“Aren’t you good with super-nerds, though? I’m sure there’s a team of them somewhere. Bring them some of your baked goods, wear a low-cut crop top, and you’ll be golden.”
“How doeseverythingcome down to appearance with you? Shouldn’t we leave that to Keith—thesupermodelanddrag queen?”
“What can I say? I’m trying to play two friends at once. He’s better at dealing with emotions than I am.”
We’re both quiet for a while, lost in thought. After a few minutes, Delilah asks, “How’s your mom?”
“Stable,” I murmur, a deep sadness tugging at my chest. “A resident was overseeing her when she got to the hospital. His supervisor said he misread some test results and got overzealous. She’s fine; she’s already been discharged and is back at home with Norris.” Norris is her German around-the-clock nurse, who has biceps biggerthan my thighs and a scowl that can bring armies to heel. She’s also an excellent cook, adores my mother, adores me, and tolerates my older brother as well as anyone can. When I got her call that Mom was in the hospital a few hours before I boarded my flight for this race, I nearly lost my mind.
“Rookies.” Lilah shakes her head. “I’m glad she’s good. Has Hunter gone to see her?”
After I moved across the country to be closer to Gaston’s headquarters, my brother took over my weekly visits with Mom, similarly to how he did while I was in college. He’s much busier than me—he’s the founder and CEO of a major quantitative hedge fund—but despite his many,manyfaults, my brother loves his family. Or, at least, heprioritizesus. I’m not sure if someone with his…tendenciesis capable of love.
“Yeah. I’m hoping I can fly out to see her at least once this season, but I don’t know how I’ll make it work. I’ll pretty much be living out of a suitcase until December.”
“You’ll figure out a way,” Delilah says confidently. “I have faith in you.”
“That’s more than I have in myself right now.”
“Get over your pity party, already. This isn’t worth it.” Delilah sighs when I yawn. “It looks like what you need is a good night’s sleep. Go get it, and make the world your bitch in the AM.”
“I can’t. I ran back to the hotel to hide away from the team press conference. I can’t face anyone—”
“I’ll stop you right there. You donothide from your problems, you got me?Ever. You’re better than that.”Delilah’s glare is cutting, but her words strike a chord. “Go get your ass to whatever conference is happening. Hold your chin high, and take everything that comes at you with grace. You’re more capable than all the morons in F1, and you’ll prove it.”
Sometimes, Delilah’s bluntness is too much. Other times, it’s just enough.
I drop my chin into my hand. “Alright. I love you.”
She makes a face. “Stop being so sentimental.” That’s her way of telling me she loves me too before hanging up.
Chapter Four
Asher Lawrence
“Asher, could I have five minutes—”
“No.” I brush off the reporter vying for an exclusive, just like I have with every single other leech ever since I started in F1.
People think the difference between Elio and me is astronomical—that he’s the nicer man, better driver, and prettier public persona.
The only real difference is that he’s a better actor. I don’t waste time on the theatrics of media; I have more important shit to do.
I push my way into the office allocated to our team principal, Soren Vale. He’s seated in front of a desk ten times bigger than he is, silver hair slicked close enough to his scalp to make him look like a piece of shit, his posture straight.
Declan is pouring himself more whiskey than he ought to be drinking during a race day from a crystal decanter, and Ilya is standing in front of a wall of windows overlooking the track, his back to me. Noah Kline, our chief mechanic, is also here, fiddling with his phone like the absolute moron he is.
“For future reference, I’m not a call girl,” I say. “Don’t text me for a late-night quickie.”
“Charming as always,” Declan comments. “Want to explain why you ignoredevery orderI gave you?”
“Because your orders are as shitty as my car.”
“Damnit.” Noah pushes an irate hand through his hair. “You’re being—”
“Ridiculous? Unreasonable? A piece of shit?” I nod. “You just listed my commentary on the caryoubuilt—”
“Asher.” Ilya turns away from the window, fixing his cool gaze on me. “The problem, in this case, is not the car. It is the driver behind the wheel.”
