Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  *

  Come night and the party may as well be Checkpoint Charlie. It looks like a party but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like one.

  I keep my distance from Steven and Stacey, even Carl. I stay close to Andy where I can, continuously checking behind me seeing shadowy figures in my head with syringe in hand, a bag and rope… I’ve been dreaming about them, dreaming over and over about being tied up and helpless, and Andy is there but never close enough, always an inch or two away from saving me. The room fills with water and I drown, black and lonely in the darkness.

  I take a breath and focus on Stacey. I don’t want to talk to her, but I have no choice. She was the last one to see me. I’ve been putting it off, but no longer.

  Andy sees me walking towards her. “Where are you going?”

  “Just a little girl-to-girl chat.”

  “With fucking Stacey?”

  “Trust me.”

  Stacey sees me coming. If she’s surprised. She doesn’t show it. “You’re looking better.”

  “Why did you ask me to lunch, honestly?”

  “Honestly? Okay. I wanted to find out what Andy saw in you.”

  “Wow, that is honest. And?”

  “I can see it, but I have to admit you’re a bit of a lightweight when it comes to handling your drink.”

  I’d slap that smug smile right off her face if it wasn’t for the countless cameras in here. I keep myself in check. “What happened? I don’t remember much after main course.”

  She looks away. “You were drunk. I called a cab and helped you in, told them to take you back to the hotel. I tipped the driver well.”

  “Which company?

  She chokes a little on her champagne. “Company?”

  “Taxi company? Which one did you use?”

  “Why, did something happen?” She’s avoiding the question.

  “You could say that.”

  Feigned concern. “Sara, I had no idea. Did he…?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I do need to know the taxi company you used, chase them up.”

  She takes out her phone, pretends to run through her call log. “I can’t find it, sorry. Must have lost the number when I did a system update the other night.”

  How fucking convenient. “Not to worry. Do you remember the driver?”

  This lie she can fill in. “Oh yeah. Typical Mexican, balding, moustache, maybe forty, forty-five?”

  “A name?”

  I notice Steven is watching us intently from the other side of the room.

  She shakes her head, stupid cow. “Pablo maybe?”

  “Well, thanks,” I tell her. Thanks for fucking nothing.

  “For you, anything,” she purrs, all snake.

  I turn to find Andy. He’s at the bar right beside Carl, the two of them face-to-face.

  Fuck.

  I rush over there. “Andy?”

  Andy knocks a glass off the bar. It shatters next to the bartender. He shoves Carl in the chest. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he tells him. “On the track and fucking off it.”

  Carl bows. “My pleasure.”

  I pull Andy aside. “What was that all about? I thought you were going to cool it for a while?”

  Andy rounds on me. “You know what he said to me, that asshole?”

  “What, Andy? What did he say?”

  “He said he wouldn’t be surprised if I cheated last season, like my win was down to an illegal part, some under-handed bullshit. Fuck him.”

  Andy sees Carl watching. He looks back at him. “Yeah, fuck you too, pal!”

  “Let’s go,” I tell him, guiding him as quietly as I can from the party before this turns into one giant MMA match.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ABU DHABI

  Steven

  I can’t stand the sight of him anymore. Andy Fortes—what a joke. Carl is the future of Goodall, someone who knows how to take orders, who knows where his position in the world is. A mouthy cock-muncher like Fortes? You can’t tame the wild out of someone like that. There’s more than a championship at stake here. I’ve got serious money invested in Carl, money which isn’t going to reappear if Andy wins. I might not reappear if he does.

  The panic rises up. Beads of sweat gather on my forehead. Whatever you’re going to do, it has to be done now.

  I look around. There are people everywhere in preparation for the race. I can’t do anything while they’re still here.

  My eyes continue to the back of the garage and finally I have my answer, a way to finish Fortes once and for all.

  I head to the corner, back against the wall. I reach behind myself and hunt for the fire alarm, finding the lever and pausing. There’s a momentary ‘Are you really going to go through with this?’ before I remember the stakes at play. No, it has to be done. It’s the only way.

  I pull the lever and move into the shadows.

  The alarm sounds loud and piercing.

  Everyone’s calmer than I expect as they begin to filter out of the garage.

  Thankfully, Andy’s car is screened from view.

  Garage empty, I fumble through the tool drawer for a utility knife, kneeling beside Andy’s car and getting to work.

  I smile to myself, dropping the knife and kicking it away. Have fun with that, asshole.

  Andy

  A shrieking alarm goes off. I cover my ears, looking to Klaus. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Fire alarm,” he shouts, “come on,” leading me away with the rest of the pit crew to the back of the garage area.

  I look into the pits. “I don’t see a fire.”

  Klaus shrugs beside me. “Malfunction maybe?”

  It seems like it takes forever for the fire marshals to arrive. I hope they’re a little quicker if there’s a fire on track.

  By the time they’ve swept through the garage and found precisely nothing, we’ve lost the better part of an hour.

  Steven shows up oblivious to the whole thing. For someone who should be team manager he seems more concerned with his phone than his team.

  “Love that thing, doesn’t he?” I note to one of the junior mechanics.

