Writing My Way Into Your Heart // Alex Bowman

✧･ﾟ: * Chapter Two *:･ﾟ✧

I woke up the next morning to my phone chirping like crazy. I always forget to put it on silent when I go to sleep, and it doesn't help that I'm always crawling into bed late at night with utter exhaustion from binge watching Outlander - knowing full well I shouldn't because I have to adult and work the next morning. I blindly reached for my phone, peeking one eye open as I swiped my notifications down from the menu and put it on silent, then I groaned, realizing my alarm goes off in 5 minutes. I might as well get up for the day then!

I glanced at whoever was tweeting, smiling when I saw Alex's face and cursing him for waking me with his nonsense tweets, most likely about memes. I pressed on his face, not waiting for the tweet to load and went straight to his profile.

Odd.

There wasn't anything there except for the link to his livestream... from yesterday. "Holy shit." I immediately sat up in my bed and covered my mouth when I saw the familiar FOLLOWS YOU in gray beside his name. I couldn't believe it! He was following me, but wait, how? I hardly tweet him, which means he remembered my screen name from yesterday.

I clicked on my Twitter notifications and saw Alex Bowman followed you. But why did I get a bunch of tweets from him if there's nothing else but that in my notifications?

"Oh my God."

In my sleepy state, I didn't notice the little bubble next to my direct messages stating I have 6 unread ones. My heart was pounding loudly as I clicked it and there, in the midst of my other friends, was Alex's face smiling back at me.

Alex fucking Bowman sent me a direct message.

Alex: Um. Hi. =)

Alex: I hope this isn't weird, but I remembered your sn from the chat yesterday & fanfiction?

Alex: Really?

Alex: Why would anyone want to write about me anyways? There's nothing special about me.

Oh Alex, you're so much more than just "special". You're smart, hardworking, adorable, and I would let you fuck me on the hood of your car in a heartbeat.

Alex: I'm very intrigued if you're willing to share...

Alex: Thanks for being a fan - and nice profile pic ;)

I screamed and dropped my phone on the bed. My profile picture was of me at a race last year, standing in front of the 88 pitbox wearing extremely short shorts, cowboy boots and a very revealing Alex Bowman tank top.

He liked my profile picture.

EEK!

I fell back against my pillows trying to calm myself down because all I wanted to do was sequel and have a proper fangirl moment. Alex remembered my username AND that I mentioned fanfiction. It makes me wonder why he waited so long to message me? Well, the question really should be whether or not I should send him my story or not?

I picked up my phone and brought the messages back up. My heart was pounding loudly as I pressed the screen to respond.

Ella: Good morning, Mr. Bowman

I pressed send not realizing what I just said, and oh my god! Let's just hope he thinks I'm being formal or something.

Ella: It is totally weird that you remembered my sn, but I'm pretty sure it's even weirder that I may, or may not, have a huge story written with you in mind.

Ella: (& for the record, give yourself some credit, you seem like a really nice guy)

Ella: I don't think it would be a good idea to link you. You'll end up getting a restraining order against me.

Alex: Humor me

Alex: Please?

How could I say no to Alex when he says please?!

Ella: Promise me you won't tweet it, or share it with anyone else?

Alex: I promise.

Alex: I also promise I won't block you or anything.

Ella: I'm still not sure... I mean, how do I even know I'm sending it to you and not someone on your account that was with you yesterday?

Alex: Does this convince you?

I waited a moment to see what Alex was going to do. I was wary about sending my story to him. No one in the NASCAR community, that I know of, was aware of the small knit of fans who wrote fanfiction about the drivers or crew chiefs. There was a silent code of conduct that basically said do not send these stories to the person they're about. And here I am, about to break that rule.

Alex: [picture]

Alex sent a selfie of him lying shirtless in bed. He held up his iPad showing our conversation on the screen. There was no way he could fake that.

Ella: I, um...

Ella: Shit.

Alex: haha now do you believe me?

Ella: Yes.

Alex: Will you send me your story now?

Ella: No.

Alex: [picture]

He fucking sent me a picture of him pouting.

Pretty sure my clit just twitched.

Alex: Pretty please?

Ella: I think you were put on this earth to kill me.

Alex: Is that a yes?

Ella: Oh, Mr. Bowman, you have no idea what you're asking, but yes.

Alex =D

I logged into the website that hosts my story, going immediately to The Rise and Fall of Mr. Bowman and copied the link. The story takes place 10 years in the future, Alex was the most sought-out and popular driver on the NASCAR circuit. Rosalie, the heroine in this story, scored the deal of a lifetime landing a job as Mr. Bowman's personal assistant, the only thing is, the job also meant she would be his submissive.

She never thought twice about it.

Rosalie's and Mr. Bowman's relationship on and off the track began to merge, and before Alex knew it, he was falling for Rosalie, but as he fell, so did his racing career. Could she love Alex for him, and not as her Master? Could he ever bounce back after losing everything on the track?

These were the questions I kept asking myself while trying to wrap up this story. I never meant for it to get a following or for it to become a huge fic with 30 some chapters that I update religiously when the checkered flag waves.

So I was a little hesitant when I copied the link into the chat to Alex, and when I pressed send, I felt extremely insecure and wanted to delete everything.

Ella: I don't expect to hear from you after one glance at this, so, thanks for the follow <3

I exited out of Twitter and put my phone on silent. The excitement I felt earlier when I saw he followed me, was now replaced with embarrassment and guilt.

He's going to think I'm a freak.