Revved

by Samantha Towle

  “Oh, you are Andi?” She smiles at me.

  “Yes,” I answer tentatively.

  “Wonderful! Come in.” She steps back, waving me in. “I’m Martina.”

  She presses her hand to her chest. When I see how nice her nails are, I cringe again at my own bitten mess.

  “I have you booked in with Alma. She’ll be out in a few minutes. Sit down.”

  I’m ushered into a chair.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Coffee would be great. Thanks.”

  Martina disappears through the salon, leaving me to panic about being here. The salon is a hub of activity with women getting their hair done. They all look stylish and glamorous, and I’m none of those things.

  I’m actually considering bolting when Martina appears with my coffee.

  “Here you are.”

  She hands it over, and I take it from her.

  “Thank you.”

  I’ve just taken a sip of my coffee when a well-groomed dark-haired woman in her thirties steps around the counter.

  “Andi.” She greets me with a smile. “Would you like to follow me through? I’ll bring your coffee.” She takes it from my hands.

  Nervously, I follow her down a corridor and into a room.

  “Take a seat. So, what are we doing today?”

  “My nails…they’re kind of a mess.”

  “Okay. Can I see?”

  I realize that I’m sitting on my hands again. “Sorry.” I give a nervous laugh. Then, I pull my hands up and rest them on the table in front of me.

  She doesn’t seem appalled, which is a good thing. Either that, or she’s really good at masking her disgust.

  “I’m a mechanic,” I explain.

  She nods.

  “And I bite my nails,” I carry on awkwardly. “But I have somewhere special to be tonight, and I need them to look nice…if possible.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll have your nails looking amazing in no time.”

  One hour and thirty minutes later, I walk out of the salon, feeling like a new woman. Well, a new hand woman, that is.

  They feel so soft, and my nails are painted blood red, a darker shade than my dress, which Alma said would complement it. She did something called a paraffin wax on my hands to help soften the skin. I’ve never heard of it before, but I want to have one done every day. So relaxing. While I was waiting for the paraffin wax to work its magic, Alma gave me a pedicure, so my toes now match my fingers.

  I’m a girl almost ready to go. Just the rest of me to sort out now.

  Letting myself into our hotel room, I drop my bag on my bed and flash my nails at Petra.

  “Very nice. Right, get yourself in the shower and wash your hair, and I’ll fix it up for you and put your face on.”

  “Not a lot of makeup though.” It’s not really me.

  “I’ll keep it light. You don’t need a lot.”

  “What about my hair?”

  She stares at me for a long moment. “With that dress, I’d normally say up, but you never have your hair down, so I think you should wear it long with loose waves.”

  “You’re the boss,” I say with a wave of my hand. Grabbing my toothbrush, I drop some paste on it and start scrubbing my teeth. “Are you going out tonight?” I call from the bathroom.

  “Yeah, gonna go out for a beer later with the boys,” she calls back.

  I spit and rinse. Shutting the bathroom door, I hop in the shower.

  Half an hour later, I’m shaved to within an inch of my life. Legs, bikini, and underarms are all baby smooth. I dry off and apply my body lotion. Then, I pull on some shorts and a tank.

  I come out of the bathroom with a towel on my head. “I’m all yours.”

  I pick my phone up, and I sit down at our makeshift dressing table, which is actually a desk with a mirror propped against it, and I check my messages.

  There’s one from Carrick.

  How did the shopping go?

  I got a dress and shoes. ☺

  Glad to hear it. I’ll pick you up at 7:30 p.m.

  See you then. x

  I hit Send before I realize that I put a kiss at the end. Why did I do that? Oh God, what if he gets the wrong idea and thinks—

  Oh, whatever, I really need to stop worrying and just enjoy myself.

  “Ready?” Petra stands behind me with a hairdryer in one hand and a makeup bag in the other.

  “Ready.” I smile back.

  “What do you think?”

  “Petra…I love it.” I smile back at my reflection, touching a hand to my hair.

  She has done an amazing job. My hair is in loose waves down my back, and my makeup is neutral and pretty.

  “Are you professionally trained?” I ask her.

  “No, but my mum is a stylist. You pick things up.”

  My mother’s a model, and the only thing I picked up was her good genes.

  “Well, thank you, Petra’s mum. Actually, what time is it?” I glance at my phone. “Shit! It’s twenty past seven. Carrick will be here in ten minutes.”

  Grabbing the dress and my new underwear set, I go into the bathroom.

  Yes, I bought new underwear. Petra talked me into it. She said I needed it to go with the dress. It’s red and pretty, tasteful and not slutty—not that anyone but me will be seeing it.

  Ripping the tags from the bra and knickers, I quickly put them on. Then, I slip into the dress, pulling the zipper up as far as I can.

  I come out of the bathroom. “Petra, can you zip me up the rest of the way?”

  I move my hair over my shoulder, out of the way, while Petra zips me up, and I put on the earrings I bought.

  “Done.”

  “Thanks.” I grab my perfume and spritz myself with it.

  “Shoes.” She hands them over.

  I slip my feet into them, taking a moment to steady my balance. We went for three-inch heels—I talked her down from four—but I still feel like a giant.