  The kid laughs, replying in shabby English. “Got a lot of money in play, Stevie.”

  “Money?”

  “You know,” continues the kid, “spiel, gambling?”

  This is news to me. “Gambling?”

  The kid points to the phone. “Bookie, is that how you say it?”

  I nod. “Yeah, sure is.”

  Things are clearing up.

  The kid moves off to a shelf of tools leaving me standing staring at Steven. “So,” I speak to myself, “that’s what you’re up to. That’s why.”

  Sara almost didn’t come to Abu Dhabi at all. Two rounds on and she’s still shaken from the thing in Mexico, as anyone would be. I had someone look into it, but they came up blank. Whoever was behind it lives to fight another day.

  *

  Carl’s in pole, but it means shit. In many ways I prefer starting second. It allows me to keep an eye on the prick.

  I start weaving during the warm-up lap at Yas Marina, but it becomes apparent something’s wrong when I check the fuel gauge. We’ve only done half a circuit and already I’m a third of a tank down and heading south fast.

  Jesus, not now.

  “Steven!” I yell into comms.

  Silence.

  “Steven!” I yell again. “Anyone?”

  Only static. Shit. All I fucking need.

  Klaus’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Andy? Come in now.”

  “Klaus? Where’s Steven?”

  “With security.”

  “Security?”

  “He put a small slit in your fuel line this morning. He set off the fire alarm. You’ve got to pit.”

  “He what? How do you know?”

  “I set up a camera in the garage last night, thought he might try something.”

  Klaus, you clever bastard. I cannot fucking believe this. Of all the times, why now, at the end? “Does
the press know?”

  “We’ve been able to keep it under control… for now.”

  I check the fuel. It’s plunging, way too fast. At this rate I’m going to run dry before the race even begins. “What can we do? Talk to me.”

  Only static.

  “Klaus!” I scream. “I need an answer. I’m not going to be left out here rolling to a stop on the last round of the fucking season!”

  “You’ve got to pit,” he repeats.

  “Now? On the warm-up lap?”

  It’s almost unheard of.

  “You can use the spare car, but it means you’ll start from the back of the grid.”

  Everything’s going to hell.

  Focus.

  I won’t be out of the race, but it’s going to be the fight of a lifetime to scrape my way back to the front.

  Fuck it.

  I dart towards the pits, the engine stumbling from fuel starvation.

  Just a little bit more.

  I roll into the pits off-throttle. The spare car’s waiting.

  Sara is watching on anxiously as I’m helped out of the car and into the spare.

  Rattle guns, shouting and I’m off again, barely making it to the back of the grid before the flag drops and the race is on.

  I push away the self-doubt. I lock it in a fucking box and get to work, picking my way through the field. Yas Marina is a tough cookie, every corner unique—all twenty-one of them. The surface is perfect, though, grip for days and perfectly suited to my style of driving.

  I cut in hard, push the engine to the limiter over and over, ignore the warning lights turning my steering wheel into a Christmas tree. I’m going to have to risk it all if I want to get up to Carl and his cock-sled.

  I knew Steven wanted me out, but I can’t believe he’d sabotage the car himself. He could have killed me. There’s no doubt he was behind the abduction now.

  I’m tired, the fatigue setting in from a long and difficult season, but I bring the focus back, the clarity that blocks everything else out but the line.

  They poured millions into this track at Abu Dhabi, but it’s sterile, missing the heritage and history of Monza or Spa, the great tracks of Formula One. But I know it. I know it inside-out and upside-down and Carl does not. He’s only raced here twice and never fighting for the Championship.

  The spare’s a little off-tune, a touch wish-washy on the rights, but it will do. I cut through the back of the field fast, working my way to the front. It’s not easy. Every driver here wants the most points possible coming to the end of the season. Every car sent to my rear-view is a battle in itself, Klaus feeding directions and data, the two of us working together like a team should.

  Full throttle down the straight, Carl five cars ahead and half the race down. It’s no longer looking impossible.

  I manage to swing wide around the Red Bull car. Poor bastard doesn’t see it coming, too busy admiring the architecture to concentrate on his tail.

  Four, three—two laps to go and I’m right there on Carl’s ass. I see his head turn slightly in the mirror. I put two fingers up, let him know I’m here and coming through. Nothing can fucking stop me short of the Second Coming.

  I punch the throttle harder, ignore the warning lights, oil pressure, water temps—everything on the limit. Everything at stake.

  I try to run his inside, but he’s there. He’s not going down without a fight.

  “I know you want this,” says Klaus, “but you’re too close. We want a one-two finish here, not a DNF.”

  “I’ve got it,” I tell him. “You’ll have your one-two. It just won’t be Carl on top of the podium.”

  “Your funeral. That’s what you Americans say, isn’t it?”

  I keep my thoughts together. I picture Sara and rather than distracting me, she gives me strength.

  One lap to go.

  Breathe. Concentrate.

  The final lap and I’m seconds away from Carl’s ass. I know he can see me, know he’ll be giving it absolutely everything he has, and he does. He shuts me down at every corner, always one step ahead, but there’s one thing he doesn’t have—balls.

  One more corner.

