He still isn’tpleasantto be around by any means. He acts like an ass more often than not, but he’s not intentionally cruel. Just grumpy as hell.
Thankfully, I get a day off from him after a week of dealing with his bullshit. It’s a press day—several major outlets have been invited to headquarters for individual interviews with team management and drivers, along with some photography sessions. After all’s said and done, the day will be wrapped up with a press conference in the late afternoon.
Thankfully, I have no duties with the press, so I get to hole up in the analyst’s cave and continue working on my algorithm. My conversation with Ilya was extremely helpful and encouraging, but it’s taken me a week to even find a spot in my program tofita morale sequence into. I finally nailed it last night, and after a brainstorming session with Oliver this morning—after I handed over enough cookies to give him a heart attack—I’m furiously writing code.
Once this is done, all I have left are a few finalizing steps and a lot of testing. It’ll take a month or so to beat everything into shape and work out the final bugs… and then, I’ll potentially have a multimillion dollar forecasting system at my fingertips.
“Victoria.” Thomas appears at the door some hours after I’ve started writing code. “Conference time. Get your ass up and in gear.”
I frown. “Why do I need to be there?” I’m not considered an essential or high-profile member of the team.
He shrugs. “No clue. Declan told me you were wanted there. I’m just here to deliver you.”
I cast a long, lingering look at my laptop. I suppose I don’t have to finish everythingnow;I can do it tonight. Or tomorrow, if it proves to be too much.
“Alright.” I stand up, shutting my laptop and stuffing it into my bag. I don’t have all that much interest in listening to reporters shout invasive questions at our drivers and team management, but these things usually only last an hour or so. I’ll be out of my misery quickly.
The conference takes place in the bowels of headquarters, on the ground floor. Most of the room is taken up by rows and rows of folding chairs, all of them already filled up. Reporters snap photos of the dais at the front of the room, where Ilya, Soren, Declan, Elio, Gideon, and Asher sit. My reaction at seeing Asher is visceral and decidedly unhealthy; every time I see his face, I think about the kiss. I can’t do anythingbutthink about it.
And then I get to thinking about his expression when I hid from him in the maintenance room. It’s a deadly combination. I’ve wanted to talk to him about it a thousand times this week, but I always clam up. I might be brave when it comes to numbers and data, but the thought of being vulnerable with people, withAsher, makes me shudder.
He catches my eyes, and I pointedly look away.
“I lost my seat to a reporter because of you,” Thomas mutters. “Let’s hope this’ll be quick. I’ve been running around all day.”
“Let’s hope,” I murmur. I have very little desire to be in a room with Asher any longer than is absolutely necessary. Not because I’m repulsed by him, but because he’s magnetic. The reporters know it—many flashing cameras are aimed in his direction.Elioknows it, whose smile is decidedly strained as he sits next to Asher. Everyone feels the same inexplicable draw to Asher Lawrence, but I’m the only person in this room who’s felt how soft his lips are, how heady his taste is, and just how irresistible he can be when he drops the asshole act for a few minutes.
“Alright.” Soren pulls his microphone towards himself. “Let’s get started. We’re really looking forward to…” I tune him and the reporters out for the next half hour, as well. I onlyreallystart paying attention when somebody has the balls to direct their question towards Asher.
“You took everyone by surprise with your performance in Bahrain,” the beady-eyed reporter says. She looks like she’s spoiling for a juicy story—allof them do. “It seemed like you’d given up on F1 for the last while.”
She waits for Asher to respond. When he doesn’t, she goes on, desperate for the scoop. “What are your aspirations for the rest of F1 season? Are you shooting high for a podium… or just at the faintest chance to get re-signed?” Asher’s jaw tenses, but she keeps going. “It’s clear you’ve been slacking off the last several seasons, and many assumed you were riding out the rest of your contract—"
“My aspirations for the rest of the season are to drive well. I can’t predict the future but I can predict I’ll be putting my best foot forward, and I do hope to be re-signed.” Asher bares his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. It’s chilling. “Anything else?”
The reporter is quiet for a beat, but she quickly recovers, clearing her throat. “What do you attribute your surprising performance last race to, and again, are you aiming for a podium?”
Asher works his jaw for a few beats. “There were many moving parts that helped me excel in Sakhir. Gaston has a solid technical team. I’m probably not allowed to speak much on it, but we have a new addition who joined us this season, who’s working on this predictive algorithm.” Asher’s eyes meet mine, and I feel like a deer in headlights. He’s talking about me.Publicly.
Asher Lawrence ispubliclystating that I had something to do with his success. He’s not using my name, which is probably for the best, but members of the team will know what he’s talking about.
“The algorithm has helped us answer questions we didn’t think we should pose,” Asher goes on. “I’ve been working really closely with them and hope to continue doing so.”
Holy. Shit. Elio’s words from the club float across my thoughts:he’ll make it his mission to destroy your name.
Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll insteadhelp meget a foothold in this competitive sport.
Another reporter stands up. “Is there a reason that Elio wasn’t able to extract the same performance?”
“Well, he doesn’t have Victoria—” Asher trails off when he realizes he’s name-dropped me. Every Gaston employee turns to look at me in unison.
I want to find a hole to crawl into and die. Acknowledging mewithout my nameis nice, but giving it to a bunch of hungry reporters… he’s literally just thrown me to the wolves.
Oh, shit.
“I mean, he doesn’t have the same technical person,” Asher tries to recover, but it’s too late.
In a single press conference, he’s given me internalrecognition, potential for job security, and so much validation, but then… he put me in the public eye. I don’t expect to getexcessiveattention—my opinion of myimportance is not that high—but even a little digging into me could prove problematic and dig up old skeletons.
