“She’s an amazing physio. You’re lucky to have her.”
I twist the dispenser knob and cradle the spill of purple and white sugar pellets. “Yeah, well. When I told her I was craving chocolate, she sent me a recipe for whipped tofu with cacao nibs.” As Priya tries to lead me to the door, I protest, “Wait! I need Hot Tamales…”
“What youneedis self-control.”
She drags me into the rain, shooting a cranky side-eye at me as we walk down the street to where my restored 1974 Triumph TR6 is parked. “I should’ve gotten a video of you talking to that little girl,” Pri says. “Social mediagold. Better than a rescue-puppies post.”
I tip candies into my mouth and awkwardly talk around them. “Cynical photo op,” I mumble, transferring the mound of stale licorice to one cheek.
“Maybe a pic of you with your car? Fans must be curious to see what a Formula 1 driver gets around town in.” Priya pulls her phone from a back pocket as we walk up.
“Meh. I don’t need strangers to know that.” I hop into the driver’s side.
“Phaedra told us to get fun pics for Insta,” Priya insists, climbing in. “Gotta ‘build your brand’ and all that.”
“No thanks.” I mop the condensation off the inside of the windshield.
“You’resoweird about social media. Anyone who’s met you would think you’d be live streaming every time you brush your teeth, and your dad made a zillion bucks off the internet, but you act like I’m trying to steal your soul if I hold up a camera.”
“Yeah, but my mom was adamant about ‘being present’ for experiences. It’s part of what gave me the focus to excel at racing. ‘Make memories, not content,’ she always says.”
“Well,your bosssees it differently. Taking pictures of you is part of my job. And you know who cares the most about your socials?Sponsors.Which is exactly what Phaedra will say.”
“The season hasn’t even started yet. Let me enjoy one last month ofnothaving a camera up my ass.” I start the car, the engine coughing before it roars to life. “Soon enough I’ll be back in the snake pit, my privacy all kinds of invaded by dickweed journalists like He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”
“That’s my point. It’s not helping that two of the bloggers who talk about you the most do it because they hate you. We need to create content that makes you fun and relatable. Get ahead of the narrative. According to that Carol-Jeanne lady onSports and Tortes, you’re a conniving villain who sabotaged her precious daughter.”
“CJ Ardley is a delusional sports-mom who happens to have a big following. Mostly because she posts those cougary cheesecake pics along with… like, actual cheesecakes. No one takes her seriously.” I rev the engine not only to encourage itbut also because I’m irritated and enjoy the aggressive sound. “Her own daughter thinks she’s cringe. Maya Ardley and I were super supportive of each other in karting.”
“Sure, but lots of people read her blog. And you know who has evenmoreinfluence? This guy.” Priya holds up her phone: Alexander Laskaris’s dumb, smirky face in the profile pic beside the banner of hisIn the Mirrorsblog.
“Whatever. Alexanderwho?” I put the car into gear and screech onto the road.
It’s a shame that he’s been dragging me for months, because I used to be a fan of his writing. He’s smart, funny, and… okay, kinda handsome—I can’t deny that. I used to follow his blog. But after I got the Emerald seat, he started posting all this snarky shit. What a disappointment, discovering he’s just another insulting, clickbait-generating douche.
Priya scrolls down his latest post, skimming the content. “Uh-oh…” she groans.
I look over after navigating a turn. “What?”
She rotates the phone to face me again. I can only afford a brief glance while I’m driving, but it’s enough to see an unflattering pic of myself climbing out of a car outside a club with a flash of crotch.
“Oh, fuckbuckets. What’s it say?” I demand.
“The headline is ‘Putting the “Cock” in “Cockpit,”’ and the lede is, ‘If rumors are true about how much time punk-rock racer Sage Sikora has spent at Klaus Franke’s home on Santorini, it’s no mystery how her perky bum landed in Emerald’s second seat. Does Franke, a notorious womanizer, have a Formula 1 casting couch on his Greek isle getaway?’”
Fury wicks up my spine and spreads in a blanket of heat. I clutch the steering wheel hard. “Okay, that’sit. The creep’s gone too far this time.” At a stoplight, I swivel and give Priya a determined look. “I’m calling Phaedra, and we’re gonna sic legal on him.” I stare back out at the rain, eyes narrowed. “Prepare to be humbled, you sexist London dickbag.”
2
LONDON
ALEXANDER
The only thing better than waking up to a hand on your cock is when the hand belongs to someone with a pair of tits like these. Brigitte is leaning on an elbow, sheet draped over her hip, showcasing her bountiful charms in a way that would be sufficiently inspiring even if she weren’t caressing me.
“Bonjour, mon preux chevalier,” she greets in a sultry whisper.
“Well, hello to you too.”
