My jaw can do nothing but drop. “You’re telling me you were conceivedona race car?”
“Yes.” Frankie almost grins. Almost. “So I win. And I do love it, James. I just don’t love most of the people involved in the sport. But the mindset, the vision, the passion, I love every single fucking second of that. So I said yes.”
“What about your Instagram business? How the hell are you going to model bikinisandlead a race team?” I question, and I don’t blame her for that fiery stare that says she wants to slap me. I want to slap me when I hear myself. But it’s still the truth, so I double down like the dick that I am. “You know this sport, the fans, they’re all going to laugh, smirk, make stupid comments. And if you’re still peddling liquor and swimwear and charging for party appearances, they’ll think less of you. They’ll think less of the team. And every single fucking person associated with Mirabella Racing.”
“You let me handle the tough questions, buttercup,” she says sharply and with so much condescension it’s almost impressive. “You concentrate on winning. And if you can’t do that, or you can’t handle this transition and any petty bullshit that comes with it, then feel free to shop for a new team next year.”
“My contract is for two more years.”
She swipes her key card again and this times opens the door with an aggressive flick of her wrist. “I’ll release you. Say the word.”
She disappears without another word, just a whoosh of the door as it shuts behind her. The door beside hers opens a crack, but I ignore it and turn back toward the elevators. I know it’s her bodyguard Nick. He heard us and is making sure she’s okay.
Of course Frankie Castera is just fine. She’s about to be my boss. She’s fucking peachy. I, on the other hand, need a drink.
