by Lauren Asher
“What can I get you two fine ladies?” He waggles his brows.
“Isn’t it an open bar?” Sophie’s wit shines through and I love it. She may become my favorite person during this whole Championship business.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t order it for you. Make a man feel useful.” He places a hand on his chest and pouts his lip.
“Because you, of all people, need your ego stroked more than usual. Yeah right… But I’ll take a Moscow Mule.” Sophie flashes a smirk, making a dimple pop out.
He grins at her before he looks at me expectantly.
“I’ll have the same.”
Liam politely covers the tip for the bartender, making himself needed after all.
“Why do you two want to spend your night hanging with stuffy men? They’re such a bore.” He clinks his beer bottle to our glasses, along with a quick cheers before he takes a swig. Sophie’s eyes stay planted on Liam as his lips tug on the bottle.
“I’m on the hunt for my future husband. Was thinking of someone between the ages of forty and fifty. Old enough to pay for everything I want, young enough to not have a wrinkly dick.”
I choke on my drink. Sophie shrugs at me while Liam’s eyes linger on her chest for a second too long.
Pull it together, man.
“Sixty and older means you’ll only have to rinse your mouth with bleach for ten years instead of twenty.” Liam weighs the invisible options in his hands, beer bottle bobbing along with him.
“Unlike Sophie who wants to become a mail-order bride, I came because my brother drags me everywhere.”
“How’s your brother transitioning with our broody prince?” Liam turns toward me before his eyes drift back to his new interest. His eyes narrow at her lips wrapping around a straw, eye-fucking her as she sucks on her drink.
I shoot him a look that tells him he can’t bang my new friend because I actually want her to join me at events. Hopefully, my eyes say, “hands off.” Nights like these tend to be lonely and dull with Santi always being busy.
He catches it and subtly nods with understanding. Good.
“Sophie’s dad handles them, giving them enough love and attention to not make them jealous.”
“He’s a hard chief, running his team in tip-top shape while expecting the most from them. I wonder what it’s like growing up in his home. Care to share?” Liam looks eagerly at Sophie while flashing her a bright smile.
“Wouldn’t you like to know. Can’t reveal our secrets to the enemy.” Sophie pretends to seal her lips.
“I drive for a different team. Not quite enemies, don’t be dramatic.”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Drama seems to follow you wherever you go.” Sophie says the words with a smile on her face.
Liam’s smile becomes a full-blown grin. “Keeping tabs on me?”
Sophie’s cheeks flush at Liam’s raised brow before she takes a drawn-out suck from her straw.
I break it up. “All right. Oh look, it’s Noah.”
I grab onto Noah’s arm and drag him into the conversation, no longer wishing to be the third wheel.
Noah looks down at my arm like it offends him. This is going swell.
“Noah, this is Sophie. Sophie, Noah.” I speak without thinking.
“We know each other. I’ve been on her dad’s team for five years.” He gives me a puzzled look that is immediately replaced with one of hunger as his eyes take me in, raking down my red dress. Thank you, Sophie, for the outfit idea.
My stomach dips as I check out his tux, a new weakness of mine. Resist the bow tie, Maya. This weekly situation tortures me. What have I done to deserve this type of punishment?
No matter how many times I tell my brain Noah isn’t worth the trouble, my body won’t agree. Out of nowhere, his index finger drags across my knuckles, an electric connection sparking at his touch. My drink sloshes when I pull my hand away in a jerky motion. Cool liquid trickles down my skin.
Noah’s thumb picks up the droplets before he brings the pad to his mouth, his eyes remaining on mine. Oh my God.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air. He shoots me a telling wink.
I let out a breath of relief as Noah talks, placing his hand in his pocket.
He smiles at Sophie in a caring way. “Nice to see you though, Sophie. Your dad sure sounds happy to have you visiting us. He talked all about it at lunch the other day, not shutting up about you finishing up your degree. Says you should manage my funds.”
Sophie gives a shake of her head. “And he told me lots about his dream team and how smitten he is with all the new changes. Are you playing nice with this one’s brother?” She points at me and smiles.