  “Do I look too tall?”

  “You look stunning.” Taking me by the shoulders, she turns me to the mirror.

  Wow. Is that me? I look good—no, not good. I look hot. I look like my mother when she was my age.

  I smile at Petra in the mirror. “Thanks for your help. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” My eyes catch on the necklace that Carrick bought me.

  No matter how much I love it, I can’t turn up at a fancy party wearing a Lightning McQueen necklace. I don’t want to embarrass Carrick. Unclipping it, I carefully place it in my vanity bag for safekeeping.

  There’s a knock at the door. I glance back at it, butterflies swooping full-force into my stomach.

  “You want me to get it, or you?” Petra asks.

  “You. Me.”

  “Any decision on that?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’ll get it.” I walk the short distance across our room to the door, my hands trembling a little. I’m surprised at how nervous I am. I feel like it’s a first date.

  Not a date, Andi. Just two friends going out together.

  Hand curled around the handle, I pull it open.

  Carrick. Holy shit. He looks…amazing. Gorgeous. He’s wearing a tux. Jesus, my ovaries have just started doing cartwheels, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve just ruined my new undies.

  “Fuck…” he breathes. “You look…” He slowly shakes his head. “Actually, there aren’t any words to describe how you look right now.”

  Okay…

  “So, is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?” I fidget nervously, smoothing a hand down my dress.

  “Every fuck is a good fuck, Andressa—at least with me it is.”

  His eyes do that lazy perusal of me that has me hot in all the right places. When they meet back with mine, they are…blazing hot.

  “It’s a really, really good fuck. Put it this way, every man in the room—actually, every man in the world is gonna wish they were me tonight.”

  “Really?” I blush.

  He steps cl
oser, his fingers skimming my jaw. “Really. You look stunning, Andressa. Absolutely stunning.”

  My blush deepens at his compliment. And my jaw is still tingling from where he just touched me.

  “You ready to go? I have a car waiting downstairs.”

  “Uh, yeah, I just need my clutch.”

  As I turn, I find Petra behind me, clutch in hand.

  “Thanks.” I smile, taking it from her.

  “Hi, Carrick.” There’s a grin in her voice.

  I give her a look before turning back to him.

  “Petra,” he says.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say to her, stepping out into the hallway.

  “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  I lift a hand, waving to her, and Carrick and I start to walk down the hall.

  “And if you can’t keep it in, then keep it covered!” she calls.

  I nearly die with embarrassment. I swing a murderous look at her, but all I get back is laughter.

  Carrick chuckles.

  We reach the elevator and wait in silence for it to arrive.

  When the door opens, Carrick lets me go in first. Stepping in, he presses the button for the ground floor and stands beside me.

  “You’re not wearing your necklace,” he comments.

  My eyes swing to him as my hand touches the empty space. “I took it off. I thought I should at least pretend to be a grown-up tonight. And…I didn’t want to embarrass you by wearing it.”

  He looks at me like I’ve just lost my mind. There’s something deep and dark in his eyes. “I bought you the damn thing. And the last thing you could ever do is embarrass me.”

  I nervously swallow down. “I can put it back on if you want. It’s just up in my room.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He stares ahead. “Just don’t ever take it off for that reason. I always want you to be who you are. Don’t ever try to be someone you’re not. I happen to really fucking like who you are.”

  We arrive at the ground floor, and I’m glad. After that comment, I was pretty sure a vacuum came in and sucked all the air out of the elevator, leaving me gasping for breath.

  Carrick guides me through the lobby with a hand on my back. We step out into the warm evening air, and a car is waiting for us. The driver opens the car door as we approach. I climb in first, and Carrick gets in beside me.

  It’s not until we’re in traffic that I remember I still have his credit card.

  “Oh, here’s your card back.” Getting it from my clutch, I hand it to him. “And thank you for the dress,” I add.

  His eyes skim down my body, and I have to stop from squirming under his perusal.

  “It was worth every penny.”

  I blush again. I really need to stop with that.

  We arrive at the event. Carrick offers me his hand to help me out of the car, which I’m grateful for. It’s an awful lot easier to get in this car than out of it in this dress and shoes.

  “Thanks,” I murmur as he closes the door behind us.

  Then, he does something that surprises me. He takes hold of my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

  Maybe it is. He does spend a lot of time with women. He’s probably done it without realizing.

  So, I don’t question it, or what the tingling sensation in my body means either.

  I feel him rub his thumb over my hand, and then he lifts it, looking at it.

  “I had a manicure,” I explain, knowing why he’s staring at my hand with interest.

  He smiles softly. “Looks pretty.”

  And I’m mush on the floor. Just a big pile of girlie goo.

  Once we’re inside, I glance around, taking in my surroundings.

  The venue itself screams fancy. And it’s filled wall-to-wall with beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes, women with jewelry dripping off of them like ice. Everyone exudes wealth.

  This is the glamorous side of Formula 1 that I don’t usually see, and I feel a little out of my depth.

  Carrick grabs us a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “Let the crazy begin.” He chinks his glass with mine.

  And crazy is right because that is the only quiet moment we have together—or I should say him. The moment people see he’s arrived, they’re on him like bees on honey.

