“Come on.” Thomas bumps my shoulder with his. “It’s time you get educated on who you’ll be dealing with.”
Thomas and I return as all the drivers make their way to the pit lane, parking in front of their respective paddocks. The top 3 drivers—1 from Cheetah, 2 from Stallion—all look phenomenally pleased with themselves, as they should. The rest of the top 10 look varying degrees of ecstatic or content. Those who held solid ground in midfield seem fine, while the drivers who came anywhere after P18 are understandably upset, though most try to hide it as they retreat inside their paddocks.
Asher Lawrence apparently doesn’t have the decency to find a quiet space. As soon as he’s unbuckled from his car and out in the pit lane, he removes his helmet… and the snarl he’s wearing makes me instinctively back up several steps.
“What the fuck was that!”he roars.
Several heads of other drivers and members of their team turn. Elio hides a smile behind a cough.
“Aaaand showtime,” Thomas mutters under his breath. “We’ve got front row seats.”
Dear god.
It’s one thing to watch F1 on my computers, or in my formative years, on the cracked TV screen in the rundown mechanic shop where I spent most of my afternoons. It’s an entirelydifferentthing to watch the race unfold in real life, only to have it topped off by a Formula One driver publicly losing his shit.
Ilya breaks away from the pit wall and joins us in front of the garage. “That,” he drawls, “was aresult of your failure to learn and evolve with upgrades and regulation changes. You’re still driving the way you were five years ago—”
“Because that’s the best way!” Asher shouts.
More staring. People muttering under their breaths. Elio apparently starts to find this scene more embarrassing than amusing, because he turns and trudges into the paddock.
I, on the other hand, am glued in place, staring open-mouthed at Asher. His conduct is like a car crash; utterly appalling and somewhat terrifying, but also… entrancing.
The way he looks certainly doesn’t help tear my gaze away. JesusChrist, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man who’sthisattractive. Frankly, it feels like he should be fined for being a distraction.
He has reddish-brown hair that’s plastered to his head with sweat, yet somehow he makes the messy appearance look… appealing. His eyes are a piercing, dark cobalt, hooded by endlessly thick lashes that women apply pounds of mascara to replicate. His cheekbones are high and sharp, aristocratic, and he has a stubborn jaw that speaks volumes about his temperament.
He is, in short, gorgeous. And somehow, I think his fury almost enhances that.
“Is it? Ilya questions calmly. “Remind me, how many races have you won since your contract with us started?”
Asher pants like an angry bull in response, broad shoulders rapidly rising and falling. My god, his glare… Idon’t know how Ilya is still standing upright. Asher’s glower would reduce a lesser man to dust.
“None,” Ilya emphasizes. “And you refuse to take direction from your engineer, or any other member of your team. If you’d like, I can have Elio test your car to show you it’s perfectly functional—”
“Don’t youfucking dare,”
An announcement about the upcoming podium echoes above the pit lane. A few cameras flash in Asher’s direction, bringing far too much attention to his public meltdown.
“I don’t have time for this,” Ilya mutters. “Go contemplate how you’ll do better next race, Asher. You’re on thin ice.”
Asher glances around the lane, casts everyone who’s looking his way a complementary snarl, and stalks forward. He ignores Declan, the highest-ranking engineer aside from Ilya on site and my boss, who tries to stop him for a word. Asher literally shoulders past Declan.
He only comes to a halt when he’s about five feet to the left of me, about to step into the garage. He casts me a baleful glance which turns into a second look. His beautiful eyes narrow. His lips thin so much they turn white. A vein on his forehead pulses.
He looks at me as if I’ve recently spent an afternoon decapitating his mother.
Then, he changes course, and storms right up to me.
Chapter Two
Victoria
“Who thefuckare you?” he demands.
It is very,verytempting to turn and run as far away from him as possible, as quickly as I can. He radiates a mixture of anger and menace, and the way he stares at me makes me wonder if he’ll soon be charged with my first-degree murder.
What the hell have I done to him to get this extra-shitty treatment?