Thank you for bringing up his rival, Sophie. Is it too late to cancel our friendship?
Noah chuckles. “Don’t insult me, I thought I was his dream racer. But yes. I share all my toys with Santiago, making sure to play nice together at recess.”
I roll my eyes at his smug smile, questioning why I thought bringing Noah here was a good idea. Just when I think he can be normal he turns into an arrogant jerk.
Our exchange is saved yet again by a random guy. Based on his looks alone, I peg him as an F1 racer.
His British accent breaks up the current conversation. “Hey guys. What an event, am I right?”
Sophie and I both swoon at the Englishman in front of us, his accent packing a punch. The Brit greets us with dark eyes, bronzed skin, and roguish curly hair that no brush can tame. His unbuttoned black shirt displays neck tattoos trailing down the small reveal of his chest. He nails the quintessential bad boy look. A tattooed hand grips a glass tumbler, showing off inked knuckles and fingers.
Liam and Noah greet the stranger and introduce him as Jax, Liam’s teammate. No wonder barely any women have jobs in the F1 industry. I doubt I’d be productive working around this hotness day in, day out.
“Who are these lush young ladies? You two have been holding out on me, I see.” He gives Liam and Noah a wild smile and tips his glass up to them.
Sophie blushes, not immune to his charm. F1 hires the lookers of the group. Honestly, I doubt I’m any better off at the moment, with my cheeks matching the color of my dress.
“I’m Maya Alatorre and this is Sophie Mitchell.” Go me for getting the words out.
“Quite a duo you two have here.” He shakes his head at Liam and Noah.
“We wanted to keep them away from your ugly face. Don’t want to scare the girls away before they get to spend more time with us.” Liam tips his beer in Jax’s direction before taking a swig.
Noah suppresses a groan, barely audible over my laugh.
“Who knows, maybe we can have them root for McCoy over Bandini one day. Women tend to be suckers for our accents.” Jax lays the British accent on real thick this time.
“I’d rather die than cheer for your team.” Sophie looks mock-disgusted with a wrinkled nose and wide eyes.
“Don’t go saying things you don’t mean. One day in my pit garage and you’ll be wishing you never have to leave.” Liam suggestively smiles at Sophie. She smacks him on the arm before messing around with her drink again.
“Catch you all later.” Jax tips his glass toward us before he steps away from the conversation. Sophie practically drools on her dress, unprepared for the hotness that seeps out of F1 racers. I tried to warn her earlier.
“Nice chatting with you both. We’re going to be on our way now. Thanks for the drinks, Liam.” I shoot him a grin while grabbing Sophie’s hand and tugging her away.
“The drinks are free. Seriously, Liam, you’re strapped for cash? McCoy not paying you enough?” Noah’s voice carries over the music.
Liam lets out a deep laugh while I run away from Noah because bow ties are my kryptonite.
Not Noah. Nope.
9
Maya
The crowd stirs with enthusiasm as pit mechanics prepare for the Chinese Grand Prix. Team members huddle around the cars, conducting engine checks and ensuring
everything looks good to go. It’s chaotic yet organized all at once. Hundreds of people help run the operation, from feeding drivers to running electrical tests on Bandini cars.
Noah goes through his solitary pre-race ritual. I don’t blame him for his preference, with the immense amount of pressure during every race. Plus, how draining fans and crowds can be. Santi and I hang out while he signs hats and gear for fans. He likes how I keep him company, telling me it eases his pre-race jitters. Whatever works for him.
I enter the suite area, silence welcoming me since most of the crew work in the garage, making sure the cars are in top condition for the race.
On my way to the bathroom, I slam into a firm body, confirming how running into people is becoming my specialty. A hand grabs my arm and steadies me. My eyes land on Noah’s face, his deep blue eyes piercing mine. His hand remains on my arm while goosebumps break out across my skin.
I sigh at the contact, not liking these uncontrollable physiological responses. “I’m so sorry, I should watch where I am going.” First Sophie, now him.
