when Gale leans close again, locks his grey eyes on me, and asks, "Do you ever think about us, Catnip?"
"No," I reply automatically.
"Really?" The dubious edge to his tone implies he thinks I'm not being truthful.
"Really," I emphasize. "I think about you, Gale, but I don't think about us. We tried this. Twice. And we don't work. I'm not going to do this tonight." I yank my hand free from his grip and fix him with a hard glare.
Gale holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Point made."
I feel a twinge of guilt, and I sigh heavily. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. At least you didn't feed me that 'you're a driver' line," he replies. And just like that, the fire reignites in my veins. But it's my birthday, and the last thing I want to do is get in an argument with Gale in the middle of this fancy nightclub. I take a few calming breaths to level my irritation and use his veiled insult to change to that exact subject.
"So how is it going at Star?" I ask as we start to move and sway. Gale's response is a derisive snort, and I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn't.
"You came close to finishing top-3 in Bahrain," I say.
Gale levels me with his stony glare. "Don't patronize me, Katniss. You and I both know that Star can't compete with Mellark and Snow and Capitol." He raises his voice just a bit as we reach the crowded dance floor, but not enough that I can hear him clearly without moving closer to him. "I'm never going to challenge the Peeta Mellarks and Finnick Odairs of F1 as long as I stay at Star." He shrugs dismissively. "I guess time will tell."
"You're a great driver, Gale," I insist. "Your father would be so proud of you."
That shifts the mood and brings a wistful smile to his face. "I like to think so. He's the reason I try not to get too bitter about things. He was just happy to be racing. I never ever heard him complain that he was second at Snow. He was perfectly content being in your father's shadow." His mouth twists and his expression becomes contrite. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought up your dad today of all days. I know how—"
I grip his elbows and lean up so he can hear me over the pulsing music. "Don't apologize. It's getting easier and easier to talk about him without wallowing in sadness. He'd be so happy that I'm spending my birthday with Prim and you and all these people who are like family."
Gale grins. "Well, I can say without hesitation that he'd be beyond proud of you."
And that's where we leave things. Our conversation stops and we just let the music move us. I'm not a particularly good dancer, but the longer I'm on the floor with Gale and the others, the more relaxed I become. By the third song, Gale's hands are on my hips and we are swaying together, though I'm careful to leave distance between our bodies.
I can sense Peeta's presence before I hear his voice. My heart starts to thump with the pulse of the music and despite the fine sheen of sweat all over me, the hair on the back of my neck prickles with awareness.
"Hawthorne."
Gale's eyes narrow as he looks over my shoulder. "Mellark."
"Mind if I steal the birthday girl for a dance?"
"You'll have to ask her," Gale replies. The cords of his neck are taut and his fingertips bite into my hips with more force.
Peeta steps around from behind me. No surprise, he looks devastatingly sexy, with his messy-but-styled hair and his clean-shaven jaw. His dark jeans are snug on his thighs and the white shirt he wears under a black blazer makes his tanned skin appear even bronzer. He assesses me with those enchanting blue eyes. They journey down the length of my body once and return to snare me in his gaze. My breath catches as we stare at each other.
"Dance with me?" he implores, his voice soft and seductive, no vitriol whatsoever in his tone. Wordlessly, I nod. He reaches for my hand, entwines our fingers and yanks me out of Gale's grip.
Once Peeta's led me a safe distance away, he plants one hand on the small of my back, hauls me close, nearly flush against his body, and says scornfully. "Gale Hawthorne. Really."
"I've told you we're friends," I snap.
"The way he was looking at you didn't say 'friends,'" he retorts. "The way he had his hands on you didn't say 'friends.'"
"There's nothing going on between me and Gale Hawthorne. Friends can dance. Look at us."
"We're not friends, remember?" he replies. But the movement of his hand is incongruous to his words. His fingers splay up and down my lower back, daring to venture closer and closer to my ass.
"Then why are you here?" I challenge him with my eyes.
"It's your birthday. This is a business obligation. You're my chief mechanic. I always celebrate birthdays with the team," Peeta replies coolly. His expression shifts imperceptibly when he adds, "You really thought I wouldn't come tonight?"
I jut my chin up at him. "I was hoping you would, but after the way we left things in Spain I'd be lying if I said I didn't put it past you to blow it off."
Peeta's eyes darken at the utterance of Spain. He clutches my palm tighter and the hand on my back grows bolder in its ministrations. He urges me closer, nearly closing the distance between our bodies. Our palms nearly become trapped against his broad chest.
"I thought about it," he grits out, "but I didn't need anyone on the team gossiping about why I wasn't here. They all know I'm crazy about you."
I'm crazy about you. Present tense. My heart stutters at the slip of his tongue.
Heat flares in his eyes and I gasp as he abruptly spins me around and tugs me back flush against his solid frame. One palm skims down my side and molds to my hip, and the other one treks up from my waist toward my shoulder. He drops his mouth to my ear. "That's why I'm dancing with you." His warm breath on my ear sends a shudder through me.
"And it would look especially suspicious if I had an opportunity like this to have my hands all over you and I didn't take it," he continues. He rubs his fingers along the fabric at my hip. His lips just barely graze my ear lobe, but my body responds instantaneously. My breathing speeds up. My pulse throbs insistently everywhere.
