High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  Her childhood had been the complete opposite. None of this jack-of-all-trades stuff. She’d been dedicated to school and, from age seven, to ballet. She had choreographed simple routines to pretty much every song she’d heard. The competition had been fierce, her muscles had ached every night, she hadn’t been able to wear sandals in public, her summer holidays had been swallowed up by training, but it’d all been worth it when she’d executed a perfect triple pirouette before everyone else in her class. It had given her life structure. And it had balanced out her tomboyish tendencies resulting from Liam and Dad’s influence and their love of cars.

  At fifteen her father had died, and six months later, just after her sixteenth birthday, she’d taken stock of the depth of her desire, the level of her technique, the reality of how likely a professional ballet contract was, and had decided she'd prefer to direct her attention to something she had more control over—a career as a psychologist, or maybe a journalist, or maybe, both. Her bereaved mother told her it was all okay.

  She hadn’t even had a real physical reason to give up ballet like many other dancers who’d suffered strained hips, warped feet, twisted spines. It was all in her mind. It had seemed like the right decision, and the only decision, at the time. But she’d never felt as grounded since she’d given up the rigors of the dance.

  Mack may be the bane of her existence right now, but the way he pushed her was a good thing, something she’d perhaps be grateful for later. Besides, she’d had worse bosses before, paying lower salaries. This was a test she was going pass, with flying colors.

  • • •

  Viv left the hotel after dinner and went for a long walk by the garages, on the lookout for some engineers, or anyone, to interview for her latest BBC website article, “The Men Behind the Machines.” She was determined to come up with a piece to knock Mack sideways.

  Most of the garages were still lit approaching 10:00 p.m. Some doors were open, letting in the cooler night breeze. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the Gatari garage. Her last-ditch, stupid hope, which she could barely even admit to herself, was that she’d catch Adam Fontaine in a rare talkative mood. Maybe in the week since she’d seen him, he’d strayed to the BBC website and seen her articles on other drivers and realized she wasn’t illiterate, brainless, or out to ruin him in some way.

  She peeped in through the open door. To her surprise, the place was crowded. To her even greater surprise, the male-female ratio hovered suspiciously around the fifty-fifty mark. Precious little work was being done. And there was no sign of Adam.

  A buxom blonde draped her tattooed leg around the engineer nearest the door with his back to Viv. The blonde caught Viv’s eye with a speculative look as if to say, “come join the fun.” The engineer paused in his beer drinking and twisted around with an indulgent grin plastered across his features. His face dropped when he saw Viv.

  She looked away hurriedly, turning her attention to another engineer, a young Japanese man she remembered from the pit stops during the race, now leaning into the GTX’s cockpit. Judging by his repetitive hand motions, she reckoned he was using a screwdriver, until he moved position and she saw it was a giggling woman sitting in the cockpit that he’d been working on.

  Viv was poised to leave when someone slid up from behind and tapped her on the shoulder. She yelped and whipped around. Reece stood there, gripping a bottle of pink vodka, grinning down at her. “Whoops, where are you off to?” he asked.

  “I’m—I was going to interview the Gatari engineering team, but looks like I’ve come at a bad time.”

  “This is a splendid time to come”—Reece waved his hand at the amorous scene—“as it were.” At least four engineers were paired off from where Viv was standing, and they were getting raunchier by the second.

  He edged closer. “In fact, I’m feeling kind of left out here.”

  She recognized one of the grid girls she’d seen him with after the race. “You brought these women here, didn’t you?”

  “They came of their own accord.”

  “But this isn’t your garage.”

  “I know, but these boys deserve some fun, too. You see, there we were, strolling by, and we looked in here and saw the crew slaving away. These wonderful, caring women felt all sorry for them. What could I do? They tore themselves away from me and ran to them, like Florence Nightingales to wounded soldiers on the battlefield.”

  “When Adam sees what they’re up to, I fear they will be wounded,” she muttered.