He pulls down his headphones. “No problem. These halls are pretty tight.” His voice rumbles. Why can’t he have a nasally voice that throws me off, something to take away part of his sex appeal? I doubt it’s too much to ask.
My eyes have a mind of their own, taking a quick peek at his body because I lack self-control. His race suit fits snugly against him, emphasizing his muscular form, the vibrant red color flattering his tan skin. My eyes close in a useless effort to try to rid the image of him. I wish Santi had an unattractive teammate because I’d describe this experience as the worst kind of punishment.
“Have to get used to how busy it is around here on race days. What are you up to in there? You always seem quiet.” I point my head in the direction of his door.
He taps his headphones. “I listen to music and get in the mental state for racing. Give myself a pep talk and work out.”
“You need a pep talk? I can’t believe it. I thought the fantastic Noah Slade could do no wrong, with no feat too scary.” I look up at the ceiling wistfully as I place a hand on my heart.
His smirk falls, but he recovers quickly. “Even the best need to get motivated. We drive cars at super speeds, so it can still be intimidating as fuck.”
His arm grabs mine again and pulls me toward the wall. An attendant runs by, hands full of car parts and bags.
“Gotta be careful around here. You’re small enough to be run over by a cart or something.”
I look up into Noah’s eyes and immediately regret it. His shade of blue easily becomes my favorite, reminding me of Barcelona’s coastal waters.
“Good to know. I’ll leave you to it then.” My hand taps on his headphones before I turn toward Santi’s room. I need distance from him, anything to break his arm away from mine.
“Wait.” A calloused hand strokes my arm again, heating my skin where his touch lingers. Noah’s lack of personal space frustrates me. His touchiness overwhelms me and overrides my brain, making me crave him. My body refuses to follow my brain’s memo about Noah being bad news.
“Uh…” I can’t form logical sentences while his hand lingers on my arm.
Not sure where this is going, a feeling of uneasiness flows through me.
Noah speaks up. “Why do you spend time with your brother before races? It’s distracting.”
I blink once, twice. And one more time for good measure. Okay then, who died and made you king?
His fingers trace patterns on my skin like he didn’t say something rude. I doubt he grasps how his words come across to others. Why would he when he always gets what he wants anyway, and is never told the words no or please. Entitled prick.
Dislike rolls through me at the response my body has toward him, the way my heartbeat picks up at his touch, and how it ignites something inside of me. I stare at his hands and will them away. He has strong hands that look large enough to dominate. Ones I want to feel on me, touching and squeezing.
My physical restraint around him is commendable. I deserve my own trophy and champagne shower, especially when his intoxicating clean scent confuses me. He makes it challenging to think about anything but him.
“It’s not disturbing to my brother and that’s who matters to me. No offense.” My breathy voice doesn’t pack the punch I intend. I blame Noah’s stupid hands for disrupting my brain cells, making me unable to form coherent sentences.
“I can hear you through the walls sometimes, your laughs included. Must be fun in there.”
My body tenses at his admission. He sounds sincere. Maybe even wistful? I can’t tell if I am imagining things, guessing emotions that could be wrong.
“I’ll be sure to keep my voice down and not laugh too much. Don’t want to disturb the Champ and all.” Sarcasm packs a blow this time around. High five to myself.
I confidently gaze into Noah’s eyes again as he lets out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
A little too late for that.
My gaze remains on his face, silently encouraging him to continue. I can wait for apologies.
“I’m not used to you or Santi being here. It’s usually quiet on race days. My old teammate was like me; he typically listened to music and worked out. He took naps too. I don’t mean to make you feel bad about it so please don’t take it the wrong way.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
He comes across genuine at least. His hand runs through his hair, making the dark strands stick up everywhere. A typical look for him. I smile at his state of disarray, aware I’ve found Noah’s nervous tick. Who would have guessed the hotshot had one?
“It’s okay. I don’t want to be distracting for anyone either. I’ll keep it down.” I offer a sincere smile.
