by Lauren Asher
“Who wants to grab dinner?” my dad says while rubbing his belly.
Santi steps back toward us, looking paler than usual. He comes up to my side and whispers into my ear, “Sorry about this. But they’ll get pissed if they find out from someone who isn’t me.”
I look up at him, confused why he needs to say sorry.
Santi takes a deep breath before he breaks out a smile. “My agent just told me Bandini offered me a contract for next season.”
Well, shit.
Santi doesn’t need to steal my thunder when he robs the whole damn storm.
I place Santi’s green smoothie on the table next to his workout bench. Four measly ounces of juice mock me, the goopy evidence supporting how I belong nowhere near a kitchen for the unforeseeable future. Especially since green liquid still drips from the kitchen ceiling. What a mess. It’s all fun and games until I forget to put the cap on the blender, making contents splatter everywhere, including my hair and clothes.
“I don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot. You should be out having fun because we won’t be back home for a while.” He grunts as he lifts a weight above his chest.
“I want to make myself useful and not feel like I’m taking advantage of you for a free place to stay.” I fidget with my hands while he counts his lifts, his deep exhales filling the silence.
Sleek equipment gleams under the overhead lights, a testament to his commitment to Formula 1. His new home is a far cry from the bedroom we shared while growing up. This new one has six bedrooms, a personal gym, a mini movie theater, and an Olympic-sized pool. A whopping six thousand square feet.
He sighs. “Money isn’t a worry anymore.”
“I know, I know. But I want to make a name for myself because I can’t live in your shadow forever.” My hand itches to twirl a piece of my hair, but I resist the nervous tick.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget how his bank account has a ridiculous number of zeros. The first paycheck from F1 paid for my college in full. No questions asked. Santi didn’t blink when he signed the check like he expects to provide for our whole family now that he’s made it big, which can’t be further from the truth. We appreciate everything Santi does. Him wanting to help in whatever way he can comes from a meaningful place rather than a sense of obligation.
When we were younger, our parents worked two jobs to save up every penny for Santi’s racing career. My dad repaired karts as a side gig while my mom cleaned houses on weekends. Unlike most wealthy “trust fund” kids in F1, my parents are middle-class on a good payday. Santi made a name for himself without the financial backing or a famous pedigree. He finally has sponsors who believe in him and his skills, making life easier and racing a hell of a lot more fun.
“I want you to come to my races this season. You can take the year to figure out what you want to do next. Plus it’ll be fun because this is our chance to finally travel together.” He sends me a goofy smile from behind his barbell.
Santi gets to live out his fantasy of being a top F1 racer with Bandini—the top team in the sport. Driving for them is my brother’s dream come true. I didn’t hesitate to say yes when he asked me to join him because my big brother is basically a superstar. His bombshell of a revelation at my graduation a couple weeks ago stung, but I pushed past it because he had a valid reason of not wanting us to find out from paparazzi. Unlike other siblings, I don’t mind sharing the limelight.
“That’s the plan. Your assistant sent me all the travel info and bookings.”
It feels odd to say he has an assistant in the first place. She runs all his gigs, like checking in on his hotel accommodations, making sure he has weekly groceries, and booking sponsorships.
“Did you get the camera I picked out for you?”
I have no idea how to pay back his generosity, especially with such expensive gifts. He still buys me things even though he pays for everything. Lately, I struggle between feelings of guilt and gratitude.
“Yes, thanks again. I have it all set up, and I’m pumped to vlog. I already bought a hand-held tripod to film F1 stuff.” I smile down at him.
He doesn’t miss a beat, lifting the weight over his chest as he continues to chat. “Can’t wait to watch the videos once you start. And you have all your stuff packed up?”
“Yes, Dad, I got everything ready two days ago like you asked.” I roll my eyes.
He chuckles as his almond-shaped eyes look into mine. “I hope I won’t have to put up with this attitude all season long. I can’t keep up with your teenage hormones.”
“You're a year older than me. Relax with throwing the teenager word around. Any hormone issues are a thing of the past. I’m twenty-three, not fifteen.”
His body shudders. Good. That’s what he gets for not thinking through his words. He needs to watch what he says since film crews will follow him around all the time.
He gets up and wipes down his gym equipment because that’s the kind of guy he is: put-together, organized, and responsible. Respectable people clean their workout equipment, making sure to put everything back where it belongs, while people like me never enter the gym to begin with.
Where Santi’s dependable and secure, I tend to have good intentions with poor execution. I respect my brother’s life decisions, but I’m in a transitional phase at the moment. So I get to travel the world, learn about myself, and grow up. Our family knows I have to pull it together eventually. And I most definitely will. But like a fine wine, I’m taking my time.
My time includes sipping drinks by the pool while Santi competes across the globe in twenty-one different races. No, I’m kidding. Like any other decent European, I love F1, which means I’ll cheer him on every step of the way, or wheel rotation. But you get what I mean.
