“Good.” I take my mobile from my jacket and swipe it open to Contacts, then slide it toward her. “Your number, pet.”
9
MELBOURNE
ONE WEEK LATER
SAGE
If I could get away with it, my pre-race ritual would be the same as seventies F1 driver James Hunt: drink and party for a week, have sex with a gorgeous woman immediately before the race, then anxiety-vomit before getting into the car.
I’m certainly suffering a lot of anxiety this week.
My first two races with Emerald were garbage. In Bahrain, I qualified like shit but had made it up to twelfth place when João Valle tried going three-wide into a corner and caused a collision bad enough for a red flag, and me retiring my damaged car.
During the last race—Saudi Arabia—my poor performance was all on me. No one to blame. I let personal shit get into my head and got a terrible start, then earned a penalty for speeding in the pit lane. It was all downhill from there, fuckup after fuckup, tumbling like dominoes. I finished in thirteenth,fiveplaces below where I qualified.
I got into Melbourne on Sunday. And I really was gonna be a good girl this week and eat right and sleep well and all that, but then Priya was acting weird after a phone call Sunday night (obviously with Julian) and told me she was taking off to “explore hiking spots” and wouldn’t be back until sometime today. I got mad and sulky because she was so clearly lying to me after being all like, “Ooh, we have to be so real and communicative with each other,” and… yeah, my unfortunate self-destructive impulses had a moment.
I dressed up in about three square inches of fabric and went dancing at Cherry Bar last night, knocked back four extra-dirty martinis, and brought a stunner named Ruby to my suite. This morning I sent an early text to Dagna with the made-up excuse that I’d be a couple hours late to my workout because I’ve been “stricken by questionable tacos.”
Ruby and I woke up horny, and I’ll probably never see her again, so… make hay (and roll in it) while the sun shines, right?
I’m walking around the living room naked an hour later, perusing the room service menu on my phone, when there’s a knock at the door that must be Priya. Before she left, I snatched her key card from her hand and told her not to bother coming back (obviously bullshit, but I get dramatic when I’m mad), so she’s locked out.
Staring at my phone, I call out to Ruby, “Should we order Bloody Marys?” as I fling the door wide.
“Oh my. That’s a turn up for the books,” a smooth male voice says. “Good morning.”
I drop my phone just before my eyes meet Alexander’s, and I would’ve slammed the door if not for the jolt of pain as the phone’s corner smashes my pinky toe.
I hit the floor like a stone—bare ass freezing on the tile—and cradle my foot, yelling, “Fuuuuuuuuck!”
Ruby rushes out of the bedroom and across to me, shirtless.
Could this get any worse?
I must have said it out loud, because Alexander replies, “From where I’m standing, the question would be, ‘Could it get anybetter?’ Here, pet—let me past and I’ll get you some ice.”
He starts to step over me and I punch at his shin. He retreats and I manage to get the door shut from my awkward position half blocking its swing arc. It’s not lost on me that with the leg-contortion necessary to this operation, he’s seen enough of my lady garden to draw a map of it.
“Who was that?” Ruby asks, helping me up. Her long braids sway tantalizingly across a mesmerizing pair of cinnamon-brown tits. “Did you order him from room service?”
“Hardly. Can you grab me one of those robes from the bathroom, then let him in?” I hobble to the sofa and flop down, inspecting the damage to my foot.
Ruby places my phone on the coffee table and breezes off, then comes back and drapes a robe around me. I wriggle into it as she goes to open the door, tucking her shirt in.
“Are you all right?” Alexander asks, coming down the two steps into the sunken living room and sitting on the opposite sofa.
“Never better,” I grumble, prodding the toe. “What the hell are you doing here already?”
“You requested my presence last night, did you not?”
“It’s twenty hours from London. Did you teleport?” I turn sideways and yank the thick white terry cloth over my knees.
“I was in Wellington, pet. Art auction at Dunbar Sloane. Four-hour flight. I did mention it when you called, but you sounded fuckin’ trollied, so it’s no surprise you don’t remember.”
I angle a hostile glare at him, wishing I had a good comeback, but… he’s not wrong. I vaguely recall shouting into my phone over the pulsing music in the club, dizzy on rebellion and top-shelf gin. It comes to me with a solar flare of mortification that I may have said,Get that sweet ass of yours to Melbourne, asap, and followed it with a wolf howl.
