Laurent thanks the bartender before turning to Matt. “Great. You’ve probably ruined the delicate citrus notes with your poison.”
“You didn’t even taste the tequila!”
“It’s in my lungs.” Laurent pounds at his chest with his fist and makes a delicate little coughing sound. “I taste it every time I breathe out.”
What a baby.
Despite Laurent’s penchant for complaining, he seems genuinely pleased by the whisky, enjoying it enough to ask for another. He must be feeling it too, if his slurred, “Putthatguy’s drink on my tab” is anything to go by.
The older gentleman down the bar from them raises a glass to Laurent, who winks before tipping his own glass back.
“Is he gay?” Matt asks.
“Nah, but look at him.”
The man’s at least forty, maybe forty-five. He’s gruff, with a long mustache and a closely cropped beard. Leather jacket. He probably rides a motorcycle. He looks Latino.
Matt’s Latino. “Am I attractive?”
“We’ve been over this,” Laurent groans.
“Yeah, but you never answer.”
“Because you’re not my type.”
Matt doesn’t have anyone else he can ask, though. “But, objectively speaking…”
“J’sais pas.”
“You can’t just speak French any time you don’t want to answer me.”
Laurent makes more French noises and shrugs his shoulders.
Okay, so Matt’s not winning any awards for Hottest Driver of the Year. That honor would go to Sam, or Rafael, or Santiago, or Robert—the moremasculinedrivers.
—Not that he would ever admit that to Robert, of course, but Matt can see the appeal. Objectively speaking. For scientific reasons.
But Laurent still has a charm about him. He’s got that special something that Matt would describe as attractive, even if he isn’t Matt’s type. Something that makes him stand out in an expensive bar.
Was it so wrong for Matt to be curious if he attracts the same attention? Surely, any other lonely man would ask the same?
“Je n’en reviens pas!” Laurent whispers, smacking Matt’s arm. “I don’t believe it.”
Matt looks up at the front door, at Robert holding it open. He’s with a girl—probably that girlfriend he’s rumored to have—and Javier, who has a hand around this week’s groupie.
Both men look at the bar, their expressions falling when theireyes travel over Matt, then Laurent, who waves at them with barely contained glee. Instead of turning around and leaving, the men direct their dates over to one of the booths.
Unlike Matt and Laurent, who’ve had enough run-ins with people mocking them to last a lifetime, Robert and Javier have put absolutely no effort into hiding who they are. They saunter into the building with the grace and ease of well-loved individuals.
Matt, on the other hand, has tucked all of his dark curly hair into a plain cap. Laurent is even wearing fake glasses, so they’re seriously undercover.
“You okay?” Laurent asks, suddenly serious.
Matt huffs. “Yeah, I’m fine. We can be in the same room, it’s fine.”
The other drivers are a whole like, ten feet away. That’s fine. They’re more than welcome to witness Matt’s one point celebration.
“Hey,” the bartender says, sliding up to Laurent. He nods over to the booth. “I think those guys are Formation 1 drivers. You two here for the race?”
