I frown. “He’s attractive, I guess.”
“Attractive?”She snorts out a laugh. “Girl, I’d let him split me in half like a juicy piece of wood.”
I grimace, not even attempting to unwind that metaphor. “Yeah… just not my type.”
She cocks her head to the side. “What about Asher?” she asks.
I feel my cheeks heat, but I keep a straight face. “Not even a little bit.”
“Really?” she mimes fanning herself. “Because I’d let that man—”
I hold up a hand. “Please don’t finish that sentence. While we’re talking about Asher, what’s his problem?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s an absolute prick, and I’m curious what crawled up his ass and died.” I look back at my tablet, and spend a few seconds glancing over his stats. “You have to really put elbow grease into beingthisbad.”
“What’s elbow grease? Like, sweat?”
Dear god.
“It’s a term I picked up from my surrogate father; he was a mechanic.”And the man who got me to fall in love with F1.“What I mean iseffort.” If she doesn’t knowthatword, I’m finding a window to throw myself out of.
“Oh. I dunno. Him beingexcellenteye-candy is the only thing I like about him.”
“Okay, what do youdislikeabout him?”
She shrugs. “He’s justsucha Debbie-downer. Like,all the time. There was this one time last season, though, when his grandma came to watch him race. He didreallywell then. Aside from that, though, he’s just a bad driver with a bad attitude.”
I scroll a bit more. “Was the date of his grandma coming to watch May 24th?”
She squints. “I think so, yeah.” She finishes the rest of her coffee in another big gulp.
“Amanda, go get another drink. I have a few more questions for you.”
She perks right up. “Awesome! Youhaveto try the chai tea latte next. It’s rad.”
“Actually, I prefer black coffee—”
But she’s already gone to the counter, placing an order for two more insufferable designer drinks.
It’s just my luck that the literal stereotype for Barbie happens to be the woman who accidentally predicted a vital flaw in my model.
Chapter Six
Asher
Iprefer to avoid headquarters whenever possible, because every time I come in, I end upseethingmad. Unfortunately, I don’t get a say in the matter when Ilya tells me to either show up or give up my seat to a reserve driver.
Whether or not this is my last season, I refuse to shoulderthatembarrassment, so I drag my ass into HQ the day before we’re set to pack and leave for Shanghai.
It’s just my luck that the first person of note I stumble upon is Tommy-Toby, who happens to be standing with Victoria in the sim control center. The room is dim, cool, and bathed in the blue-white glow of a dozen monitors. Victoria and Tommy-Toby both stand at the wall of glass that looks into the sim suite, where Elio’s strapped into the rig—a bare-bones replica of a race car cockpit, bolted onto a platform that tilts and shifts to mimic real driving. Curved screens wrap around him, projecting a virtual track that moves with every turn of the wheel he’s gripping.
As usual, Elio’s making a fucking fool of himself with shitty race maneuvers being performed with far toomuch of a flourish, as if he knows he’s being watched. I hide behind the door like a delinquent, listening in and peeking out to get a glimpse of the pair.
Victoria looksfartoo tempting with her hair wound into a knot, her round ass encased in a pair of tight jeans, and her tits straining against the fabric of a sweater. And Tommy-Toby-soon-to-be-dead fuck is spendingwaytoo much time staring at her body while she chatters away about some bullshit, staring at a tablet she’s clutching.
I’m about to ruin both of their days when Declan joins them and gazes over Victoria’s shoulder. Tommy-Toby-moronic fuck immediately straightens and stops staring at what isn’t his to admire, turning his attention back to the sim suite.