  “Are you still talking about him?” He came close enough for her to smell his vodka breath, and he caressed her cheek. She fought not to flinch. “What is this unhealthy fascination with him? You deserve so much better.”

  “It’s my job to be fascinated … with all kinds—for better or worse.”

  Reece flicked a damp lock of hair off his forehead. “Come on, babe, let me show you what a massage in a Jacuzzi can do to a tense body.” His arm slid between her shoulder blades where, in fact, she was rather tense, and his big paw there was multiplying the tension. “I guarantee you’ll find it fascinating.”

  A svelte brunette in a tight, leather miniskirt and matching purple eye shadow and lipstick slid up to them and ran her fingers along Reece’s arm. She gave Viv a sultry look.

  “Take Florence here instead,” Viv said.

  She turned and walked into the darkness, speeding up as she went. She glanced back to see whether she was safe. The scene in the garage unsettled her—it amounted to a twisted form of sabotage. The last thing a Formula One driver needed was a team of engineers with emotional issues, or with slow reactions. Reece definitely wasn’t supposed to be there. And Adam needed to know.

  • • •

  The odor of sweat greeted Adam as he entered the hotel gym next morning at seven, the place already teeming with drivers and their trainers. He’d normally arrive earlier, when it was cool and empty, but a long session discussing the GTX’s load balancing with Bruce last night had set him back an hour or two.

  He warmed up for twenty minutes on the treadmill and made his way over to the weights. He’d concentrate on the deltoid muscles today.

  To his irritation, Reece hovered around near the shoulder press machines he wanted to use. His former teammate wasn’t in the habit of hitting the gym until well after breakfast.

  “You’re early,” Adam said, sitting down at the machine, setting the weight to 50 kilos and grabbing the side handles. He didn’t want to start a conversation, but the Supernova driver being silent and moody was even more unnerving than him just being his normal, irritating self.

  Reece took the identical machine right beside him and adopted a starting pose in silence. Adam stole a glance. Reece had set his machine to 50 kilos as well.

  So he was going to play that game, was he? Adam increased his own setting to 60 kilos. Never mind that his limit was 55.

  Reece slid him a look and did the same.

  Adam braced his shoulders and regulated his breathing, trying to find inner peace. He’d need it for 60. And Jedi-like strength. Focus.

  “I had a hot date last night,” Reece announced loudly.

  Damn, his concentration was broken. “Well there’s a surprise.” Whatever made Reece think he might actually be interested? He exhaled, extending his arms, pushing up the incredibly resistant handles, his jaw clenching with effort, knuckles whitening, triceps screaming. Quarter way … halfway …

  “With Viv McCloud.”

  Adam’s arm muscles slackened, he slumped forward, and the weight plummeted down with an almighty clang.

  Reece laughed. “What’s wrong, mon frère? She told me last night that you didn’t even want to talk to her.”

  “She said that?” He tightened his grip around the handles again, let out a grunt and pressed the weight up halfway, then fully. It hurt like hell, and he almost blacked out with the effort. The weight came crashing down again. But he’d done it. He grabbed his towel and buried his pumping head in it.

 
When he looked up, Reece was still eyeing him. “Yeah. She did. And I said, ‘Why Viv, that sounds very much in character, why don’t you come out with me and I’ll talk to you,’ and she did. Simple as that.” Reece’s mocking grin widened, and he extended his arms halfway. The veins in his forehead protruded with the effort, and he let the weight slam down to base. “Holy fuck.”

  Adam sat back, folding his aching arms. “What’s wrong, Reece? Can’t get it up?”

  Reece panted a few breaths. “Oh, ha, ha, Fontaine. How I miss your razor-sharp wit. At least I know where to put it when it’s up.” He took a slurp of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and shot Adam a smug, challenging look.

  Adam answered by walking off to a different machine. Goddamn it, did she sleep with him after all? It was getting harder these days to tell when Reece was bluffing. It wasn’t yet half past seven and his day was totally ruined.

  Chapter 7

  “Fontaine conquers Bahrain!”

