by Kat Ransom
Contents
Fast & Hard
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Stay In Touch
Coming Soon!
Fast & Hard
Kat Ransom
Copyright © 2019 Kat Ransom.
All rights reserved.
Notice of Rights: All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
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One
Mallory
“In the interest of full disclosure, Ms. Mitchell, I do want to reiterate the responsibilities and expectations of the position, one final time.”
Smile, Mallory, smile. Do not yawn at the Marketing and Communications Director, no matter how tired you are from the red-eye to London or the fact that it’s gray and gloomy and a soft rain drizzles down the office windows. It’s London, of course it’s raining, should have expected that.
Smile, damn it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Alix,” I start.
“Ms. It’s Ms. Alix, no Mrs.,” she interrupts, peering at me over the frames of her oval tortoiseshell eyeglasses.
Of course, it’s Ms. and not Mrs. I should have known that, too. Not that Sandra Alix is an unattractive woman, she’s just… cold. Like this room. Or the frosty cocktail I am going to imbibe in as soon as I finally get this job.
I will get this job.
“My apologies, Ms. Alix. I appreciate you being so thorough and I assure you I am confident in my ability to deliver the results you require.” I look Sandra square on, straighten my spine, and make a mental note to stop tapping my foot lest she know how much I want this job. She could tell me that standing on my head and spitting nickels out of my mouth was a key performance indicator and I would convince her that I’ll spit dimes.
“Yes, well,” Sandra leans back in her squeaking office chair and I feel like I’m a piece of fruit being sized up at the market, “it’s imperative to Celeritas that we succeed this time in bringing the right person aboard.”
“I understand,” I nod. I understand fully that my predecessors were either shit-canned within days or ran screaming from this job. I do my homework. I’m not stupid. I just want this job that badly. And after flying here a second time for my final interview, they’re going to give it to me.
“Do you? Do you understand Ms. Mitchell?” Sandra sneers.
I see what’s happening here. This is the portion of the interview where they try to scare the naive little American girl and force her to retreat to the safety of New York.
Not happening.
“Yes, Ms. Alix. I am good at what I do. I have done my due diligence. I have familiarized myself with the challenges of the client. I have read all the news stories, seen the social media incidents, and I have developed a multi-point strategy to reform the brand to meet Celeritas Racing’s expectations.”
Take that, you shrew. Like I’m intimated to work with a difficult, if not obscenely good looking athlete. Well, I’m not. Seen one musclebound dick in the locker room, you’ve seen them all. This one just comes with a Scottish accent and drives a car versus throws a ball, color me unimpressed.
“Yes,” she starts, “I have no doubt you have talent or we would not be here. You have been successful in managing the images of troubled athletes in the past, we know that. You’ve also had a misstep, however, and I’d like assurance that will not happen again.”
I knew Sandra Stick Up Her Ass would bring that up. Even though we’re in Europe and I was hoping my sins of America would not follow me here to haunt me. But I’m still prepared. Because I’m always prepared.
“You have my word, Ms. Alix. I learned a valuable lesson with the client you’re referring to and Lennox Gibbes will not be let out from my sights. The situation will be under control at all times.”
“You’re going to control Lennox Gibbes?” She leans forward and chuckles. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“I will put him on a leash if necessary,” I mash my teeth and announce boldly.
Time for games is over, lady, give me the job. I’m tired, I’ve been here twice and through rounds of Skype interviews, I’m well aware that Lennox Gibbes — the ‘Paddock Playboy’ — is another skeezeball athlete running around sticking his dick in anything that moves and embarrassing the company.
And I. Don’t. Care.
“Oh,” Sandra starts, actually proving that she does, in fact, have the facial muscles required to break a smile, “I like you.”
“I will not let you down.”
Seal the deal, seal the deal.
“Formula 1 is quite a bit different from what you’re used to, Ms. Mitchell, I suspect you’ll have quite a learning curve ahead of you.”
“I look forward to meeting that goal, as well.”
It’s in the bag, right? She said I will have a learning curve, not I could have a learning curve. Damn it, spit it out, you wanker! I’ve been practicing British slang and have always wanted to call someone a wanker.
“Right, then. Let’s get down to brass tacks. There will be extensive NDA’s, you understand.” Sandra starts shuffling papers on her desk and this is it, it’s happening. The job is mine. I don’t care if the tacks she’s offering are brass, gold, or made of tinfoil. This is my chance.
“Yes, of course.” Working with athletes, NDA’s live in my back pocket at all times. They’re all the same.
Every single one of them who can hit a ball or kick something into the end zone is the same type of manwhore who thinks he’s god’s gift to women. On some mission to knock up half of the Eastern seaboard and disgrace their team and their sponsors then they act surprised when their contract is cut and their newfound riches evaporate.
