“I was surprised by how late you appeared today, especially because I saw you parked up outside the gates. My photographer saw you still sitting there an hour later. It must be hard, coming to a racing track, seeing as the last time you were at one, you nearly died.”
“You and your photographer must have seen someone else,” I mumble. Senna, Jacs, and Tawny stare at me.
There are too many people around.
Connor swaggers towards us.
“Someone else in an Aston Martin Vantage with the number plate Coults 75? Sure.” Ollie rolls his eyes.
“Are we done?” I ask, my throat closing. One of the engineers sneezes, and I jolt. Connor tries to whisper something in my ear, but he’s sweaty, and I can’t be sure it’s because of the drive. I rear away. My heartbeat thunders.
Ollie dogs me. “Do you still have scars from your accident?”
My trembling hand nearly knocks my cap off when I tap it to ensure it covers my head.
“Yes, I still have scars.” I used to be the guy people would write about because of my success and confidence. “Goodbye, Ollie.”
“You have plenty of emotional scars, too,” he says under his breath.
He’s right, but I can’t discuss it. My family and Connor would try to fix me, and I can’t be even more pathetic in front of them than I am now.
“One of your former medical team told me you hid serious mental health issues, and that’s why you disappeared not long after leaving the hospital. What would you say to them in response?”
I fumble through my bag for my water bottle, desperate to wash away the dryness clogging my throat. I can’t let anyone else near it in case they accidentally sip out of it. It slips out of my sweaty grip twice, but I grab it.
“My old medical team can’t tell you about my medical problems. That’s against doctor patient confidentiality.”
Ollie sneers. “So you’re not denying that’s what’s going on?”
“Get out,” I rasp as Senna gawks at me, open-mouthed.
“Readers deserve to know what broke their favourite star and why he can’t race anymore.”
The bottle falls out of my hand and clangs to the floor, drawing everyone’s attention. The nozzle touches concrete and a billion germs. I cough, and Senna grabs the bottle, wipes the nozzle on her blouse, and holds it out to me.
Why didn’t I bring a spare? My assistant would have a spare. They’d have stopped me from dealing with Ollie. Ishake as I continue coughing, gingerly taking the bottle from Senna.
What if I’m ill? I can’t be a reserve driver if I can’t even attend Shakedown without this happening. I need to get somewhere safe, but I can’t leave my family again.
I rush from the room, choking as I hide around the corner. I attempt to drink without my lips touching the nozzle. I hold my cap to my head. Water cascades down my face as I nearly waterboard myself, but my coughing subsides.
Why did I slip with what I said? Fucking anxiety. I need to control my life better, and I need help with that. There’s an itch to run away again, but I must move forwards if I want to return to the man I was before. I can’t do that alone, though.
Panting, I stay hidden until Senna’s voice carries on the wind. “Niki?”
When she sees me, she gasps and rubs the tattoo on her hand.
“I’m okay,” I croak, which is a perfect example of how I’m not okay. “I need an assistant. Will you help me?”
CHAPTER 8
Rosie
Tabi dabs bronzer to my cheeks as I practice my answers to the interview questions. The glow reminds me of my holiday in Rhodes six months ago.
Which reminds me of Liam.
Focus, Rosie.
