Vanstone’s Princess, as the media likes to reference me as.
I shouldn’t complain.
It’s a helluva lot better than what the other teams call me, which isPit Porn.
Disgusting pigs.
But now, I have the opportunity to prove myself.
The only thing missing is a second driver, one more seasoned than Beck—something he is incredibly bitter about.
“Congrats, bestie.” A lemon drop appears in front of my face, and I greedily take it.
The kick of liquor hits the back of my throat after the tangy lemon, and I finish it off by licking the sugar from the rim.
“And another.” Quinn tips her head back and takes her second shot, and I follow suit.
By the third one, I’m wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, the burn of vodka settling in my lower stomach.
“To you, my little overachiever.” Quinn bumps shoulders with me, and I laugh.
“I’m not an overachiever. Just the same ol’ Tessa who spends her days picking through data and tweaking sims.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You are too. In high school, you wrote your senior thesis arguing that women have just as much right to be on the racetrack as men do, and I recall you ending your presentation with a promise of being there one day.”
I pause.Okay, fine. Maybe she’s right.
“I prefer the term go-getter.”
Quinn’s mouth turns up. “A powerhouse.”
“A prodigy.”
A laugh-like snort leaves us both, but then she turns somber.
“How’s Beck?” she asks.
I lift a brow. “You’re concerned about Beck?”
My brother and Quinn have been neck and neck since the moment she and I became best friends. He constantly picks on her, even now that we’re adults, and she religiously tells him to fuck off.
Their friendship, or non-friendship, has turned from childish pranks to Beck banning the entire senior class from pursuing her. Now, he constantly hits on her just to piss her off.
Beck is only nineteen months older than me, but he acts years younger.
I’m honestly surprised he isn’t here, bouncing around from uni girl to uni girl. They’re obsessed with him, especially when he tells them that he drives an F1 car for a living.
I have a hunch that he uses them to fulfill his need for adrenaline.
Beck makes reckless decisions, both on and off the track.
“I’m not concerned about Beck,” Quinn argues. “I’m just wondering if we’re going to have to drag him out of here as he drowns his sorrows from remaining the reserve driver.”
I sigh. “There’s a good chance.”
Quinn grabs onto my hand and drags me onto the dance floor. “Enough about Beck,” she shouts. “Let’s dance!”
The alcohol sloshes in my lower belly, loosening me up just enough to follow after my best friend. She’s always been the fun one of our duo, never hesitating to toe the line of rebellion, and on nights like tonight, I have a commitment to do the same.
