by Teagan Kade
“And what’s that?”
“Competition.”
Sara sees my expression. “We’re not talking about Formula One any more, are we?”
“No, we are not.”
She laughs. “You really think I’d go for him, for Heinz?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
She laughs harder. “Have you seen his girlfriend? Just...no. Nopey nope nope.”
“Not even a rub-and-tug?”
“Not even a kiss.”
“But we’ve kissed, haven’t we?”
She nods. “We have.”
Here we go. “Why are you so reluctant to take it further then?”
This is the litmus test. Either she trusts me here or she doesn’t. Thankfully, she chooses the latter. “I suppose I don’t want to be another page in the Andy Fortes fuckbook.”
“I don’t have one, you know, so we’re clear.”
“I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“I know, but you’re wrong. You’re different. You’re intelligent, smart. You’re beautiful. It’s more than T&A—all of which is incredible, I’ll add. Sounds cliché as shit, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
There’s the smallest hint of a smile as she peeks out at me from that disco curtain of hair. “Even on the track?”
“Even on the track.”
“Might explain your losses.”
I place my fingers against hers, the lightest of contact charged. “Or my gain.”
“I like this,” she nods.
“What’s that?”
“The open, honest Andy.”
“As opposed to the arrogant asshole?”
“I’m sure Arrogant Andy’s great in the sack, but at times like these I like being able to confide.”
“Confide? You’ve got something to share?”
She gets serious. “We’ve both got a lot to lose here. I know what the championship means to you, what being part of Ferrari would mean, and I really want it for you, but you’re still trailing.”
I down the shot. “Gee, thanks for the pep talk. And you, what do you have to lose?”
“A career I’ve worked tirelessly for. You’ve got your job. I’ve got mine. We both want to be the best, but we’re tied together in this.”
I smile. “I’d love to be tied to you. Just say the word.”
She smiles back. “Hello, Asshole Andy. Did you see Honest Andy on your way out?”
Her phone goes off. She checks it. “One second. Gotta make a call, sorry.”
“At this hour?”
“New York—the city that never sleeps.”
“Fancy a nightcap?”
“If by nightcap you mean sex, then no, sorry.” She sees the disappointment. “But, keep Honest Andy around and he might get lucky.”
It’s all the jerk-off encouragement I need.
*
The heat of a Hungarian summer is getting to a lot of the drivers, but I’m weather-proof. They breed us hard in Texas. Flip me over and I probably have a brand on my ass.
Qualifying’s a walk in the park. It’s a slow track, but it’s physical. I pole easily, Carl slipping to third after running afoul off Turn Two. It’s a rookie mistake.
It would have been interesting to race here behind the Iron Curtain. Even today the track offers a no-compromise approach. It’s narrow, twisty and usually dusty, real desert-racing stuff even after the Hungaroring was modified in 2003 to allow more passing.
With the PR storm blown over and Sara nearby, I feel invincible. Carl tries countless times to pass, but I manage to hold him off. We both share the same pit strategy, vital to winning the Hungarian Grand Prix, which means it’s down to driving—pure and simple. I remain bullish, aggressive, holding position.
On the last lap, a slow runner blocks Carl’s path. I see him caught in the rear-view, uncharacteristically missing the chicane and sent almost parallel to the track. He pulls the car under control, but it’s more luck than skill. Poor bastard has to settle for third. Ferrari takes second. I’ve never been so happy to stand beside an Italian.
Sara smiles on from below the podium and I’m tempted to drop down there and sweep her up in my arms. Fuck what the press thinks.
Problem is, I still trail Carl by three points. It’s not much, but it means he’s on top. Still, if I can keep this form up, I’ll be untouchable. Andy Fortes is fucking back, baby.
I head to the pits expecting to find Sara, but Steven’s the only one waiting out back. “Congratulations.”
“Like you care.”
“Enjoy the win, Andy. It’s going to be your last.”
Asshole. I grin. “Like I said before, let’s see, shall we?”
It concerns me Steven is still smiling as I walk back into the garage. Something’s up. I can usually see these things coming, but I can’t tell with Steven. The fucker wants me gone. Question is, how far is he willing to go?
*
There’s quite the collection of characters at the after-party, everything set in a ballroom that would make Putin himself proud. Russia, Hungary—after my third drink I’m starting to lose track of where the hell I am.
Even inside it’s hot. I kind of wish I’d hit up that water park at the track. I get lost daydreaming about Sara in a bikini—maybe just the bottoms.
She’s notably absent tonight. Without her I feel afloat in an ocean of sharks. Steven’s over to the left, Stacey to the right, hungry journalists waiting behind me. I’m stuck in the Bermuda Fucking Triangle. Thank god there’s a bar in the middle of this ocean.
I order another, the bartender happy to help—maybe a little too eager to help given the way he’s looking at my chest underneath this sand suit.
I text Sara: Where are you?
No response.
I won today, yes, but I don’t feel elation. I’m not leading the championship. Carl’s snatching my dream right out of my hands, the dream I’ve slaved for, gone up to bat for and brushed off a dozen wannabes for. Formula One might seem glamourous on the outside, but dig deep into its core and it is as corrupt and political as any other organization.
