I shuffle to get more comfortable. ‘Scary like Micah?’
‘Micah’s not scary like that. He’s got fear – he’s no rookie – but he’s an angry bastard. He’ll push you into tough spots, try and run you off the track, defend unfairly. He’s always been a hard racer, but the last year… he’s a psychopath, especially with me. And I don’t blame him.’
Woah, we’re going there.Drivers aren’t allowed to speak honestly about their team dynamics to anyone. It’s impossible not to notice the friction between Jack and Micah. Jack steers well clear of him, and when that’s not possible, Micah drives a millimetre under the legal limit, like there isn’t a team behind him that would hang his balls out to dry if he jeopardised Jack’s Championship. Between that and not fulfilling his team obligations off track, it’s a wonder Pagari keep him on their books. He’s an incredible driver, sure, but so are hundreds of others.
‘Everyone’s threatened by their teammate,’ I argue.
‘It’s more than that.’ Jack draws idle patterns on my back. It feels quite nice. ‘Two years ago, at Silverstone, I had a bad pit stop on lap thirty-eight which put Micah in the lead. He drove beautifully that day. I couldn’t make up the ground I’d lost – I tried and got close but I couldn’t overtake. He was looking to bag his first win with Pagari. It would’ve been a clean win. Wellearned.’ Jack’s chest dips as he sucks in a breath. ‘Then, with two laps to go, team orders forced him to let me pass.’
I vaguely remember this happening. Team orders are hideous, and the fallout always burns deeper than the commentary makes it sound. My dad could probably still reel off the dates and lap numbers of the three times team orders were used against him.
‘They didn’t have to do it,’ he goes on. ‘I was comfortably leading the Championship, and either way Pagari would have got a one-two.’ He runs a hand through his hair, leaving his other arm on me. ‘The fact that it was Silverstone made it ten times worse too. His family were all there. His cousins, his nephews – I heard his aunts even came over from Nigeria.’
Holy. Shit.
‘He’s always been a bit of a dick – I’ve known him for like sixteen years – but ever since the British Grand Prix, he looks like he wants to set me on fire.’
‘I don’t imagine the fact that you’re always winning in the same car helps much. It’s not easy playing second fiddle.’
‘He’s not as fast as me,’ Jack concedes, ‘and he knows that, but he thinks he’s smarter than me.’
‘Is he?’
A slow smile spreads across his beautiful face. ‘Nah. He’s decided this is the year he’s going to beat me, and he’s figured the only way to do that is mind games. Everything he does has an agenda. Everything. Just watch him. On the off-chance he deigns to come to tomorrow’s press conference, listen to the subtext of what he’s saying.
‘Before Imola, he locked himself in the only toilet in our garage. I waited until we were three minutes from the national anthem, gave up and pissed outside. He’s been doing tons of shit like that lately, trying to get in my head.’
‘Does it ever work?’
Jack tilts my chin with his index finger so I look him in the eye. ‘Did he win in Imola?’
I pin my lips together, definitely not feeling renewed warmth down below. ‘No, he did not.’
He resumes stroking patterns. ‘I’d argue I won twice that weekend,’ he says quietly.
I’m so glad it’s dark because my cheeks are on fire. I move my hands to his chest, my chin balanced on top. ‘You’re a shameless flirt, Jack Bowden.’
His proud grin’s my cue to roll over before we repeat earlier. I don’t have a second fake orgasm in me.
‘Where are you going?’ He sounds plaintive.
‘We have to be up in three hours, or do you not care that you have a title to defend?’ I plug my long-dead phone into the cable poking out from behind his bed.
He rubs his eyes. ‘You’re right. I got distracted. Too busy sharing trade secrets.’
I snigger and tuck myself in. ‘Night, Jack.’
‘Night, Roberts. Sleep tight.’
Chapter 24
MINNIE
It’s still dark when I stir. It takes me a minute to place the unfamiliar bedside table, the paperback ofNever Finishedwith a furious-looking man-mountain on the front, the enormous bedroom wreathed in shadow, and the arm slung across my waist. Jack’s deep breath brushes the top of my neck.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
I snatch my phone off charge, do my best to slide out without waking him, seize yesterday’s pants off the floor, and scurry out of the bedroom. Even in a panicked frenzy and with blurry eyesight, I can see his living area’s impressive. Triple the size of Étienne’s, with sweeping views of the harbour that confirm we’re in Fontvieille, one of Monaco’s most exclusive districts.