  He’d won. His first Grand Prix. By four seconds. Adam stood bewildered on the podium, hardly able to remember the events that had brought him here, Maddux Bates on his left, Dave Anderson on his right, Reece nowhere to be seen. The relief this win brought was a mighty burden lifted from his shoulders. He felt lightheaded. He lifted the bottle high.

  Eddie—can you see this?

  Crowds stormed around them, faces, arms, cameras, microphones and smartphones all pointing toward him, all wanting a piece. Crazy. But all that mattered were those blessed twenty-five points.

  He squirted champagne over the others, and they reciprocated. His father used to say that champagne had no other uses—better dripping in it than drinking it, since it was only red wine that counted. Specifically, his red wine, the Fontaine Cabernet. Well, here’s to you, Dad.

  “Smile!” shouted a platinum blond reporter, grabbing his attention with a low-cut T-shirt. You didn’t see much of that in Bahrain—most women possessed at least a modicum of cultural sensitivity. He raised the bottle again in a salute to her. She’d better cover up or risk a host of men gawking after her.

  “Fontaine, where’s your party tonight?” Maddux Bates asked as they stepped down from the podium. Security personnel made their path through the crowds possible. The Texan wiped the French bubbles from his chin stubble. “Man, we haven’t talked in ages.”

  “It’ll be low key. Flying to the States tomorrow. It’s my chance to see my sister.”

  “Yeah, it sure will be great to be back. I’m going to hang around another day or two here though, before I head back to Texas.”

  “How’s Brynn?” Adam asked, referring to Bates’s woman.

  “Pretty good.” A contented look traversed the Texan’s face. “Her new gig’s going well. We’re happy.” He shot Adam the look—the what-about-you look—which Adam ignored.

  “So, small, little, microscopic party, huh?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  Bates clapped him on the back. “Fontaine, if you don’t party now, when are you gonna party?”

  “Monte Carlo. Final race. Consider yourself invited.”

  Adam broke away from the crowd under the cover of a bunch of security guys and made a beeline for the hospitality tent. Halfway there he was surrounded by his team of jubilant engineers.

  “Nice work,” Bruce said, clapping him on the shoulder and removing the champagne bottle from his hand. His face grew serious. “Reece is stirring up some shit—claiming our car’s illegal. He’s got nothing though. Charles is talking to the race scrutineers as we speak.”

  “What? You’re joking.”

  “’Fraid not. But we’re okay. It’s a bluff. Chad’s up there fighting our case.”

  “Reece is unbelievable.”

  An American reporter came up and shoved a microphone under Adam’s nose. “Thoughts on Reece’s challenge to your win?”

  Bruce tried to wave the reporter aside.

  “No, I got this.” Adam leaned into the microphone and paused to find the most eloquent way of expressing how he felt about this. “Reece is talking through his ass. Our car conforms to all regulations. To the letter.”

  “But the Supernova team is saying you deploy front-to-rear suspension that violates the regulation on moveable aerodynamic devices.” The reporter’s voice hummed with excitement.

  “Yes, and I know Supernova is not running it this race, but that doesn’t make ours illegal,” he said. “If and when the rules change, we’ll adapt. In the meantime, Reece Marlowe should look more carefully at the rules and less at our car.”

  The reporter started to ask another question, but Adam held up his arms to ward him off.

  He strode on, Bruce shuffling beside him. Up on the big screens, the brief interview was being played back at full stadium-level volume, and some enterprising producer thought it hilarious to put the words “Reece is talking through his ass” on a repeat loop. The rest of the interview was, of course, forgotten.

  “You told ’em,” Bruce said. “But I sure don’t like the look of that crowd.”

  Adam didn’t like the look of them either, crammed into the nearest grandstand he’d have to pass to get to the exit. Brits mainly. A high quotient of British ex-pats lived here in Bahrain, many of them F1 supporters. And today their golden boy, Reece, had been beaten, pushed off his first place position on the table, and they weren’t taking too kindly to it. They were bad losers just like their poster boy.

