Imagine that freeing feeling.No more reading into everything, wanting to believe the feeling is mutual.My chest relaxes just thinking about it, my body takes in the first full breath in a week.I wave to the bartender for more drinks.
“That would be the best scenario for everyone involved,” I say, pushing away the niggling feeling that I’m simply bullshitting myself.
“As long as he feels the same way.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, look at you.You’re hot.You’re a fucking teamprincipal of an F1 team.I’d be more worriedhemight have feelings for you, these days.”
I slap Keyla on the arm and laugh.“Thanks for the ego boost, but he’s still Matt fucking Warner,GQcover model.”
She tuts loudly.“You looked in the mirror lately?”She holds a finger up to the bartender for one more shot.
I think about Matt and his struggles on the track, and the promise we made in that locked room.I think about the incredible strain he must be under.I force myself to picture him back in training, trying to find his focus again.I’ve helped him before.I can help him again.This relationship is for work, not personal.
“Well, anyway, I told him I’d help him get his confidence back.”
“The crash,” she says, the way everyone talks about it.
I nod.“If I can get him back up to speed, we could be vaguely competitive with the upgrades we’ve got coming,” I say, resting my elbows on the sticky countertop.I can feel the booze thrumming in my veins now, the music a little louder, my stress feeling a million miles away.
“That’s your focus,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a surprise hug, which nearly topples me off my stool.“I just want you to give this everything, Chloe.The job.You have so much potential, and I know this Matt thing is a shock, and there’s feelings to process, but you cannot let it distract you.”
I pull her a little closer into the hug and squeeze.“Yes.I need to just keep my eyes on the prize.”
The bar is starting to get rowdy already, and as Keyla pulls back, she has that unmistakable look of mischief on her face.She nods toward the pool table.
“Wanna go challenge those frat boys to a game of pool?”
“Can we do it for money?”I ask.“Like old times?”
“You bet, baby,” she says, grinning.
An hour later, Keyla and I are both well on the way to being certified drunk,andhave still managed to pocket around a hundred dollars from the group of young men.
On the jukebox, “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon starts playing, and in one of those drunken-bonding-of-the-whole-bar moments, suddenly arms and pints are thrust toward the ceiling and painfully loud wails fill the humid air.
“When’s Matt coming?I promised I’d meet some friends soon and go dancing, which you have to join,” Keyla whines, finishing her beer in one big slug.“You think he bailed?”
“Maybe.I’m too tired for clubbing though, Keyla,” I say.Lining up the white ball, I shoot the black into the corner pocket.“That’s another win.”
“You girls are real fucking hustlers,” says our new friend Micky before handing Keyla a twenty and the last of his pride.
“Not really,” Keyla says casually.“We’re just a couple of gals in town for the F1 race.”
“I love F1,” Brad or maybe Chad says.“I got tickets to the qualifier.”
“Qualify-ing,” I say, wagging a finger.“Not qualifi-er.”
“Whatever,” he says, shrugging.“You going?”
“Might make an appearance,” Keyla says, catching my eye and hiding her laugh with the back of her hand.
“Got to say, nothing better than watching Red Bull.”
Keyla eye-rolls.“Isn’t Red Bull a drink?”she replies in her most girlish voice.
“Chicks say they love F1,” he says, laughing.“But y’all just want to bang the drivers.”He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and pats himself down, looking for a lighter.