Oversized man-children, all of them. Not interested.
“On the matter of compensation,” Sandra pulls a sheet of paper from her stack and slides it across her meticulous, empty glass desk toward me.
Holy shit. This is double the salary range initially offered. This is… this can’t be right.
“I’m sorry, is this figure correct?” Please le
t it be correct.
“This job is more than just Publicity Management, Ms. Mitchell. If you review this sheet,” she slides more sheets of neatly typed paperwork at me, “you’ll see there are additional duties of new sponsor recruitment and partner engagement.”
I study the sheet, so many zeros behind so many dollar signs. “I see.”
Oh boy, do I see. Requirements to achieve new corporate sponsors for the driver with minimum financial investments and benchmarks, expectations of investor events, product launch parties, this is a lot.
“You’re not going in cold, don’t worry.” Sandra tries to breeze into this like it’s a simple task to acquire all the zeros staring at me on these pages. “Celeritas has all the connections. All you need to do is ensure that Mr. Gibbes is a property worthy of the investors’ endorsements and backing. Create the public image our business partners want to see from a world champion. Guarantee that Mr. Gibbes represents them, and Celeritas Racing, well. Get him to the required events on time and keep him from making a jackass of himself.” Sandra purses her lips and bites out the final sentence and I know this has been a thorn in her side for some time. She’s frustrated.
“This is quite extensive, Ms. Alix,” I stumble, still skimming over the printed details. I hate stumbling, hate that she caught me off guard. I’m a social media whiz and I reform the public opinion of ill-behaved celebrity athletes. I’m used to sponsor requirements and endorsement deals. But even for top tier athletes, this is a lot.
“Yes, well, as I said, you have a great deal to learn about F1. This is the playground of the elite, not a football field.” Sandra makes air quotes for the word football and I don’t know if she’s making fun of American sports or, because here, football is actually soccer. I decide to ignore that thought, either way, as she continues, “I believe the salary more than compensates for the additional duties, does it not?
“The salary is quite generous,” I agree. Ha, generous. That’s a good one. The salary is enough to cement my dreams. I was in this to get the experience and contacts that only a behemoth of an industry like F1 can bring, to rebuild my reputation after that piece of garbage NBA player tanked me almost a year ago.
But this, this changes everything.
“In addition to the salary terms, you have your expense account agreement,” Sandra starts whipping more paperwork at me from her bottomless folder, “corporate housing agreement, NDA as discussed, benefits package dossier, all of your work visa documents. Here, just take it all. Look it over tonight and tomorrow morning we will meet with Mr. Sanders, the HR attorney, to finalize everything.”
“Ms. Alix, I want to be very clear. Are you offering me the position?” I’m fairly sure this is a redundant question and she’s made it obvious, but I need to hear it. I need to hear the words so I can internally scream and then start plotting how I am going to stuff my success down everyone’s throats. Maybe after I celebrate tonight with that frosty cocktail. Or during. Definitely during.
“Yes, we are officially offering you the position. After the paperwork is finalized tomorrow I will show you to your flat on premises and make introductions to Mr. Lennox and other personnel.”
I stand from my chair and reach to shake Sandra’s hand. “Thank you, Ms. Alix, thank you.”
“Get your affairs in order quickly, we leave for Australia in ten days. And good luck to you, you’re going to need it.”
Ah, but Sandra, you cantankerous shrew you, I don’t need luck. I make my own success and Paddock Playboy or corporate sponsors be damned, I will rock this job and everything I want will fall into place.
Two
Lennox
“I,” grunt, “hate,” grunt, “you.” I sputter as I pull my head and up and over the chin-up bar over and over again in the gym at headquarters. Sweat is running down my back because the heat is turned up to mimic race weather conditions. Or terrorize me, one or the other.
“Uh-huh, cry me a river, Lennox, another 20,” Matty mumbles from his stationary position on a weight bench beside me, crunching down an apple with extra gusto because he knows I hate the sound of food slurping. “Less than two weeks left, you need to pick it up.”
“Don’t see you up here,” I groan in between pulls.
“I’m already in peak physical condition,” Matty replies while chewing and in his customary tone where most people can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious. I’ve known him long enough to know that he’s not making a joke right now.
The stereo is loud in the background and I’ve been running and rowing and heaving myself over assorted bars for hours. Just need to make it through this set and then my sadistic physio will let me eat something again. Perhaps another delicious helping of quinoa and kale or whatever the last bowl of slop was.
“I love when you two squabble, you know it gets me hard.” Jack is sitting on the floor in front of me with his back against the wall, face glued to his iPhone and fingers tap-tap-tapping on the surface.