  It’s interesting to watch how he is with these people—charming with the females, of course, but he’s guarded, not the relaxed guy I spend my time with. He’s more serious, focused, like he feels he has something to prove. Maybe he does.

  All I know is I’m glad he’s not this Carrick with me, that he feels he can be himself with me.

  I’ve been working my way through some serious glasses of champagne, which keep magically appearing in my hand. After making as much small talk with strangers that I can manage, I excuse myself to the restroom.

  When I come back to the party, Carrick is talking with an attractive blonde. He’s wearing that gorgeous flirty smile of his. And he looks very interested in whatever it is she is saying.

  A flash of jealousy hits me. Hard.

  Annoyed with myself for feeling that way, I decide to leave Carrick to his conversation, and I head to the bar.

  I want to order beer, but all the women here are drinking wine or champagne or fancy-looking cocktails. I don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb with a bottle of Bud in hand, so when the bartender asks for my drink order, I ask for champagne. Might as well continue on as I’ve been going.

  “If you wanted a drink, you should have come and told me. I would have gotten you one.”

  I jolt at Carrick’s voice beside me.

  I slide a glance at him. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Shit, that came out sounding a lot like jealousy. And I really didn’t mean it to. Did I?

  A grin edges his lips. “I wasn’t busy. And you’re always a welcome interruption. You know that.”

  The bartender puts my drink on the bar. Carrick hands him his credit card before I get a chance to pay.

  “Jameson on the rocks, please, mate.”

  I frown at him. In response to my frown, I get, “Andressa, I don’t take a woman out and expect her to get her own drinks.”

  “That’s what you would do on a date. This isn’t a date,” I remind him.

  The bartender puts a whiskey down in front of Carrick.

  He picks it up, holding the glass near his lips. “Maybe not, but I’m still buying your drinks. End of.”

  “Neanderthal.”

  He snorts.

  Did I mention he was drinking whiskey at the time?

  “Shit, it’s gone up my nose!” He winces, cupping his nose with his hand.

  The sight of him, all handsome in his tux with whiskey dripping down his chin, is one I’ll always remember.

  Laughing, I grab a napkin from the bar and pass it to him.

  “Thanks.” He dries off and then shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Fuck, that felt weird.”

  He grins that boyish grin of his at me, and it punches me in the chest, leaving me feeling momentarily breathless.

  “Anyway, where were we?”

  “I called you a Neanderthal, and you snorted whiskey up your nose.”

  “Thanks for the thorough recap.” His blue, blue eyes sparkle at me under the lights of the bar. “I’ve been called things before but never a caveman.”

  Putting my glass down on the granite, I rest my elbow on it. Chin in my hand, I stare up at him. “What do you usually get called?”

  “Do you mean before or after sex?”

  My face immediately flushes. I’m not a prude—I work with rowdy, oversexed men all day long—but Carrick just talks so openly about sex in a one-on-one way that I’ve never known before.

  It always sounds so intimate when he talks about it.

  Or maybe it sounds intimate because the sex he talks about, I want him to be having with me.

  “You’re blushing.” His fingertips
touch my cheek. “Have I embarrassed you?”

  “Nope.” Moving my head back, I pick my glass up and take a gulp of champagne. Then, I straighten up, resting my side against the bar. “Before sex?”

  “Sex god. Stud. Fuck-me-baby-use-that-big-cock-of-yours-on-me-show-me-the-stories-about-you-are-true.”

  Okay, I’m definitely blushing now, and there’s no hiding it.

  “I get the point,” I say, lifting a hand to cut him off, to which he chuckles. “And what do you get called after sex?”

  He looks away from me to stare at the sea of people before us. His expression turns…changing to something I don’t understand.

  “Bastard. Arsehole. Selfish-arrogant-prick-who’ll-one-day-be-a-washed-up-race-car-driver-who-no-one-cares-to-remember.”

  I feel the air shift, the temperature in the room dropping a few hundred degrees, and I realize that he means it. He really believes what he just said.

  This beautiful talented man thinks he’ll end up alone.

  I stare at him, stunned. How is it even possible he thinks that?

  Carrick’s eyes are now currently trained on his drink, like he thinks all the answers he seeks are in there, and he just looks so goddamn lonely that I want to wrap my arms around him.

  But I can’t.

  So, I attempt to make him feel better in the only way I can right now—humor.

  I put my glass down. “Well, that’s bullshit because I’ll remember you.”

  His eyes lift from his whiskey. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I won’t be able to forget you because we’ll have been married and divorced twice, and you’ll still be in my life because we’ll have kids whom you pay a hefty child support for. And I’ll feel sorry for you because, by that point, you’ll have aged really badly, after getting kind of ugly and fat, so I’ll give you a sympathy shag every now and then.”

  “You paint quite the picture.”

  “It’s a talent.” I shrug.

  “So, married…twice?”

  “Yep, you bought me the second time as I’d burned through all the millions you gave me from our first divorce.” I lift my glass, taking a sip of champagne.

  “And how did I get you the first time?”

  “Sex. I was young and naive.” I grin, expecting him to smile back, but he’s not.