My brother and I did everything together while growing up. His kart races were what we all did as a family activity, and no one was shocked when he became an F1 racer—all at a world-record-breaking age of twenty-one years old. I can’t imagine the gratification Santi experiences knowing that Bandini realizes his potential and wants to capitalize on it. His new contract reinforces his lifetime efforts in the racing community, representing a new chapter in his driving career.
Basically, my big bro has the talent and drive. Pun intended.
It’s in Santi’s weight room that I make a promise to him.
“I solemnly swear I’ll be up to good.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Did you quote Harry Potter to me?”
“Not really. I changed it up so it’s all me.”
He snickers at me. “You’re a piece of work.”
Oh, sweet brother of mine, don’t we both know it.
Our parents show up an hour later for Sunday dinner. Mom’s homecooked paella invades my nose while sangria coats my tongue. They beam when Santi and I tell them how I plan to join him for the race season, pride and happiness flowing off them.
“All your hard work has paid off, including those long days on the dirt tracks before you moved up to the big leagues with the Formula divisions. We appreciate all the sacrifices you made, including school.” My dad tips his glass before taking a sip of his drink.
Our parents like to share their appreciation for everything Santi has done since he gained his massive contract with Bandini, including paying off the rest of their mortgage, setting up a savings account for them, and sending them on a vacation. More selfless acts from him. An uncontrollable pang of jealousy runs through me at his ability to care for our family. The uncertainty of never living up to anything he does intimidates me. His success makes me happy—don’t get me wrong—but I’m nervous about not accomplishing anything close to his greatness.
“We can’t wait to visit Bandini when you compete in Barcelona for your home race.” My mom claps her hands, a gesture I tend to copy. Her eyes shine under the chandelier in Santi’s dining room while her brown hair flows around her.
Santi smiles at our parents. “I can’t wait to be back and competing in Spain. Home races are t
he biggest races for drivers.”
We all clink our glasses to Santi’s words.
“It’s great that you’ll follow him around and keep him company. I’m sure it’s lonely on the road. Plus, you’ll have your vlog,” Mom says between bites of her food.
I love her for including me in the conversation. She supports my whole process, sending me different articles and videos about marketing myself while building an audience.
I don’t intend on following him around from country to country because that’s lame. My ideas mean something to me, but vlogs can’t compare to driving around in the fastest and most expensive cars in the world.
“I can film everything because Santi bought me a camera. Hopefully I meet people along the way and make connections because I want to keep active while he’s busy.” I hold my chin up high, exuding confidence I don’t entirely feel at the moment.
“We’re happy you are going with him. Your mom and I worry about you and hope you find your way. Use that communications degree to its fullest potential.” My dad runs a hand through his gray hair. He means well, and since my previous track history isn’t the greatest, I can’t judge him for it. Doubt seeps into my bones at his comment, but I push it away.
“Santi’s lucky his life panned out like he wanted. He’s an all-star at twenty-four years old. I’m only twenty-three, which means I have the world ahead of me.” I shoot my parents a smile, ignoring the sense of panic running through me at disappointing them.
“I went over a few ground rules with Maya, you know, to keep her out of trouble. God forbid I find her drunk and crying on a bathroom floor to a Jonas Brothers song.”
I throw my cloth napkin at Santi. “That happened one time! It was my birthday and they had just announced they were getting back together. I was super emotional, okay? Feelings hit me all at once, right there while I was washing my hands.”
Everyone chuckles at the table.
“And I told her not to hand her camera over to random strangers because of the last incident.” Santi’s eyes shine with humor.
I withhold the urge to roll my eyes. “How was I supposed to expect that a random guy would run off with my phone when we asked for a picture? Who even does that? It goes against every code of ethics ever written.” To be fair, some situations are a consequence of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time, while trusting a shady person.
“People without morals, that’s who. You should be careful with those types when you’re gone. People need to go to church more.” My mom does a sign of the cross for good measure.
Leave it to my mom to think religion will solve everything. Bless her heart.
I enjoy the rest of dinner with my family, grateful when the conversation sways away from me. No one gets how tough it is to live up to everything my brother does. Not that I want to, but still, Santi leaves behind colossal shoes my whole body can’t fill. But I want to push negativity aside and enjoy the trips we have planned.
Because you know what’s worse than complaining about your big brother?
Complaining about a big brother who is so damn perfect all the time.
2
Noah
I toss a pillow over my head to block out any light streaming through the window. Sheets rustle next to me and a warm hand finds my dick under the covers.
“Okay, this is the time you grab your stuff and go.” I point to the door while my other arm holds the pillow on my face. Please don’t be confrontational.
“You’re kicking me out of bed while my hand is on your cock? We had sex three hours ago.” She fails to hide her disbelief.
She’s smart and good with time.
“Yup, last night was fun and all but I have to get up for practice. I enjoyed it. Thanks.”
She snatches the pillow off my face, revealing a feisty woman with blonde hair that’s a ruffled mess and her makeup smeared. I smirk at a job well done.
Her eyes shoot daggers at me, matching the sneer on her face. “You’re as unbelievable as they say. Are you always such a dick to people?”
