Chapter Eight
Victoria
By the end of the flight, I’m bleary-eyed and exhausted. The sunset spills through the plane’s window as we land, illuminating the cabin in startling shades of yellow, orange, and pink. Those gorgeous colors are shortly overtaken by the flashing lights of cameras, which prompts me to wince and slam the window cover down. I’mfartoo tired to even look at a paparazzo. The one perk of being an intern nobody is that none of them will look my way, either.
I’m never flying with the team again. I don’t care if I have to cram myself into economy seats for the rest of the year—this luxury travel is just a pretty front for a shitty time.
Almost everybody slept through the bulk of the flight, so there’s lots of stumbling and grumbling going around.
Declan nearly topples me in the aisle when he grabs his bag from the overhead compartment. He gives me a meaningful glance that drips with displeasure. “I don’t care if you talk shit, but do it on your own time, and do itquietly,”he hisses. “And I think it might be best if you stay away from our drivers.”
I nod hurriedly. “I couldn’t agree more.”
A sleek black Gaston van greets us on the tarmac, along with some three dozen paparazzi from all over the world, all of whom start shouting questions as soon as Asher stumbles off. He ignores the crowd, shoulders past them, and climbs directly into the van.
Elio has no such disdain for the media. I stand to the side of the plane’s staircase and watch, half-fascinated and half-repulsed, as he lifts his hand, showing off his shiny Rolex, and flashes the cameras a bright smile. Any hint of drunkenness has left him; he looks awake and ready to play the part of the media darling.
An American reporter shouts out, “Can you tell us what you’re wearing?”
Elio jumps on the opportunity, thoroughly detailing every item of designer clothing he’s decked out in, from the Gucci glasses on his head to the Bvlgari rings to his Chanel sneakers.Thisis why he chose to forgo comfort for the flight.
Declan trudges up beside me, folding his arms as he stares at Elio. “The kid can drive, but he’s a fuckin’ sellout,” he mutters with a long-suffering sigh. “One of my drivers is a talented fuckup, and the other is a walking brand deal. Damnit, I miss the old days, when the only thing that mattered was the car. This Gen-Z bullshit is exhausting.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmur. I’m no fonder of my generation than he is.
“You better get in the van. As soon as we wrap up, we’re heading to the hotel. I expect you to be at the track at 6am sharp, so you should get your beauty rest. I won’t tolerate any more tardiness from you.”
Anger singes through my veins. I’m exhausted, overworked, completely unappreciated, and was recently called out by a world-famous athlete after his assistant tattled on me. I almost snap at Declan that I was late because my dying mother landed in the hospital but manage to hold myself back. He wouldn’t care.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, and go to the van.
The only remaining seat that hasn’t yet been taken by a person or a bag is in the back row, right next to Asher. He has sunglasses on despite the darkness outside and is slumped low, arms folded across his broad chest. I imagine he’s glaring at nothing behind his reflective Ray-Bans.
While I have minimal desire to deal with his bad attitude, I happen to need to pick his brain, and now’s as good a time as any. I don’t expect being around him would be any easier even if I weren’t in a shitty mood.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snaps when I drop down beside him.
“Waiting for Elio to finish his bullshit media circus so we can all get some rest,” I respond calmly. “In the interim, I have questions for you.”
“Here’s a blanket answer; fuck off.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t recall asking for anyone’s help, let alone yours.”
“You might not have asked, but you’re in sore need of help if you want to stay in F1.”
Asher scoffs, pulling up his sunglasses to let me feel the full force of his glare. “Who the hell says I want to stay in F1? This sport has turned into a joke.”
“I’ve watched tapes from your first two years on the circuit. And a few from your time in F2. You will not convince me that the boy you were then has no desire to continue in this sport. Your love for F1 was patently obvious.”
“That boygrew the fuck up,” Asher hisses. “And the man he became would deeply appreciate some peace and fucking quiet. I haven’t slept in three days.”
“You slept through the entire flight.”
“I sat still with my eyes closed, listening to you and pretty boy talking shit on me for the first few hours. Then, I got to listen to his brainless assistant gab away in his ear for the rest of it. I amnotin a good mood.”
“I wasn’t talking shit on you.”
