“Because you told me to!”
“Oops! You guys switched back to French,” Sam says. “I’m also very interested in that answer, so…?”
“No!”Thomas finally says.
But Julien needs specifics. “No blowjobs, no handjobs, no kissing?”
“Nojobs!No kissing.”
“Okay.” Julien nods, satisfied. “Okay, good. Good.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Um…” Is there a normal reason? “Uh…” Something that doesn’t sound like Julien himself is particularly interested in the Brazilian driver? “Well, you see…”
With every moment, Thomas’s eyes grow larger.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like déjà vu.” Sam massages the bridge of his nose, like he’s fighting a migraine. “What does anyone even see in that asshole?”
Julien scoffs. “Maybe people like that he doesn’t crash into rookies.”
“It was a sprint, you’ll survive.”
“Sam has already apologized,” Thomas says matter-of-factly.
“To who?!” Julien sure as hell didn’t receive an apology. Did he talk to the car? The mechanics?!
“Sorry, kid.” Sam flashes his stupid plastic smile again. It’s just as fake as the rest of him. “Tell ya what—if you stay behind me, I won’t crash into you. Win-win!”
Unbelievable. That is athreat. Sam is threatening Julien’s life for a fucking race. Who’s the dangerous one now?!
Julien turns to his brother, shutting Sam out completely.“You willingly talk to this asshole? You defended him over me? This man?!”
“Yeah, you don’t gotta translate that one for me. I’m good.” Sam laughs, and Julien wants to toss him overboard.
When the truck finally stops, the drivers crowd around the exit. Sam ends up in front of Julien and his stupid little taunt replays in the Frenchman’s head.
If you stay behind me, I won’t?—
Fuck that. Julien steps on the back of the Aussie’s heel until his foot pops out of his shoe. After a couple of hops, Sam fixes it, but Julien just steps on him again.
He’ll get his real revenge out on the track.
Davide had assured him that the clanging in the side of his car is completely normal, but Julien still can’t improve his position during the race. He crosses the line P6 an hour after he loses sight of the Australian driver ahead of him.
Eight points is fine—it’s a good haul for a midfield team—but Julien’s in a Ferraro.
If he’s going to prove anything to anyone, he needs to do better than sixth place.
“Japan is like Monaco—it’s practically won during Qualifying.” Rafael tousles Julien’s hair, fucking it up after the post-race meeting. “Run it a bunch of times on the sim—enough to drive it blind. It’s a fun one, at least, and Japan is beautiful.”
“Why are you acting like I won’t see you until then?” Julien laughs, but it sounds unsteady, even to his own ears. “You’re flying back to Italy with us, right?”
“Not this time. I’m pretty useless to the team during the break with—” Rafael nods down to his strapped arm. “But they love me in Japan, so I’m gonna spend a couple weeks over there.”
It makes sense to take one three-hour flight directly to Japan instead of two thirteen-hour flights into and out of Italy, but Julien is still a little disappointed that he won’t get to see him in that time.
“Look at how sad you are! C’mere.” Rafael hooks his free arm around Julien’s neck, and the younger driver squawks as he’s pulled in. “Man, you’re such asap!Just admit it—you’re going to miss me.”
