by Lauren Asher
The broadcaster announces how Noah and Santi will retire for the Prix, the worst news for the Bandini team. A major loss since neither racer will receive points for the Constructors’ Championship. Plus, it’s a strike against my brother’s confidence.
I wait for them in the pit suites, in the same hallway where I ran into Noah earlier. Noah and Santi make their presence known the moment they enter.
“What the fuck were you thinking? What type of reckless, amateur shit are you trying to pull here? That crappy move cost us everything today.”
My body stiffens at the way Noah talks to my brother. I peek around the hall’s corner, wanting to get a look of the scene. Noah’s back faces me while my brother looks furious, a rare happening for him. He has flushed cheeks, narrowed eyes, and pinched brows.
My brother’s eyes flare. “I already said I’m sorry twice, Slade. Do you want to kiss and make up?”
Last-name dropping and the sarcasm dripping from Santi’s voice is never a good sign.
“If you want to prove your worth, try to do it without crashing a million-dollar car. It’ll serve you better in the long run. But if you wanted to ride my cock, all you had to do was ask nicely.” Noah’s hard voice carries through the halls.
“Fuck you. You act like your God’s gift to Earth. Newsflash, I’ll beat you one day and so will everyone else. Get over yourself.”
My eyes strain and I press a hand against my mouth. Noah doesn’t respond. He turns toward my hiding place in the hallway and practically runs me over on his way to his room. His hands grab onto me, stabilizing my body before I topple over.
Dull eyes and rosy cheeks greet me.
“Sorry,” he mumbles before shutting the door to his room.
My heart squeezes at how unhappy he looks. I don’t want to feel bad for him because he acts like a dick to my brother, but I can’t help pitying him. It sucks how my brother made a stupid move that has severe repercussions for the team. Points aside, morale between these two can’t be lower.
I enter Santi’s suite to sit on the couch when Noah’s phone rings next door. He rarely gets phone calls, so I can’t fight my curiosity. I try my best not to listen in on what happens in his suite. And by trying my best, I mean I currently have a cup held up against the wall to try to amplify the noise. All I get are muffled words. A pretty unsuccessful spy mission if I do say so myself, my ears only catching a few words like father and crash.
Santi comes into the room while I google how people use glasses to eavesdrop. He eyes the empty cup in my hand curiously but doesn’t mention anything about it, choosing to ignore my playful smile.
Santi plops himself on the couch next to me and lets out a sigh, the defeated look on his face pulling at my heartstrings. His fingers fumble with unzipping his race suit while his feet toe off his sneakers. He puts his head in his hands. The room fills with the sound of his deep breaths in and out.
I give him a few moments before I probe. “How did the talk with the chief engineer and Noah go?”
I learn from my mistakes, making sure to keep my voice low enough for Noah to not overhear us.
“Noah’s pissed to say the least. And I get it because I fucked up bad. But I apologized to him the moment we got out of the cars and when we got back here. I hadn’t even seen the footage yet, but I knew it was my fault.”
“He shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone, making a scene. It’s wrong and embarrassing for both of you. And not mature when you already said sorry.”
Okay, the volume of my voice has increased a bit. Noah may or may not be listening in on our conversation at this moment, no thanks to me.
“I screwed him out of a good amount of points. It’s going to take time to recover from that loss. I would be angry too if it were me.” His hands pull at his hair while his face stares at the floor.
“You both are teammates trying to figure each other out. The two of you have different styles of racing, and you need to find your groove and work together.” I root for both of them. For the sake of Bandini and the Constructors, they need to put aside this rivalry between them.
“F1 Corp will make us do a post-race conference together to represent Bandini.” He looks up at me finally. His red-rimmed eyes lack their usual shine, and his sadness makes my heart hurt for him.
I take a deep breath, knowing what I have to do. “I’ll join you. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like you can crash again.”
Famous last words.
The press meeting is not the same as watching Santi and Noah crash in real life. On the racetrack, you can’t see or feel the tension between the drivers. Except for the team radio, but not many people listen in unless the videos end up on YouTube.
See, in a press meeting, all the emotions hang around like unwanted female groupies. Reporters salivate at the idea of these two guys sitting on a duo panel. Tension fills the room like a dense cloud, my brother shifting in his seat while Noah’s gaze focuses on the bright lights in front of him. I cringe at the awkwardness between them. The guys have many cameras on them, making it hard to hide anything.
I take back my previous comments about press conferences being yawn-worthy. I’d take snooze fests over train wrecks any day of the week.
Noah’s jaw ticks when the reporter asks Santi a question.
“It shouldn’t have happened today. Our team lost a lot of points because of it.”
The reporter doesn’t let Santi off easily because good answers don’t sell magazine covers.
“Is it true that the team engineer told you to brake the car and pull off of Noah’s tail, but you didn’t listen?”
My brother moves around in his seat. “I don’t want to discuss it. The team already lost today. It’s bad for us. Do we need to harp on the logistics of how I messed up?”