I blink a couple of times, not in the mood for her attitude. Talk about a complete one-eighty from last night. Go figure.
“I’m glad my reputation precedes me. You overstayed your welcome; be sure to be gone by the time I’m out of the shower.” No use staying in bed. I get up with my dick hanging out and my ass on display. Her lips gape apart as I close the door on her face, ending our conversation. They always leave by the time I get out anyway.
I make it a long shower to avoid seeing the blonde chick again. Amber-Aly-whatever her name is—shit if I know since they eventually blur together, becoming one mindless fuck after another. Now with the season starting again, I won’t be drinking like I did last night. I have to stay sharp and keep the sponsors happy. Getting drunk isn’t a habit for me anyway because I have to keep myself in top physical form.
I’m one of Formula 1’s best, after all, which means I have an image to keep up.
See, to answer the chick’s question, I’m a dick. But I don’t exactly hide it. People like her don’t sleep with people like me in hopes that I’ll cuddle and say sweet nothings after a good screw. I find it hard to see where women like her come from, getting all flustered after a good lay, calling me all types of curse words. Can’t help being the “fuck them and chuck them” type. But ladies know the score, lining up at nightclubs to salivate all over my Gucci loafers for a chance to go home with me. They use me as much as I use them. A quick, meaningless fuck to let off steam.
And I have a lot of steam to let out.
A couple weeks ago, Bandini hired Santiago Alatorre as a second racer. My rival is now my teammate. A scrappy little shit who likes to go balls to the wall, consequences be damned.
I can respect the fact that he drives well, but he has a lot to learn about the sport. A shit ton of lessons I’ll happily teach. Like when to back the fuck off, or how to apologize for a nearly fatal crash. Crap like that.
Unbelievable how Bandini hired him despite our rocky history.
So I did what any reasonable person would do to pass time during winter break. I got shit-faced last night, where one drink turned into five and here I am, being called a dick by another chick. Some consider me nice. I make sure she comes multiple times before I do because my nanny raised a gentleman after all, no thanks to my parents.
But I can’t blame my terrible mood on a blonde chick with a sour attitude. My anger is all due to Bandini’s new contract with Santiago. Now I have to share my team with a guy I don’t even like, our rivalry burning strong since he hit me during the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. What a wreck, my car unrecognizable after that crash, retired and bent out of shape. My loss was Santiago’s gain. He won a World Championship thanks to my collision. Doubt he loses sleep over it.
Santiago comes across as deceptively careless. Even in those tense situations, he calculatingly thinks about the moves he makes on the course, doing anything to end up on the podium. Ballsy motherfucker.
I have little respect for him since our collision, but I don’t blame him like people say I do. At the time I did. But after lots of thinking, I came to the conclusion that he didn’t cost me the World Championship. That was all me. The real reason I can’t stand him is because his rashness almost landed me in the hospital, a memory not easily forgotten.
I plan on playing civil with him since we have to act like teammates. We don’t need to compare dick sizes to see who’s the best when my driving does the talking. He gets to come onto my team and into my house and show his skills. Meaning I can sit back and relax while he proves himself worthy of the money they paid him this year. It will be intriguing to see where it goes and who performs better. No more excuses, because an even playing field means the better driver will win. And we all know who that is.
My phone rings on my dresser. Father.
I battle between picking up the phone and letting it go to voicemail. Deciding on the latter, I step away before the phone rings again. Clever m
an knows I avoid any contact with him. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, I take the call.
“Dad. How are you?” I shuffle the phone between my shoulder and ear while I grab my workout bag.
“I read the news. Bandini added that child to the team. What are they thinking? He’s barely proven himself.” His gruff voice reverberates through the small speaker, skipping over pleasantries.
“Nice to hear from you too.” My words pack their usual bite because asshole genes run in the family.
“Cut the shit, Noah. This is serious, especially after he screwed you over before. You’ve got to stay sharp this season and not let him get the upper hand.”
“We can let the crash go since it was forever ago. I’m not worried about a racer who got lucky once.” I double-check that the chick from earlier left, not wanting another encounter with her. All clear. I grab my keys and lock up my Monaco apartment.
“I didn’t invest a ton of money into that company for them to mess around with your career. If they think a kid is going to get the best resources without showing his worth… What a sad mistake.”
I rub my eyes. “We can see how he does before you pop off on some Bandini rep. I doubt he can beat me like that again since it was a fluke. A lucky hit where I lost control.”
“Damn straight he won’t. Don’t fuck it up again; you don’t want to crumble under pressure when you’re at the height of your career.”
Thanks for the love, Dad.
“Yup, sounds like me. Talk to you later. Bye.” I don’t wait for his reply before I hang up.
My dad can’t help being an asshole, but the public likes him, so he saves all his pent-up issues for me. He gets his way no matter what. His solutions to problems include money, threats, and throwing his weight around. Me moving across the Atlantic Ocean hasn’t put enough distance between us. Even with an insane time change between Europe and America, he finds a way to contact me.