Chapter 1
Motorbikes. The roar, the throaty growls of bike after bike zooming on the race track made it nearly impossible to hearSalihasitting next to me in the stadium.
A child in the row below us had big, over-ear noise cancellers as he cheered when a bike whizzed past.
With the biggest, toothy grin, he was waving a little flag of theCiclatibrand. Three wheels intertwined with a jaguar’s roaring face in the middle.
He reminded me of my brother and I when our dad used to bring us to the races.
“When are they revealing the bike?” I asked, voice raised in the momentary quiet before another bike raced along the tarmac.
Really, I was just curious to see NixonArmasride it. My first look at him that wasn’t on a screen. He’d be completely covered in his leathers and helmet, but still.
Salihapointed to the giant screen across the track. “Armasis just getting on it.”
“Right,” I said with a nod, picking at my acrylic nails.
“He’ll do two laps now, another two after the race and then they’ll put a couple of the bikes on show for when peopleleave.” Her black hair flipped my shoulder as she turned to face me, a rosy tint of blush on her russet cheeks. Despite the warm tones, she was colder than usual today. My friend of ten years was all business. “Tell me again what you’ve learned about him. One more time. Just so I can fill any gaps.”
“There are no gaps,” I sighed and looked away before glancing back. I didn’t need to be sour to her of all people.
Her eyes narrowed at my sensitive reaction. She took a ravenous bite of the hot dog she’d bought from one of the workers who stalked the aisles. Her stare was unimpressed for the length of time it took her to chew and swallow. “We both know this isn’t going to be easy,Livie.”
Salihaand I had been friends at university and, after everything that had happened in the last seven months, she had reached out. She worked in events forCiclatiSport and managed to get me an interview with the publicist ofCiclatiBikes,NazminMorad. Hopefully, I was going to be the new publicist for their sporting team atStormSprint, the most popular motorbike racing championship across the world.
Salihaknew everything that could touch the brand, including the men she wanted me to start working with.
I’d never expected to be able to work in the racing world my father had loved so much.
His passion for sports was partly what inspired me to become a sports publicist.
“Let’s just recap once more before we head down to see them.”
Today was the testing of the bikes for the upcoming season. Which made it the best day to meet the team when there was very little press and it wasn’t televised.
I’d known this day was coming for a couple of weeksand spent nearly every waking hour researching, distracting myself. It was nice to have a purpose again. A reason to get out of bed.
“NixonArmasis a three-time champion and model with an addiction to doing the wrong thing and is on his last legs with the team director. He has no choice but to make some changes. He’s reckless, arrogant and cares for nothing but motorbikes. And he’s about to be the bane of my life for the next year.”
Salihagave me a wide-eyed side glance, pursing her lips, trying not to laugh.
“Okay,” I sighed. Yes, there might be a bit of resentment. Just a tad. I’d gone from respectable, high-flying clients tothiswith one article. “He was first noticed when a shot of him winning a race went viral because of his good looks. He’s since had modelling gigs and cameos in Hollywood films. But what’s most impressive is how he’s managed to win three championships in the last four years. He started racing at seven under the number 18 and had such a good season when he joinedSprint3, he skipped the next league,Sprint2, and went straight forStormSprint. He’s that good.”
“Yes, the professional side is impressive,” she said but screwed up her lips and gave me a look as if to say,get on with the scandals.
On-screen, a man in thick leathers and a dark red helmet with bright green stripes down the sides waved at the camera. Eighteen was on his chest and back.
“Personal life isn’t so great,” I said as the commentator explained all of the new details I already knew about the commercial bike. “He’s known to isolate himself for months at a time and when the season ends, there are often stories ofhim high on cocaine. He has some questionable friends. If he wasn’t so fast, he would have been thrown out. He’s known as a walking red flag.”
If he wasn’t such an asshole — and, therefore, no one wanted to work for him — it was unlikely I’d be here.
She gave another nod. “Your role.”
I took a deep breath. “My role is out of the ordinary. I am basically here for him, unlike most of my previous roles. He’s brought a lot of attention to the sport. Whether it’s the bad boy image, the winning streak, the good looks… it’s probably an accumulation of things. Essentially, you want me to not only control his schedule and interactions with the press but to make it seem like he is an upstanding member of the sporting community.”
Her brow shot up, asking the question she’d already thrown my way.
“I’m prepared for this to run my life for the next year,” I answered. Just one year. Rebuild my reputation. Then I’d try and get on anotherStormSprintteam once I’d proven myself.