Noah subtly shakes his head before his sharp eyes look straight ahead. He replaced his tight race suit with a sponsor polo shirt, his hair pressing smoothly against his scalp with not a single dark strand out of place yet. I prefer his charming wickedness over this sad state any day of the week. His arms cross against his chest, bringing my attention toward the ridges of muscle etched into them, tan skin gleaming under bright lights.
I check out reporters around the room, searching for any distractions, but my eyes drift back to the press table and roam over Noah again. Ugh. Why does he have to be my brother’s racing rival?
I shift on my feet, my sneakers scuffing against the slick tile. My attention snaps back to my brother, choosing to ignore my attraction toward Noah because I don’t want to accept those feelings. Instead, I list off all the reasons Noah’s bad news in my head.
It’s way too soon.
I barely know him.
He’s my brother’s teammate. Rival even.
He’s a manwhore with more hookups than all the Bachelor seasons combined.
He looks like he’ll screw with my head as well as he’ll screw me in bed.
Working out all of the reasons why Noah Slade is a bad idea is a useful distraction, keeping me away from the drama ensuing in front of me.
I tune in again when the reporters decide to move their attention to Noah.
“Noah, tell us your thoughts on the situation.”
These reporters decide today is the day for such open-ended inquiries.
“It’s a shitty situation that should have never happened. Santi’s apologized and we are sorry. Our racing team has to fix our mistake and we’re appreciative of their efforts to get our cars up and running for the next race. We love this sport, bad accidents aside. We’re not in it to retire early from the race and go home empty-handed. This is the worst-case example of teamwork, but we’ll work on it.”
He handles questions like a professional. Not bad.
My brother visibly relaxes in his seat, relief evident in his eyes.
My expectations for today didn’t include Noah acting like such a pro. He pushes aside his earlier bad mood in front of the cameras, p
resenting himself as the ultimate teammate. I can see why Bandini keeps him around besides his talent behind the wheel. His appearance makes it obvious why women gravitate toward him, with him being such a smooth talker, willing to put on a show.
The rest of the conference is dull. I sneak glances at Noah because what is a girl to do during the rest of a boring meeting. He catches me staring at him, making my cheeks flush.
And that wicked smile he sends me when the cameras stop rolling? The one promising more? Yup. I see it.
Oh man, I’m in trouble.
10
Noah
Maya totally tries to hide how she checks me out. I no longer think its mild curiosity, chalking up her initial reactions as her way of sizing up her brother’s new teammate. But we’ve danced around each other for a month—ever since the season started, glancing at each other and avoiding physical contact. She fills me with a different excitement—because of her and the reactions she thinks go unnoticed.
My new relationship with Santi is already off to a bad start. No need to fuck it up more with a quick hookup, no matter how hot his sister is. And I mean she is a drop-dead gorgeous woman. Thoughts plague me about ways I would defile her like wrapping her ponytail around my arm while her lush lips wrap around my cock, pump after pump until I finish. I’m a dirty bastard, but I can’t do that to my teammate—no matter how much I want to. So I lock up my fantasies for another time with another girl.
I don’t shit where I sleep. Period. End of story.
My dick retaliates against my brain though because I peek glances at her across the Bandini garage. I could lie to myself and say its sheer curiosity. Based on the way my cock hardens around her, it’s more than that, and frustration runs through me at denying myself.
I’m ashamed to admit I jerk off in the bathroom sometimes after seeing Maya. No use denying my terrible habit. It happens mainly after races, with all the pent-up adrenaline begging for release. But she always hangs around, so lately I’ve been taking a lot of cold showers, trying to rid the images of her from my head. She wears these tight shorts that show off her tan legs, plus she looks fucking fantastic in Bandini shirts. It brings out a possessive side of me, happy to see her in my team’s colors, bobbing around the pit garage with her camera.
Can I ask the chief to ban attire like hers altogether from Bandini’s motorhome? May solve half of my problems.
She bends over the cockpit of Santi’s car, checking out the inside with one of the engine mechanics.
The mechanic darts his eyes everywhere except on Maya’s jean-clad ass hanging in the air. Thank God she didn’t wear her scrappy shorts that look shredded and two washes away from breaking apart. I can only take so much. She doesn’t even notice how the pit barely buzzes with noise as she busies herself with filming the inside of Santi’s car for her vlog.
I shift my jeans because my aching cock is pulsing uncomfortably against my zipper. My eyes glance around the rest of the room, catching how the pit crew steals glances at her perky ass. And I don’t like it one bit. Where the fuck is Santiago when you need him?
Santiago, please come collect your sister. She fucks up everyone’s work schedule.
Thank God Maya finally pops her head out. Her hair lacks her usual ponytail with wavy brown strands flowing down her back and framing her face. I’d consider her angelic-looking, except her body is meant for sin—to fuck hard and long. My type of damnation. I suppress a laugh at the comical display of many heads snapping back to their jobs. A hum of drills and the beeps of computers start back up again, heads no longer facing in Maya’s direction.
Her smile beams at me once I catch her attention, filling my chest with a kind of warmth I don’t recognize often. I return her smile with one of my own because I’m not a total asshole. My eyes snap toward the small black camera and tripod she grips in her tiny hand, the lens taunting me as she inches toward me.
Ah, explains the warm smile. I shake my head at her cleverness, a smirk replacing my grin.
