PROLOGUE
SOME POMPOUS PANDA
FRANKIE
Races in Monaco are the best because the parties are the best. Also, I love when my dad’s team wins in Monaco, which they did tonight. His drivers are at this very party, drunk off their asses, cooing about their first and second place wins. Dad went back to the hotel about an hour ago but let me stay. Lucia had to go home though because she’s only seventeen. I’m eighteen, so I pulled the ‘adult’ card and he allowed it. But I had to promise to be careful and come home at a reasonable hour.
I’ve been dancing for an hour, partying with the usual race fans and groupies – royalty, billionaire off-spring, and drivers and crews from other divisions. My bestie Jennie came to the race. Her dad is a tech mogul from Japan, and she and I met when we both went to the same boarding school at fourteen. It was my first and last year in a normal school. My mom home schooled us so we could follow my dad around the world during race season, but I begged for “normal” and they finally relented, putting me in a fancy arts-oriented boarding school. It was fun but both Lucia and I missed our parents and the racing world more than we let on. Then mom got sick later that same year, and my dad pulled us out of school to spend as much time as possible with her. After she died, we had tutors so that we could travel again with our dad, who retired from driving the next year but started his own team. Jennie’s in university now in London, but she’s off for the summer and following me around.
“Tonight is perfect!” I declare as we take a break from the dance floor and make our way to the bar. I’ve had just enough booze that I feel tipsy. Floaty and flirty but not dizzy or nauseous. I’m careful not to cross that line. I’ve only done it once, last year. My dad was so pissed and worried when he found me puking my guts out at two in the morning in the bathroom that he almost took me to the hospital. I got my first grounding ever after that. Now at eighteen, he accepts I drink because it’s legal in Europe, but he still worries and has a tracker on my phone he thinks I don’t know about. I haven’t taken it off because I’m okay with him knowing where I am. Dad loves us dearly and we are all he has left so I’m cool with letting him keep track of us. I’m not doing anything crazy anyway. I drink a little and once smoked a joint, but that’s it.
“Deux champagne s’il vous plait,” I say to the bartender as Jennie reaches for one of the cocktail napkins and proceeds to pat my forehead.
“Frankie, I wanna take a picture for social media and I don’t want you shiny,” she explains as I swat at her. Jennie is studying marketing and she wants to make me a thing. I wasn’t even on Instagram or Facebook until she coaxed me into it last year. I’m amazed at how many friends I have already. I mean, ‘friends’ is an overstatement. I definitely don’t know ninety-nine percent of the hundred-thousand people on my social media accounts. I guess strangers like to see the behind-the-scenes race and party stuff I post. Lately, though, there have been some assholes who say mean things about me or my dad’s team. Jennie showed me how to block them.
Jennie finishes blotting me and then holds up her phone and tells me to smile. She takes a bunch of pictures until I get bored and the bartender photobombs the pic with our champagne glasses and his annoyed face.
“Merci!” I say as I turn around, reaching for the glasses.
He’s also put two shots of clear liquid in front of us. “From the men over there.”
I follow the bartender’s bony finger as he points. There, at the end of the bar, are three guys. Three cute guys – which are my favorite kind. I smile, and so does Jennie, and they take that as an invitation to make their way over. Their names are all D names. Daniel, Dominic, and Dion. Jennie jokingly asks if they exclusively hang out with Ds only, and they laugh. We make small talk. They know who I am, which I hate. Daniel asks me a million questions about the Mirabella racing team, which I actually don’t mind. I love talking about F1 and my dad’s team. Dominic wants to talk about my dad’s career, which I also like talking about. My dad was an amazing driver with three World Championship titles. Dion isn’t chatty like his buds. He seems moody.
“You didn’t take your shot,” Dion finally speaks after almost a half hour.
“Right,” I smile. “I don’t do shots, but I appreciate the gesture.”
It was Goldschlager shots that made me so sick last year.
Dion doesn’t smile back. “It was a gift. Your friend accepted it.”
Jennie repeats her name for him, because she hates when people don’t remember it. “It was delicious. So delicious I’ll do hers.”
Jennie picks up the shooter from the bar as I take another sip of champagne. Dion isn’t going to let this go. “It’s not champagne so it’s not good enough for Sebastian Castera’s daughter?”
“No. I drink more than just champagne,” I reply, my voice calm but hard. I hate guys like him. They meet me with pre-formed opinions. They’re cocky and belligerent and gross on the inside. On the outside, Dion is buff with perfect hair and expensive clothes. It’s lipstick on a pig. “I don’t do shots, but I truly appreciate the gesture.”
Dion huffs out a disgusted breath and mutters something but the music in the club is too loud for me to hear him. I am not about to step closer and ask him to repeat it. So I turn to Jennie, and our eyes connect, and an unspoken conversation happens. The kind bestie girls have all the time in clubs.
I want to ditch them, my eyes scream.
Just ignore the asshole, Jennie’s eyes plead.
Please.
Jennie sighs, a sign she is going to give in, and she downs the shot I refused. That sets Dion into a rage. “What the fuck! That wasn’t yours!”
“Whoa, chill D,” Dominic advises his friend, and Daniel grabs his arm as he steps toward me aggressively.
Jennie’s dark brown eyes grow wide. “Let’s go.”
We turn when the psycho growls. “Rich bitch! I bet you suck all the drivers’ cocks, but we’re not good enough to do a shot with.”
I feel his hand on my shoulder. It’s cold and hard, and I would yelp, but before a sound can leave my mouth, the hand is gone. I swivel back and can see nothing but shoulders. Broad shoulders and the back of a dirty blond head. “You need to back off, mate.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Dion hisses.
“Someone who doesn’t manhandle women who want nothing to do with me,” the voice with the rich Aussie accent says. “I’ll say it one last time. Back off, mate.”
