“Eager, are you?” Rafael has to jog to catch up, but he pulls his phone out and types a message. Seconds later, one of the SUVs flashes its lights. “That one, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Before they reach the vehicle, a driver jumps out and rounds the front, opening the door.“Buonasera, signor Dubois!I thought you would take Sal’s car with Thomas.”
“Call me Julien, please.” Julien waits until Rafael is settled into a seat before climbing in after him.
“I swear, you’re the spitting image of your brother.”
The driver shuts the door before Julien can come up with a reply. That’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything nice to say anyway.
“Nem fodendo,people are obsessed with bringing up Thomas around you.” Rafael struggles to buckle himself in with his left hand, but eventually, he manages it. “I thought I had it bad.”
“At least your collarbone will heal eventually.”
Thomas, on the other hand, is a life sentence.
“What? Oh, no, I mean my dad.”
“Your… dad?”
“Yeah. You can’t be serious.” Rafael stares blankly at Julien as their driver falls into the front seat and slams his door. “My father. The man who raced in Formation 1 for ten years. The guy who looks exactly like me and won two championships.”
“Oh.” Julien doesn’t know a lot about the history of motorsports. He’s more concerned about advancements and the future. “What’s his name?”
“Rafael Souza,” Rafael Souza replies.“Senior.Seriously? You’veneverheard of him? The Brazilian tiger?”
“Does Brazil have tigers?”
“It has one.” Rafael huffs and slinks back against the seat. “You’re so young.”
“No, I’m just bad at history.” There’s only a three year age gap between them—nothing to freak out over. “Thomas would probably know him. He loves shit like memorizing facts and history and whatever.”
“He did.”
“Did what?”
“He recognized my name immediately. Sounded like a fan boy the way he carried on about some of Dad’s most famous overtakes. You seriously don’t know him?”
Why does this comparison sting worse than anything else Julien heard today? “Sorry I can’t be Thomas.”
“Oh c’mon, don’t say that shit.” Rafael groans. “I got sidetracked. I just wanted to say I understand being compared to family, that’s all. It reminds me of my rookie season. It’ll pass.”
Since it seems to be a sensitive subject, Julien doesn’t mention that the reason people stopped comparing Rafael to his father probably has less to do with his own accomplishments, and more to do with people forgetting the older Souza exists.
Fat chance anyone will forget about Golden Boy Thomas while he’s still driving.
“They gave you an entire suite?” Julien’s cramped hotel room has a window the size of a piece of paper, but Rafael’s has sweeping views of the entire city. Glass spans from the floor to the ceiling of the second level.Secondlevel. “What do you even do with this much space?”
“Fuck on every square inch.”
“Really?” It would take a lot of time to even attempt it—more time than a driver usually has in a race weekend.
Rafael fixes him with a blank stare. “I’m kidding. They usually send a photographer on Wednesday night and comp the rest of the weekend. The hotel sponsors the team.”
“Whoa.” A chandelier clinks as the air conditioning switches on. It doesn’t sound like plastic—it tinkles like real crystal. “So this is how a full-time driver lives.”
“I doubt Andes shells out for a room with a clawfoot tub, but yeah, I guess it’s about the norm. Want a drink? The room comes with a butler, so it won’t take long.”
