Chapter 6

Blaze’s POV

3years later

 

My life slowly passed me by, and I was quickly forgotten—thrown down from being the top racer to a nobody. I wish other aspects of my life had changed along with that harsh truth, like the fucking debt hanging over my head.

 

That old man is really an asshole without a heart. He just abandoned me after all the fucking money I made for him. Because of him, I'm in this shit.

My attention snaps back to the fucker sitting on the bed in front of me, while my knees ache like hell from kneeling and blowing him off.

 

Tch! How long do I have to keep doing this shit? Sucking off this scumbag for money honestly pisses me off, but I have no choice. He pays quite well, and in my current situation, that’s what matters.

 

“Hey, do it properly!” he growls, pushing himself further into my mouth. If I really wanted to do it “properly,” I’d bite it off. Jerk.

I force myself to keep going, ignoring the urge to gag. After what feels like forever, he finally spills his disgusting load. I pull away, wiping my mouth furiously as I stand up. This has been our routine for two years now. He’s rich, and I need his money.

 

Without a word, I head to the bathroom and scrub my mouth with the force of a man trying to erase every trace of this bastard from his life. The taste lingers, bitter and revolting, even as I rinse again and again. His cum, like his presence, is a stain I can’t get rid of.

 

“You should be able to gulp that down by now. You still not used to my cum?” he sneers from the doorway.

 

“Eww, brother. Eww!” I mutter sarcastically, spitting one last time before glaring at him. There's no way I can stomach that.

 

But then, as if on cue, my mind drifts back to that drunken night with the stranger. I remember how I swallowed him down, savoring every bit of it. There was no bitterness, no regret.

 

It felt… good. My heart races as the image of that intricate tattoo reappears in my head. That night might have been a blur, but his body remains etched in my memory like a vivid watermark.

 

“You leaving?” Zack asks as I grab my face cap and head towards the door.

 

“Yeah. My business with you ended for the day, Mr. Zack,” I reply flatly.

He gives me a look, one that’s half pleading and half possessive, but I ignore it. I wonder what his pitiful wife would think if she saw him like this. If she knew her husband was paying me to do this, would she cry or pretend she didn’t see?

 

I check my watch for the time. It’s already late, and I’m grateful I went to the workshop earlier to fix the bikes for the riders who’ll be racing tonight. Now, I have to head to the club. The thought brings a dull ache to my chest. It’s been three years since the fall of Blaze, the champion. I spent one year recovering, only to find life was much harder than before.

 

“Hello, pretty boy!” I feel a sharp slap against my ass and turn around, scowling at the old geezer grinning lecherously at me. Just another night at the club, where I’m nothing more than a barman and eye candy for old perverts.

 

The loud music vibrates through my bones, and the flashing lights disorient me for a moment. People dance, laugh, and drink like they don’t have a care in the world. It’s a place that reeks of money and privilege—only the capable and wealthy are allowed in here.

 

I plaster on my fake, professional smile, pretending to be interested in the drunk man babbling in front of me. He reeks of expensive whiskey and bad decisions. I tune him out, nodding occasionally. My gaze sweeps across the room, and I notice a silhouette cutting through the crowd.

 

My heart stutters.

 

He’s tall, with a strong build, broad shoulders, and legs that go on forever. His casual cardigan is big, but it does nothing to hide the power coiled in his frame. Even in this low lighting, I can see the shine of his expensive watch—it probably costs more than everything I own put together.

 

I trail my eyes lower, feeling a strange sense of excitement bubble up in my chest. The way he moves, with that unhurried confidence, screams wealth and dominance. His shoes are Tom Ford, and his pants hug his frame just enough to hint at what’s underneath. What happens when that thing is hard? I lick my lips unconsciously.

 

Damn, Blaze. Control yourself.

 

I have worked in this club for two years now, and I have met many rich men, but this man is out of this world. He is commanding, radiating brute force while making everybody else appear powerless.

 

I find myself gazing at him as he slowly moves to the isolated private booth which is located in the lower corner of the club. He seems like someone I know. His frame, his stance… I squint, trying to make out his features from this distance. My heart starts racing again, pounding louder than the bass thumping through the speakers.

 

No fucking way. It can’t be…

He turns slightly, and the light catches his face. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat.

Holy shit! It is him. Carlo.

 

He’s here.

 

I have been listening to the rumors about him for years. In fact, even when I quit racing, his name came up more than once in conversations. Other racers and club members, the way they spoke of Carlo, it was as if he was a demi-god. I never thought I would find him in a place like this.

 

I clench my hands into fists at my sides. Images from the past come rushing back—the competitions, the falls, the last time I felt his eyes on me—it was like being branded. He was always looking at me, always present. I knew we would meet again soon but I never expected it to be like this.

 

What the hell is he doing here? Why now, after all this time?

 

I try to turn away, but I can’t. My body betrays me, every cell drawn to him like a moth to a flame. The way he carries himself, the easy arrogance in his posture—it’s intoxicating. Dangerous.

 

I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe. He’s just a man, Blaze. Just another rich bastard with too much money and too much power.

 

But deep down, I know that’s a lie.

 

Tch! Fucking rich bastard!

Let's avoid that table.