By the time Sara does arrive I’m six drinks down and seeing people in threes.
Holy fuck she looks hot tonight. I think I tell her this.
“You okay, Andy?” she replies.
I lean against the bar, the ship I’m on suddenly tilting to the side. “Never been better.”
I turn to my bartender friend, but he holds a hand up. “Sajnalom, my friend.” He and Sara share a look. They’re cutting me off.
I turn back to Sara. “I’m ready to take you three to bed. Just say the word.”
“You’re drunk, Andy.”
I reach down and grab my dick. “Hey, I can still get it up, baby.”
You’re killing this, I tell myself. You’re in.
Sara comes closer. She smells like flowers, a summer garden. “Andy, you won today. Celebrate, sure, but this is taking it too far.”
I point at her face. It’s so pretty. “Did I win? Who is the real winner here? The Illuminati? They control the racing, you know. Little green men.”
She’s trying to stifle laughter. I honestly have no idea why. I’m dead serious here.
She takes my arm. “My god, we’ve got to get you out of here before you drop your pants or something.”
I start to unbuckle my belt. It’s a damn good idea. Carl, Steven, and I can have a cock-off.
She grabs my hands, pushing me up against the bar and looking around nervously.
I gaze down. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Work me.”
“I don’t think you could even work yourself at the moment.”
I lay the charm on thick. “Is that what you like, to watch? I can arrange that.”
I’ve got to get these pants off, I think.
I sway a little and correct myself. Damn swell’s picking up, this boat’s really rockin.
“You want to know something, Sa-ra,” I tell her.
She looks to
the roof. “Help me.”
I run my hand down her arm, a little clunky but it will do. “I could marry you. You’re marriage material.”
She’s smiling. Boom! “You’re proposing to me now?”
“You want me to tell everyone?” I’ve always wanted to stand on a bar, make a big public display of affection like my man R. Gere.
Best idea you’ve ever had.
I start to hoist myself up, but she’s pulling me back. I go to shout out my undying love when she places her hand over my mouth.
“We’ve really got to get you out of here. Come on.”
She starts to drag me through the crowd. I smile at people but they’re giving me the oddest looks in return.
It’s a little cooler out of the ballroom, the hallway no less stable under my feet. I hold the wall for support. I kiss it. “I love you, wall.”
Sara’s muttering something beside me, tugging me towards a taxi out front.
I think the car’s moving. Can’t be sure. Sara’s talking. I can hear the words, but I’m not really listening. I’m busy thinking of all the ways I’m going to charm her panties off when we get to the hotel.
And them, bam, the taxi turns into another hallway.
“You know what,” she’s saying. “If you weren’t completely hammered I may have actually considered sleeping with you tonight. Might have even been a blowjob in it for you.”
My ears prick up. “You’re going to blow me?”
“Blow you over perhaps. You can barely stand. You won’t remember any of this in the morning, which is just as well. So, let me tell you this.” She’s talking to the elevator doors. I reach out and brace myself. The fucking room is moving.
“I think,” she continues, “god knows why, I’m developing feelings for you.”
I ignore her, the walls closing in. It’s fucking terrifying.
“You’re out of control, a complete asshole most of the time and I’m seriously going to get burnt, but still.”
Incredibly, we’ve somehow teleported into my hotel room, but we’re still wearing clothes. What’s up with that? I tell Sara as much.
She runs a finger down the front of her dress and draws a figure eight around a breast. “Sorry, but all this is off limits tonight.” She’s enjoying this. “I left all that drunken fumbling behind in junior high.”
I reach out to touch her, but she’s not there.
I stagger backwards. “Holy shit. You’re a ghost!”
She laughs. “Demi Moore I am not, and I’m going.”
I step in front of her. “Ah, no.”
“Ah, yes.”
I block the hallway with my arm.
“Stop,” she says, two hands against my chest.
I take them by the wrists and draw them away. It feels good to touch her again. “Let me pass.”
She darts around me, but I manage to get in front of her. My senses are slow and sluggish, my head watery and muddled. All I really want to do is lie down.
“Why don’t you go get some rest?” she tells me.
“Rest?” I laugh, but it’s not a bad suggestion. Way back in that caveman brain it drums against my skull: Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
I know I’m drunk, but I’m hard. I could take her right now.
You can’t even find your way to your hotel room let alone her hole.
Something’s speaking sense inside me, but it still doesn’t stop me blurting out a single sentence of all the things I’d like to do to her.
“Whipped cream?” she laughs. “Really? Maybe later. For now, follow me and try sleeping this off. The last thing I need is Goodall’s star driver slurring his words at the morning press conference.
I jump on the spot. “I’m a star!” I don’t even know what I’m saying. “I point to what I think is my chest but is probably my eye. “But I’m hot right, like really, really sexy, yeah?”
“Whatever you say, big boy.” She spins me around, pushing me forward. “Walk.”
The last thing I remember is her trying to pull my pants off, lifting my legs into bed. I’m sure she kisses me on the forehead, like a mother would, before whispering in my ear things that would make even a hooker blush.