“And here we have Bandini’s finest, but not to me because I still think my brother is the best. It’s Noah Slade. Say hi to everyone.” She points the thing directly up at me, not asking for approval. I like how she’s the type to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. Reminds me of myself.
I don’t like interviews that aren’t mandatory. But fuck it, if it helps her get new followers, I can go along with it.
A megawatt smile breaks out across my face. I lie and tell myself I do it for the fans, but my dick and I both know what’s up.
“A real vlogger shouldn’t be biased,” I grumble.
Her soft and breathy laugh makes the tripod shake, and damn if it isn’t the best sound I’ll hear all day. What other noises can I get her to do between the two of us?
Get your head out of the pit lane, Noah.
“More on that later, everyone. So, Noah.” My stiff cock stands to attention at the way my name rolls off her tongue, sultry and lulling on the vowels. I shift my feet subtly to ease the ache.
I would love to hear her repeat my name under different circumstances. Behind closed doors, where no one can hear us, preferably without clothes on.
What a sick joke on me where I crave attention from the one girl I want but can’t have. And even worse, she remains oblivious. I want to spend more time around her and suck up her happiness like the goddamn black hole I am.
Maya resumes, unaware of my inner conflict. “Would you want to give the fans a tour of your own car?” She bats her eyelashes, laying the charm on real thick. Her brown eyes gleam up at me. Damn, who the fuck could resist looks like that?
“Sure, fuck it. Why not.”
Nice, Noah. Cursing on camera.
Her head bobs with excitement at my agreement. Knowing her, she’s resisting clapping her hands because of the camera.
We walk over to my car. Engineers take the cover off to give me easy cockpit access. My hand drags across the front of the car, giving the hood extra attention. Maya’s eyes darken as she focuses on my hands. Further evidence that she is affected by me too, proving our attraction is not one-sided. My brain logs this information for another time.
If she wasn’t Santi’s sister, I would invite her back to my hotel room and show her a good time, help her give into temptation. But since she is, I have to be respectful. Not typically my status quo.
I do it for the good of the team of course.
“Care to share with viewers what it’s like behind the wheel?” Her lips tip upward.
I nudge a pit crew attendant. “Hey, can you grab my steering wheel? Please.” He hurries away at my request.
“While we wait, I’ll give fans a tour. New watchers of the sport don’t know how we F1 drivers are practically lying down inside the car. Sometimes it’s even hard to see over our steering wheels. Makes turns more difficult if you can imagine.” I casually lean against the car.
Maya’s bright smile encourages me to keep going.
“Depending on the type of damage we sustain during the race, the pit crew may have the spare part needed to fix it. Here’s the wheel now.” Maya steps into me, angling the camera to get a good shot. I inhale the fresh floral scent of her perfume, a recognizably addicting smell.
I explain the mechanism and buttons on the wheel. Bandini likes to keep tight-lipped about our technology, so I withhold spilling any trade secrets. Maya nods along while paying attention to everything I say. Her head bobs, and small smiles make my heart clench—a new sensation that spreads through my chest, unlike any feeling from winning a race.
I wrap up my explanations. She flips the camera screen up and turns the tripod toward the two of us. Her body presses against my side as she tries to get us both in the frame, distracting me with the contact of her skin.
I shake my head at her attempt to film us together with her short arms. The camera cuts off part of my head, prompting me to grab the tripod and fix the angle to fit us in the frame. Her intoxicating scent washes over me again. The smell
of her turns me on, like fucked-up pheromones drawing me in, showing how screwed I am.
“And that’s what it’s like behind a driver’s steering wheel. Next week I’ll be meeting up with the pit crew as they tackle the Russian Grand Prix.”
I smile down at her. Her enthusiasm about her vlogging rubs off on me, uncharacteristically agreeing to this segment despite my usual distaste for these kinds of things. Not to mention how I check out her Instagram daily since she approved my request. My dirty little secret.
I lie to myself about how I don’t want to miss out on her vlogs when I appear in them. But I have a hard time convincing myself when I check out her travel videos too, curious about what she does during her free time away from the racetrack.
“Any last words you want to share with Bandini fans?” She nudges me with her elbow.
“Tune in next week to see me kick Santiago’s ass.” I smile at the camera.
She laughs and elbows me harder this time, the tiny bone barely making a dent.
“Spoken like the conceited athlete we all know. See you next time.” She waves goodbye to the camera and shuts it off. I take in one last breath of her addicting smell before she pulls away, the heat of her body gone.
Yup. I’m a sick motherfucker.
“Thanks for doing that. I wasn’t sure if you would, to be honest.” She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
Her nervousness comes back in full force, guilt tugging at the few heartstrings I have left. I can’t help being an asshole.
“No problem. Can’t have you only showing Santiago’s side of things. It’s good PR for the company anyway.” Right. I have trouble believing my own lie despite how easily it flows off my tongue.
“Yeah sure…” Her voice tells me she doesn’t buy my brand of bullshit. “Maybe you can join another time again. I better get going since I have to edit all of this before the race tomorrow. Congrats on your pole position.” She sends me one last smile over her shoulder.