"Or to tell you how fucking gorgeous you look tonight. This dress—are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?"
I start to shake my head, but as I do, the slight movement brings my neck into direct contact with his mouth. I feel his lips part against my fevered skin as he softly samples it. There might even be a faint flick of his tongue. I stifle a moan. The throbbing—especially between my legs—increases.
Peeta's hand comes perilously close to my breast as he traps me against him even tighter. I feel his hard length against my ass and lower back. This time, I'm unsuccessful keeping quiet; a whimper slips past my lips. And despite the loud music, I know he hears it, because he gives a throaty laugh and issues a slow, deliberate grind of his hips. His ministrations evoke a strong memory of that night we shared in Barcelona. I'm getting wetter with every revolution of his pelvis. My breasts are heavy, achy, and my perpetually hard nipples beg for Peeta's mouth. For a split second, I give in to the sensations coursing through me and let my eyes flutter shut and my head loll back.
But the moment Peeta rasps, "Fuck, Katniss," and his tongue brushes my neck again, I jolt upright and wrest myself out of his embrace. My body screams its protest as I pivot and face Peeta. The lust glazing his blue eyes invites a sharp pulse between my thighs. Not wanting to make a scene—because that would be ten-times worse to explain to the rest of the team—I stay close to him, but I keep my hands to myself as we continue swaying and gyrating to the music.
"What the fuck was that?" I hiss.
Peeta smirks, which quickly evolves to a dangerously sexy grin. "We were dancing," he replies with mock innocence.
"For someone who claims he doesn't like to play games, you sure enjoy fucking with me."
I regret my choice of words the minute I utter them. I know I've played right into his hands. His eyes glint and he leans in towards me.
"I think I've made it clear how much I enjoyed fucking you," he replies, omitting one key word from my accusation. "And how much I want to do it again and again…"
"That's not what I meant and you know it," I snap, feeling my blood pressure soar as it joins the rest of my body in its visceral response to everything Peeta.
"In fact," he continues, ignoring my response, "all you'd have to do is apologize for how Spain ended and I can take you right up to one of those private lounges—" He jerks his head above the dance floor, but I can't make out anything distinct when I look in that direction. "And give you the best fucking birthday sex of your life."
I feel another twinge between my legs at the erotic invitation, but I can't let his words and my heated memories seduce me. Instead, I focus on the other thing he said.
"I'm not apologizing for anything," I start. "I told you exactly why we can't have a relationship and—"
"I told my father," Peeta interrupts, pinning me with his gaze.
"W-what?" I stammer.
"Well, I didn't tell my father we slept together," he corrects. "It's a long story, one that I don't want to get into tonight, because it's your birthday, but I will tell you that I told him enough so that my contract is no longer an obstacle to us being together, Katniss." His eyes search mine, earnest. Hopeful. My gut spirals, guilt supplanting the desire that had been swirling there moments ago.
"Your contract isn't why we can't be together." I shake my head. "You're not understanding that. This is about me."
"Katniss." He glares at me openly. "Don't give me that clichéd 'it's not you it's me' bullshit."
I stiffen. "It's not bullshit. I'm sorry, Peeta. I'm not cut out for relationships and it's not fair to you if I'm not honest about that."
Peeta makes a noise, a strangled fusing of disgust and frustration. "Well, thanks for the honesty," he says sarcastically. I watch his chest inflate with a deep breath and then he blows it out. When I drag my eyes up, I can see the beat of his pulse just below where his jaw tics. Despite his efforts to calm himself, I know he's still angry.
"Thank you for helping to bring my sister here," I say, hoping to neutralize things between us.
He shrugs dismissively. "The arrangements were made weeks ago. It wasn't a big deal."
"It is a big deal," I say softly. "It means a lot to me to have her here."
"Consider it a birthday gift," he says flatly. And that's the last thing he says to me for the next several minutes.
My stomach is a knotted mess by the time we leave the dance floor together a few songs later. I hate knowing I'm the cause of Peeta's pain, but it can't be any other way.
Not that Peeta seems resigned to let it go. Just before we reach our lounge, he grabs my arm and pulls me into a corridor. It's not entirely empty, because the restrooms are at the end of the hall, but it's out of the prying eyes of anyone from Mellark. He boxes me in and presses me into the wall with the weight of his body, then roughly takes my mouth with his.
I know I should protest, that letting his able lips seduce me like this is wrong, given the boundaries I'm attempting to keep between us, but I find myself whimpering with pleasure and parting my lips for Peeta's waiting tongue. His hand skims down my body to hitch my leg up onto his thigh. Desire redoubles in my veins and my core throbs needily.
And then the kiss ends as abruptly as it began, as Peeta breaks free and nudges my leg off him. We stare at each other, both breathing heavily, and then Peeta smirks and rubs at the corner of his mouth. His expression oozes awareness, like he can see right through me. And I fear he can.
But all he says is, "Happy Birthday, Katniss," and strides off, leaving me dazed and alone.
I close my eyes and slump back against the wall.
I hate my fucking birthday.
I know this story's chapters are long. I hope they're worth the wait. Thank you for reading. XOXO, Court