I may be drunk, but I’m still headboard hard when my eyelids close over.
CHAPTER TWELVE: GERMANY
Sara
Germany—Home turf for Team Goodall and all the company players are here to keep an eye on their investment. I visited Berlin on my whirlwind European tour a few years ago. There was something about the order of the place I found appealing, the efficiency of it all so seemingly lacking back home.
“Say it again?” I laugh.
“Hockenheium and the Hockenheimring,” says Andy, accentuating all the wrong syllables. I’m sitting on the side of his bed not even bothering to avert my eyes from his sculpted chest and hard biceps. Bathed in morning light, he’d give Adonis a run for his money any day.
I point to the tat on his arm, two pistons rising through fire. “Why the tat?”
“Power.”
“An electrical outlet would have worked.”
“Ah, but it wouldn’t look hella cool, now would it?”
Suppose not.
He runs his finger up my arm, the hairs on it backlit golden in the sun and rising to his touch. Given the tent forming under the bedsheets, they’re not the only thing rising.
It’s time, Sara.
I’m about to lie down beside him when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.
I place the phone to my ear. “Sara speaking.”
“Sara.”
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry to call you like this, baby.” As soon as those words are out I know it can’t be good news. “It’s your grandmother.”
The color leaves my face. Andy sees it, sitting up.
“Mom?”
I can hear the composure break on Mom’s end, her voice cracking. “She passed away, hon, last night.”
I can’t believe it. Nan was eighty-eight, yes, but she was the picture of health. “How?”
“In her sleep, peacefully, but I don’t know what to do, Sara. I just don’t know.”
I look to Andy. “I’m coming home. I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Honey, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, Mom. I do.”
I hang up, staring at the phone screen like it’s going to shoot out life’s mysteries to me.
Andy’s face is full of concern. “I’m sorry.”
I wipe away a tear, try and pull myself to order. Mom worked a lot of late shifts growing up. It would always be Nan looking after Gretch and me, feeding us. God how I’ve missed a decent home-cooked meal. And now she’s gone, like that. A light switched off never to shine again.
Andy reaches to the phone by the bedside. “I’ll make arrangements.”
*
Our Lady of Saints in Millertown isn’t the most upscale hospital, not that I enjoy spending time at any kind of medical establishment. They’re taking forever to release the paperwork and Mom’s a wreck beside me. I’m barely holding it together myself, but I’ve got to be strong, for her.
The TV in the waiting room is tiny, precariously hanging from the roof. It’s playing a re-run of the race in Germany. In pole position, the race works for Andy from the get-go. Carl’s on him, but there’s little chance for a passing maneuver given the tight way Andy is driving. For a second it looks like Carl might have him coming out of the hairpin, but Andy shunts right and shuts him out. He’s in form, easily taking the win.
I step out into the hall and dial his number. I need to take my mind off things.
“Did you see the race?” It’s nice to hear his voice.
There’s hustle and bustle in the background, people firing questions at him. “I did. Well done. This puts you in the championship lead, right?”
“It does.”
“You sound happy.”
“I am, and I know you’re over there dealing with some tough stuff, but
everything’s under control here. I want you to know that. I called Caliber and they’ve arranged all the formal wear for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“The after-party.”
I shake my head. “Right. I’m still a little jet-lagged, sorry.”
“Get some rest, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“How’s your mom holding up?”
I look to the doorway, can hear Mom sobbing in the waiting room. “She’s been better.”
“Give her my condolences.”
“I will.”
“Talk later?”
“Of course.”
I look at the phone wishing I could somehow make him materialize beside me, to lose myself in him, to feel his arms wrapping around me strong and protective.
I take my seat back in the waiting room. “Work, sorry.”
Mom looks at me with red eyes. “Are you enjoying it?” she asks. “I never thought my baby would be jet-setting around the world living such a glamorous life.”
“It’s not all glamorous, Mom.”
She looks at me a little harder and I crack, the first smile in days lighting my face. “Okay, it’s pretty glamorous.”
She sniffs, cheering up on the change of subject if only momentarily. “And the men? Anything catch your eye?”
“Mom,” I scold.
She waves her hand around. “This… thing with your grandmother has put it all in perspective, Sara. Is it wrong for a mother to want her daughter to be happy, to settle down and pop out some grandkids?”
“You make birth sound like baking cookies.”
She laughs and it’s so good to see her smiling. “I’ve only done it twice, and trust me, there were no cookies. But really, there must be someone, no?
I keep smiling. Damn it, I can’t help it. “Maybe one guy.”
She taps the side of her head. “I see. Keeping it quiet from your prying mother. Well, just let me know when Mr. Mystery is ready to meet me. I need a good excuse to pull out the silverware.”
“We’re a long way away from marriage, an SUV and a couple of kids, Mom.”
“I’m just happy you’ve met someone.”
I stare at the wall, thinking. Andy Fortes—marriage material? The idea would have seemed so ludicrous at the start of the season, but more and more I see the man behind the mask, the caring and compassionate man. That arrogant asshole the world sees? He’s still there, but Andy Fortes is more than a big cock—as alluring as that has become. He’s complex, layers and layers to be explored, to be loved.