“All right, thanks.” He turns toward his door.
“Noah,” His name rolls off my tongue, prompting him to look over his shoulder. “Good luck today.”
“Thank you.”
Part of my heart melts at the sight of him winking before he closes the door.
I lean against a wall and wait for my heart to stop racing. Once I finally relax, I enter Santi’s room again.
Liam leads the group today with pole position. Finally, a change of pace from Noah’s usual P1 spot, with my brother as runner-up, and Noah in P3. A third-place qualifier for Mr. Slade. What a tragedy. Bandini and McCoy outperform other racers every time, which seems unfair since money makes all the difference in a sport like this. Top teams hire the best engineers and crew. A couple others follow close behind, working toward upper grid positions and better cars.
Racers take off down the course once the lights fade from above the grid. The smell of fuel fills the air, strangely calming me. My hands clap as cars drive by. I love standing near the track’s safety fence, feeling the vibrations of the engines as the cars rip past the lane, metal rings trembling underneath my fingers as I clutch the barrier.
On TV, cars may look like they hit normal speeds. But in person, F1 race cars rush past in a blur of colors and a burst of air, the roar of engines rivaling the crowd’s cheers. My dark waves blow in the wind as Bandini’s red cars fly by. The fast pace makes it difficult to tell which car Noah drives versus Santi, making me tune in to the speakers for race standings. Sparks fly as cars brush up against the pavement. Others cruise by, a mix of colors ranging from gray to pink. Race car models vary from sleek to clunky. I film the event from the sidelines today, wanting to stand at a popular turn overlooking the finish line.
No significant hiccups occur within the first twenty minutes. During the twelfth lap, a driver runs into a barrier, his car hitting protective blockades. Water splashes against the road from exploding plastic jugs. The driver unbuckles himself and yells expletives before throwing his helmet. He ends up kneeling next to his wrecked car, his body tense and shaking. Fans underestimate how emotional racers get when they crash. A failure to complete a Prix. After all the hard work and sacrifices from the team, they retir
e with no points for the Championship.
I turn my camera back toward the racetrack, getting fantastic shots of McCoy and Bandini cars rushing by, metal frames nearly touching as they try to pass each other. The howl of the engines brings a smile to my lips.
Liam and Noah fight it out for first and second place throughout the forty laps. Excitement has yet to wear off after the first hour of watching them compete against each other, the crowd’s still yelling chants and cheers. My legs cramp at standing for an hour and a half. In hindsight, I should have packed a chair and snacks.
By lap fifty, my brother tails Noah’s race car. Santi’s defensiveness keeps me on edge. I grip the fence as they careen down the track, Noah holding his lead. Santi’s car hangs uncomfortably close to Noah’s. Too freaking close. During a straight stretch, my brother speeds up before he swerves while trying to get around Noah.
I gasp as the front wing of my brother’s car hits the back of Noah’s race car. Santi spirals out behind him, both cars trembling as they drag across the pavement. My brother has crashed into Noah at about one hundred and eighty miles per hour. The Bandini cars spin around like two red yo-yos across the track, the drivers unable to do anything about the loss of control. My stomach lurches. The crowd quiets and listens to the grating sound of metal, a path of sparks and smoke trailing behind the Bandini cars. Their cars finally stop near a side barrier. Smoke plumes from both engines and billows up into the blue sky.
Shit. Noah and Santi climb out of their cars. The safety team ensures that the drivers remain uninjured while a tractor picks up the messed-up Bandini cars with a crane. Noah flails his arms around at my brother. He throws his helmet off to the side while he grabs my brother by the race suit and pushes him. My brother catches his footing before he falls over.
I take in a deep breath, relief rushing through me that they both are safe. The risk of crashing always hangs over the heads of drivers in this sport. Some have died during crashes like today. But most racers get out of their cars unharmed because of all the safety precautions like fireproof race suits, helmets, and the bar above the car that protects the driver from barrel rolls. This crash proves why F1 has safety protocols in the first place.