  They waved their Union Jacks in a choppy sea of protest against his win, as if he were to blame for Reece’s inferior driving today. The crowd cast garbage items, empty lunch sacks, beer cans, all aimed at Adam, most of them landing just beyond the wire fence at the front of the stand. “It’s the bad old seventies all over again,” Bruce said.

  “Who do they think is going to clear that mess up?” Adam stopped walking and turned to the offending grandstand. He was still being followed on camera, and his face appeared up on all nearby screens. The Reece supporters went into a frenzy of rage.

  Bruce tugged on his arm. “Fuck’s sake, mate. Either smile or keep your head down—don’t … stare.”

  “What? You want me to look intimidated by—?”

  Then something hard—something fast—smashed into the side of Adam’s head, and blackness took over his vision. He stumbled, reaching forward. His knees buckled, and he lurched through space, the ground flying up toward him. The suit cushioned the blow for most of his body, but his head whacked against hard concrete.

  The impact left him motionless for a second, and all he could think was my eyes, my eyes!

  Through a series of painful stabs he heard crowd noises—jeering, hissing, booing. He raised his head inch by inch, and felt a surge of relief as his vision cleared. He could see well enough to watch his green helmet roll away a few feet in front of him and come to a wobbling halt in a puddle of brown oil. He reached out for it but missed.

  “Adam, mate?” He felt Bruce’s arms tugging under his armpits.

  He wriggled away in protest. “Cameras, Bruce! I’m okay. Let me … let me stand up myself. Cameras. Block them.”

  He could only see the world through a dark and sticky substance. His vision was okay though. Nothing that would impair his driving. He looked down at the smear of dark red on his fingers. Blood.

  “Mate, it’s pumping out. You need medical help. I’m calling them. Hang on … they’re coming over. Stay still, would you?”

  The crowd’s jeering quieted as he rose to his feet. Flags and other banners jiggled up and down in a blur. Another object was thrown but landed wide of its mark. It filled him with a grim satisfaction.

  Medics came over and fussed about, dabbing his forehead with cotton as they led him away. Adam could feel the sting rip across his temples down to his cheekbone.

  “You got lucky,” declared a medic with a heavy Saudi accent and kind face when they were into the medic tent. “Missed your eye by millimeters, but you’ll need more than a couple of stitches on that.”


  Adam groaned. “They sure know how to put on a welcome party.”

  The medic pressed a bandage against the cut. “What did you to do provoke them?”

  “Nothing.”

  The medic raised his bushy eyebrows. “This is an emotional sport. You have to take the rough with the smooth.”

  “Oh, come on,” Adam bit out. “They’re hooligans. If I get injured it should be on the circuit, not off it.”

  Why did his achievement only stir up the wrong kind of emotion? He’d won fair and square.

  • • •

  Viv trudged grumpily back up to the studio after a failed attempt to find Adam in the VIP tent. With any luck she’d nab him this time. He’d been stuck in the garages ever since he’d arrived in Bahrain. Nobody had seen him with his helmet off. But now that he’d won, it could be a whole different story.

  This was one of the thrills of it all—interviewing the victors, all drenched in champagne and adrenalin. And with Adam Fontaine there was the extra thrill of it being his first time. Now surely he’d have a little smile for her?

  Sarah, the technician, accosted her. “Did you hear the news? Fontaine got hit by a glass bottle thrown by a British fan!”

  “No way! Is he all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. Here, watch.” Sarah beckoned to her screen where a confusion of medics milled around the driver sitting on the ground. “No wait, lemme go back to the start.”

  Viv watched the replay of the incident in horrified fascination, unable to believe it. An inch closer and his eye could have been taken out. She couldn’t breathe when the camera closed in on his face and she saw the blood trickling down his jaw. Now it was real. For someone so clean-cut, so controlled, it felt wrong to see him like this.

  “Something to do with Marlowe claiming he’s cheating,” Sarah said. “Lord, they’re catfighting.”