Teeradon shook his head in exasperation as Alex—Anthony's eldest son and owner of Streamix, his rival club—made a disgusted noise and stormed toward the silver Audi sports car parked nearby, his footsteps echoing his frustration.
"You'll regret this," Alex whirled around, his voice sharp with threat. "We considered you first, out of courtesy. If you let Streamix's shares fall into The Endless X Singapore's hands, they'll pump enough money to crush The Dazzle completely."
"I won't regret it—not now, not ever." Teeradon's tone matched Alex's intensity as he turned toward the side entrance of The Dazzle club.
Alex had spent the afternoon trying to persuade him to buy Streamix's major shares—the family business his father had been pushing on Teeradon for months. Every attempt had been politely declined. This time, they'd sent Alex, probably thinking the son might succeed where the father had failed. Alex had seemed confident, likely banking on their brief relationship earlier this year to soften Teeradon's resolve. When charm failed, the pretty boy's mask had slipped, revealing the jealous, hot-tempered core beneath.
Teeradon shrugged off his irritation and spun around at the screech of brakes against asphalt, followed by the distinctive rumble of a BMW motorcycle—a sound unlike any other—and then a thunderous crash.
"Wittawin."
Teeradon sprinted toward the corner where the building's roof extended over the covered parking area beside the club. Security guards who'd been nearby were already running toward the commotion. When he arrived, Alex's voice was already raised in indignation.
"How do you drive? Don't you watch where you're going? Do you have a death wish?"
"You were speeding. If I hadn't swerved, we would've collided." Wittawin's familiar voice carried equal force.
"Should've let it happen—would've saved me the trouble of running you over myself," Alex snarled.
"Easy for you to say. My bike's damaged, and I'm hurt."
"Want compensation? Don't even dream about it. You won't get a single baht from me." Alex's voice cracked like a whip. Then, spotting Teeradon, he quickly shifted tactics. "Khun Don, your club's electrician is trying to extort money from me. He cut right in front of me and now he's looking for trouble."
"Wittawin, are you hurt?" Teeradon ignored Alex entirely, walking straight to the young man standing sullenly beside his fallen motorcycle.
"Khun Don—" Alex's voice dropped to a wounded whisper, stung by being completely dismissed while Teeradon rushed to the fair-skinned young man with obvious concern, as if ready to sweep him into his arms.
"Don't expect to get any free compensation," Alex called out loudly.
"Go away." Teeradon turned to fix Alex with a withering stare, his voice rough with warning. He raised his hand as if to point accusingly, then turned back to Wittawin, dismissing the hot-headed sports car driver entirely.
"Where does it hurt?" Teeradon's voice softened, but Wittawin didn't answer. He bent down to pull the motorcycle upright, his face contorting in pain. Alex slammed into his car, gunned the engine, and sped away with a roar.
Teeradon motioned for the guards to move the car and park it properly, then sent for Niwat, his trusted assistant.
Wittawin limped after them to survey his bike's damage, his expression stricken at the multiple dents marring his beloved machine. Teeradon stood nearby, hands on his hips, watching with obvious irritation.
"I think you should worry about yourself first, Wittawin. The bike can be fixed. Tell me where you're hurt so I can take you to a doctor."
"I need to get the bike to a garage." Wittawin answered without looking up, absorbed in examining his precious motorcycle, seemingly oblivious to Teeradon standing behind him.
"You love that bike more than..." Teeradon's voice trailed off as his gaze dropped involuntarily to Wittawin's curved backside. His heart skipped as he stood close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Wittawin's body. The object of his obsession was bent over the motorcycle, completely focused and unaware of anything else.
"Let's go see a doctor. I'll have my people handle this." Teeradon's voice dropped low, his breathing suddenly shallow. He was standing almost pressed against Wittawin's back, fighting the urge to lean down and whisper in his ear, to drag him to the hospital right now.
Wittawin shook his head and reached to adjust the bike, but had to grab his shoulder, nearly letting go as the heavy motorcycle threatened to fall. Teeradon lunged forward to help steady it.
"Don't move, Wittawin. The bike could fall on both of us." Teeradon's arms encircled the younger man, both hands gripping the handlebars to help support the weight. Wittawin pressed his lips together silently, then released his grip and ducked backward, slipping out from under Teeradon's arms.
"You're hurt and still playing tough guy, but you can't even move the bike. And you think you can ride it to the garage?" Teeradon grumbled, setting the motorcycle upright.
"I'm worried that—"
"It won't disappear," Teeradon cut him off quickly. "I guarantee on my honor that no one will dare touch your bike."
"Last time it was parked safely and still got stolen. How can you be sure some random thief won't steal it again?" Wittawin's voice cracked with frustration.
"Those thieves must be infatuated with you—I mean, your bike. They just wanted to take it for a ride." Teeradon turned away to hide his smile before facing Wittawin again with a stern expression, studying the side profile still gazing mournfully at the damaged motorcycle.
"Wittawin, please. Just once. Go see a doctor. I'll take you." Teeradon's voice turned pleading, then he quickly raised a finger to stop any protest. "Ah, ah—don't refuse yet. Don't argue. I'm begging you to go. I'm asking you not to argue with me. Just do what I ask, once. I'm really begging you. This time only. Just this once. Let me do something for you to make up for all the terrible things I've done to you—like when I forced you to come apologize to me at the company, and accused you of deliberately dropping that wrench on my head. Please? Just this once?"
Wittawin shifted uncomfortably, as if weighing his decision. He looked at Teeradon's pathetically pleading expression before nodding slowly, then glanced around to avoid eye contact. He missed seeing the club owner, who was so eager to take responsibility for this accident, secretly smiling with satisfaction.
If Wittawin had possessed the supernatural ability to read Teeradon's mind, he would have heard him thinking:
Finally. Wittawin will be riding pillion on my motorcycle. Worth every penny of that expensive Ducati. Now I'll rev the engine to make him hold my waist tight, then brake hard...
***