I’LL RACE IN ONE OF THEIR BIKINIS
BILLY
“I gotta hand it to the girl,” Clara says as I storm my way toward the paddock. “She’s got some balls on her and quite the sturdy backbone.”
I look at my sister. Her eyes are on Frankie, who is standing in the second-floor balcony area of the Mirabella paddock. She’s got a bottle of water in her hand, a team radio on her hip, and is gesturing wildly to Rocco. They’re both smiling, and I can’t hear a whisper of what they’re talking about. They want people to think it’s just normal engineer-Principal race day chatter, but I can tell by her abrupt gesturing hands and the way his shoulders are so high they’re almost pinned to his ears that it most definitely is not. Plus, the way the last four races have gone, I know it’s not pleasantries being exchanged.
Today will be the fifth race since Frankie took over as Team Principal, and to say it’s not going well would be an understatement. We haven’t podiumed, let alone won, since she took over. In Barcelona, I had engine trouble and dropped out in the twenty-seventh lap. Antonio was in third until the sky opened up and rain came down in sheets. Despite a pit for those wet tires Frankie smartly kept on the roster, De Luca finished sixth, and the media blamed her for some reason. Then there was Amsterdam, where I managed fourth and Antonio fifth. France, where Samuels collided with me and the car was damaged beyond repair. Samuels was hit with a time penalty, but that didn’t earn me any points. Antonio, despite having no apparent race issues, slipped from third to ninth. The media and the asshole demographic of our fans were blaming Frankie for everything, and a sponsor even pulled out. Not a big one, but still.
“A sturdy backbone? Because she’s standing up to Rocco?” I ask quietly as we walk. My eyes dart around behind my sunglasses to make sure none of the ever-present media has a microphone close enough to hear me.
“No,” Clara smiles, deviously. “Because she’s not bowing to any of the damn pressure. Except for the outfit, she’s holding strong to her beliefs and running the show the way she wants.”
The outfits, right. Frankie’s fun and flirty versions of Mirabella gear with the low V-necks and body hugging bottoms have disappeared since internet trolls started making memes out of pictures of her calling her outfits “distracting” and “inappropriate.” One even labeled her outfits Mirabella stripper wear, and another went so far as to say ‘I guess if she can’t win races, the least she can do is give us some T and A.’ She’s worn lose, androgynous styled shirts and pants ever since. Even her cute, sparkly trainers have been switched up for boring, white, sparkle-less shoes.
“And avoiding distractions, AKA, you.” Clara smirks.
I frown. “We talked after practice yesterday. For like an hour.”
“With Antonio, Rocco, Bash and Dario, and ten other people,” Clara reminds me. “And then she acted like she didn’t hear you when you asked to have a word after the meeting. And I heard she moved hotels. No longer stays where the Mirabella team stays.”
“She did,” I admit and try not to frown any harder. I found that out when I ran into Lucia, while I was wandering like a lost puppy through the lobby earlier this week, hoping to run into Frankie. She told me her sister had decided the Ritz across town was more her jam.
That’s utter bullshit. She was avoiding me. I had to take several hours to talk myself out of moving hotels as well. What the hell was wrong with me? I never let women get to me like this. Not a single one. Not since… well not since Frankie got to me back when I was a kid.
“In case you haven’t bothered to notice, I don’t care.”
“Yeah you do,” Clara replied airily.
“Shut up.”
She smiles.
“If you were anyone else, I would fire you right now.”
“If I was anyone else, I’d take your money and keep my mouth shut and let you continue to put all your energy into fooling yourself instead of into your driving,” Clara replies as she holds open the door to the paddock for me. I refuse to walk in and instead take the door from her so she can walk in. I may be annoyed with her, and she may technically be my employee, but I’m still not that dude who let’s women serve them. Unless it’s Frankie Castera serving my cock. I would gladly let that happen again.
I think back to how she looked a few weeks ago, on her knees, water slipping and sliding down her naked, perfect body, and those lips… I have dreamed about having those lips around my cock since the very first time she smiled at me. Frankie Castera looks like an angel hiding all the devil’s secrets. It’s such a fucking turn on. I’m far from over her, Clara is right.
I suddenly realize Clara has stopped talking and walking. I stare at her. “What?”
She closes her mouth and swallows, eyes glued to something down the main hall of the paddock. I turn my head slowly and Clara says the name as my eyes find her. “Sherry.”
“Mum!” I say and walk slowly toward her. “Why are you here?”
“Well, that’s hardly a greeting, now, is it?” my mother, Sherry Buckingham, says with a careless little chuckle, as if her little boy did something silly on the playground. “Come give me a hug.”
I do what she asks as Clara stands stiff and quiet beside me. I feel her tension like it’s my own. Clara’s hard feelings for my mom have been earned, unfortunately. My mother opens her arms and pulls me to her. She’s rail thin, like always, and her glossy blonde hair doesn’t have a strand out of place. She’s wearing jeans and a cranberry-colored, clingy sweater, which you bet your ass are designer. My mom knows there’ll be cameras here, so she’s ready for her close-up, even if it’s just because she’s standing next to me.
“You look well, Mum. But I didn’t know you were coming. We hadn’t discussed a visit,” I say, trying to sound casual. In all honesty, I wish she wasn’t here. She’s never easy to be around. I hate the guilt that fills my gut because of that, but it’s the truth.
“Australia is freezing right now, honey,” she explains. Australia, at least our part, is never freezing. The woman acts like it’s Fargo, Minnesota, in January. “I needed some sun and some culture. And to see my baby.”
She cups my face in her hands. She looks happy. She looks… balanced. I know that sounds weird, but she gets this look in her eyes when she is off her meds that I’ve learned to identify. Thankfully, she doesn’t have it now. But this surprise visit is a red flag. “Why not come to my dressing room? I have to get ready. We can catch up.”
“I’ll meet you at the garage. Text if you need anything,” Clara says to me, eyes purposely vacant of emotion. And then she turns so fast her sneaker makes a little squeak sound on the concrete floor.
“Clara, you…”don’t have to leaveis what never makes it out of my mouth. Because there’s no point. She won’t lock herself in my tiny dressing room with my mother, and it’s probably better this way. Even though I hate it. I turn to my mom. “Let’s go. I don’t have much time before qualifying.”