  Carl’s inches away, but he can’t snake around me. I keep him at bay, full throttle.

  I know Carl’s been sloppy on the final turn. He always takes it wide, probably to cut in harder for the next, but I can use it to my advantage. It’s going to be tight, but it’s the only chance I’m going to get.

  I visualize the move in my head, make it certain.

  The turn comes up and I pull up as close to Carl as I can. This has to be perfect. A moment of hesitation and its lost.

  But I come through.

  I drop a gear, the revs soaring but enough to cut down Carl’s side and take him by surprise. I can almost see the look of horror underneath his helmet as he realizes he’s been had. I pull ahead, giving the poor girl everything she has left to catapult me to the checkered flag.

  I cross the line, chaos in the pits, the stands.

  I’ve done it.

  I have fucking done it.

  I have my twenty-five points. The leader board confirms it, my three-ninety-eight to Carl’s three-ninety-five.

  I’d like to say it’s better than sex, but given recent events I’d be lying. In fact, by the time I’ve pulled into the pits, the race, the sponsorship with Ferrari, the thing with Steven… It’s all gone. Only she occupies my thoughts. Only she is there.

  And then she’s real life. I’m hauling her into my arms and not giving a damn who can see us. Let them.

  Carl steps out of his car. I wait, expecting him to come at me with a fist, but it’s with an open hand instead. I take it and he squeezes. “Good race, but I’ll be back next season, you know. I won’t be so easy on you then.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder and walks off.

  Sara kisses me, the camera flashes popping left and right. I see Stacey at the back of the crowd, a sour look on her face. I hope it doesn’t leave anytime soon.

  She’ll keep her distance now. She has no other choice with Steven gone. I’ll get the proof they were behind the kidnapping. It’s only a matter of time.

  Luigi pushes through the crowd, pulling me into a garage away from the paparazzi.

  “I heard what happened with Steven, everyone has. Nasty business.”

  I nod.

  “But… that was one hell of a race. I don’t think I’ve seen finer in all my twenty years of racing. I expect the same and more next year.”

  I smile. “You’ve got it, Lui. With Ferrari behind me, anything’s possible.”

  “And me,” adds Sara.

  I sweep her up into my arms again, spin her around. “Of course with you. I want you by my side the entire way,” I whisper into her ear. “That’s if you can get out of bed.”

  She smiles back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were challenging me again.”

  “How many times have you come in one night?”

  She brushes her hair out of her face, that ponytail she used to wear now history. “Before or after I met you?”

  *

  I make the announcement right there in the pits. Klaus congratulates me afterwards, doesn’t seem surprised I’m moving to Ferrari. “You’re still an asshole, though,” he laughs.

  “And you’re still a cocky prick. Have fun with Carl.”

  Goodall will try to bring me back. It’s clear corporate had no idea what was going on with Steven, the lengths he’d go to shut me down, but it’s time for me to move on. It’s time for everyone to move on.

  It’s nice being on top. The champagne is warm as it hits me in the face, and fuck me, it even looks like Carl has pulled his panties out and is actually having fun.

  I look down at Sara, dead center in the crowd and I want to get to know everything about her. I want to meet her mother and let her show me baby pictures. I want to hug the mysterious Gretchen and tell her she has the most amazing sister
in the world. I want to hold her and treat her right and make love to her every damn night until our sheets are burnt through. I want to father her children and…

  Too soon?

  No. Things have never been clearer. Whatever cloud I’ve been living in has cleared and I finally see everything, everyone, for who and what they are.

  Sara. My Sara.

  Always.

  *

  Sara’s smiling to herself when I find her at the after-party. We’re at another palace, another royal family playing host. She looks incredible, as always, the star of the event in shimmering gold. She’s placing her phone back into her handbag.

  I sweep her up into a kiss. “Your other boyfriend?”

  “Caliber, actually.”

  I lean back. “What do they want?”

  “They want me back.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “No, of course, but that perhaps there might be opportunity for us to work together again.”

  I run my hands down my sleeves. “I do miss those suits.”

  “No one made them look as good as you.”

  “Not even Carl?”

  Sara hands me a flute of champagne. She’s been watching my drinking lately, making sure I don’t overdo it—the sponsor without the AA. “Not even Carl.”

  “My friends!”

  A rather jovial Luigi finds us, his pinstriped suit appearing tailored before he started eating his way through Italy. “How are we this fine evening?”

  I take a sip. “Couldn’t be better. I can’t say the same about certain others, I’m afraid.”

  Lui draws us together. “Yes, yes. I’m afraid Steven has more than the Integrity Commission to worry about, my friend. I have it on good authority he’s in heavy debt to several bookies, shady characters indeed.”

  “How heavy?” I question, curious.

  “Millions, maybe more. He’s done.”

  I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear those words. “What now?”

  “What else?” laughs Luigi, grabbing his glass, “We celebrate!”

  Luigi walks off to a group of team managers congregating around an ice sculpture of an Arabian horse kicking into the sky.

  I notice Stacey’s missing. Probably caught the first flight out when she heard about Steven.

  “How does it feel?” asks Sara, her hand on the side of my leg. I have a mind to take her to the bathrooms and make her come—hard.