“Jesus, why are you even here?” Matty calls to him over the stereo and rolling his eyes.
“Making the Melbourne travel arrangements, getting his promo materials in order, picked up his new helmets from the designer. You know, being good at my job.” Jack sashays his head back and forth though he still hasn’t lifted it from the iPhone.
I give Matty shit for putting me through these grueling workouts and making me stick to the world’s most boring diet plan, but he and Jack are like an old married couple, constantly at it. Gives me something to get my mind off of, anyway. Makes things interesting.
“Also, I want to meet the new nanny,” Jack adds like this is a secret afterthought he’s letting slip out.
I drop from the pull bar and beads of sweat break off me and hit the floor. “What new nanny?”
“Yes. Do tell, Jack,” Matty pitches his apple core into a trashcan several feet away and leans forward on his seat to hear the latest gossip that neither of us knew about.
“Well,” Jack lifts his head and comes alive because there’s gossip. He’s obnoxious like that. “From what I hear, this one is American and she…”
Jack is cut off when the stereo stops and all three of our heads turn to the door. Sandra, the main dragon lady from Marketing, has cut the stereo and beside her stands, I’m assuming, the latest pawn in her bullshit scheme of ‘restoring my image.’
Jack pops off the ground and Matty stands from the weight bench while my eyes flicker and my brow creases. This better not be another new babysitter.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” the dragon lady squawks as she begins her approach with the wide-eyed doe next to her, “Come meet Mallory.”
Jack and Matty circle in, the new chick’s heels clacking on the tile gym floor. Dressed in a tight little fawn-colored pencil skirt that ends mid-calf and a white blouse, she’s wearing the official uniform of new employees everywhere. I scowl.
“Mallory,” Sandra starts pointing like the rude bird she is, “this is Matthias Vitanen who is Mr. Gibbes’ physio.” Matty shakes her hand and smiles a little more than is normal for him.
“This is Jack Addair, the personal assistant,” Dragon Lady points to Jack.
Jack wraps both his hands around the nanny’s outstretched palm and gushes, “So nice to meet you, Mallory! Welcome!” He’s being a sarcastic ass but the new chick doesn’t know it yet and gushes back at him with a naive and hopeful smile that I’m going to enjoy watching fade.
“And this,” Dragon Lady’s tone drops and her lips purse, “is Lennox Gibbes.”
I stand with my hands on my hips and my gym shorts riding low and make no effort to pull them up or put a shirt on.
“Lennox, nice to meet you. I’m Mallory and I’ll…”
“The fuck is this?” I refuse to look in new chick’s general direction and continue to stare at Sandra the Dragon Lady.
“This, Mr. Gibbes, is your new Publicity Manager, Mallory Mitchell. Please be a gentleman and get acquainted, she’ll be joining you
in Australia and with you this season.” Sandra’s arms cross over her chest like she’s preparing for a showdown.
If it’s a showdown she wants, it’s a showdown she’ll get.
“Did you not learn from the previous dozen nannies, Sandra?” I glare at her.
“Did you not learn from reading the fine print in your contract, Mr. Gibbes?” She snarks back. “While we may not be able to release you from it, yet,” she paused and emphasizes, “Celeritas is well within its rights to protect its brand and will continue to take aggressive action until you get with the program or get out.”
I smirk at Sandra and take a step closer. She takes one step back. “Sandra, Sandra, Sandra,” I shake my head. “You don’t get it. You can send one hundred nannies. You can send one thousand nannies. She’ll be out of here the first week, like all the others and you’ll still be stuck upstairs in your barren office with your barren life quibbling about Facebook engagement rates. At some point, Sandra, would it not be easier to simply remove the stick from your ass?”
New Nanny—Mallory, I guess—gasps and covers her mouth with her hand.
Jack is trying hard to stifle a giggle.
Matty stands next to me like a lifeless statue, as always.
Dragon Lady’s eyes bead and her face gets red and her lip is trembling ever so quietly. That’s right, Sandra, piss off back to your office with all the other greedy little suits who chew people up and spit them out to get what you want out of them. Scurry along to have more meetings about what to do about me, call me a property or an asset like humans are disposable cogs in your machine to bring in more and more sponsors of trashy products none of us on the track would ever use in real life.
Sandra takes a step back and makes an attempt to disguise how uncomfortable I make her. The poor lass probably hasn’t been laid in a decade. A dick would freeze right off it came anywhere near her.
“We’ll see, Mr. Lennox, we’ll see. I have confidence that this nan… uh, Publicity Manager will work out. She says she’s going to put you on a leash!” Sandra aims her pointy little finger at me then turns and makes her retreat to the door like the coward she is.