Mom smiles brightly, drapes an arm on my shoulders, and marches down the hall with me. She rattles on as I get dressed in my race suit. She’s got a million questions about Frankie’s new position and why my last few races were less than great. “They can’t all be winners, Mom,” I mutter to that last question.
“They need to be, Billy,” she replies, with the stern tone of a parent looking at a subpar report card. A normal parent, not mine. Both my mom and dad have always cared more about my track results than my school grades. “You’ve left yourself with very little wiggle room.”
“I am far from being at the bottom of the pack,” I say as I zip up my suit and step into the main room from the bathroom. “I’m two wins away from taking the lead in the Championship standings and there’s more than two races left.”
Mum is sitting on the couch, rummaging around the fruit bowl they always leave on the coffee table. She plucks off a grape and examines it. “You’re currently fourth overall. Middle of the pack might as well be bottom. There’s no title for anything other than first.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, mummy dearest,” I mutter.
She glares for a second but not for long because she doesn’t want to get wrinkles one day. Her words, when asked last year by a reporter why she always looks like she’s in a good mood. “You want to beat that man’s record, don’t you? I’m just thinking of you.”
That man, as she constantly refers to him, is my father. Tommy won four world championships by the time he was thirty. I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve won three. The door is closing, and the only person who wants me to beat my father’s record more than me is Sherry Buckingham. Formerly Sherry Buckingham James, but Mum dropped the James as soon as she found out dear old Dad had been having a nine-year affair with a woman from Montreal, Canada.
“I don’t need the reminder. It’s all I think about lately.” Well, that and my Team Principal’s BJ skills. Oh, and how her pussy felt against my tongue.
“Billy..?” I snap out of the sex fog and find my mother staring at me with a tilted head. “What’s wrong with you? Is it because Bash abandoned the team and gave his job to his daughter? Is she causing this drama with you?”
I shake my head. “She’s really not. Sure, it’s a bit of an adjustment, but it’s fine. It will be fine.”
“Antonio doesn’t think so,” Mum replies. “I ran into him in the cafeteria as I was looking for you when I arrived. He said this girl will tank the entire team if someone doesn’t remove her soon.”
“He’s just mad he’s underperforming more than usual this season,” I open the door to my room and motion for her to leave. As we walk, I twist my neck from left to right. “I’m going to need to do some drills with Clara and get her to work on my neck, so I don’t know if you want to stick around here or head up to the lounge and watch qualifying from there.”
“Honestly? I’d love to watch from the garage, but until you fire that girl, I’ll be upstairs,” she says bluntly and with zero remorse for her harshness.
“Then you’ll likely never see the garage again,” I reply, equally blunt. But then I kiss her cheek to soften the blow. “That, by the way, will be the last time you reference Clara while you’re here. Love you, Mum.”
I turn and stride down the hall and out the doors. I hate how much Mum hates my step-sister. It’s not her fault that our dad was a cheating ass. She didn’t ask to be born the way she was, and Clara is a great person. The best sibling I could have asked for. I wish Mum could see that. It’s been ten years for fuck’s sake. It’s time to try and accept Clara or at least be civil to her.
I’m agitated by all of this when I walk into the garage, like I need anything else to screw with my confidence. I need to qualify high, and this track has never been strong for me. Clara makes eye contact and looks instantly contrite as she approaches. “How are the shoulders and I’m sorry for the extra drama.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I remind her like I always do when she tries to take on the responsibility of my mother’s behavior. “As for the shoulders, tense to say the least. The left one is worse.”
Clara yanks a wand massager off the tool belt type thing she carries on her during race weekends and gently tugs at the Under Armor shirt I wear under my race suit, which is hanging from my hips, only half-on. She’s standing behind me and she presses the massager just behind my collarbone and turns it on. There’s instant relief. I sigh. “We have to work on reflexes next,” I mumble and my eyes close as my neck sags a little.
“I’m NOT putting that on MY suit,” Antonio’s angry roar fills my ears, and my eyes fly back open.
“They’re a new sponsor. It’s not a request, it’s an order,” I hear Frankie reply. Her voice even but low. The kind of growl only a woman is capable of that is calm but yet terrifying anyway.
“They make bikinis,” Antonio barks at her, and he’s standing way too close to her. Looming over her, finger pointed at her. “Do I look like I wear a fucking bikini?”
“They make sundry items, including bikinis, sunglasses, and men’s swim shorts,” Frankie corrects, and then she seems to grow an inch as she pushes back her shoulders and tilts her head up to look him square in the eye. Her delicate jaw is clenched for a moment, and her hand gives the slightest of shakes, the kind you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know her well, as she places it on her hip. “And you wouldn’t talk to my father like that, so I suggest you don’t talk to me like that either. I am your boss, and they are a sponsor, and that logo will be on your race suit by morning.”
“Your father and Dario have earned my respect by helping me win,” Antonio shoots back as Frankie moves to sit down. “You haven’t.”
I’m walking and am standing between the two of them before I even realize I’ve done it. I turn to Antonio, and in my most casual voice, I say with a smile, “I think you need to go and get ready now, don’t you? Get your trainer to work on whatever you’ve got all twisted in knots.”
Antonio glares at me and tosses the logo patch he was holding onto the ground at my feet before he storms over to his car. It’s as far away as he can get while still being in the garage. Frankie sits on her stool and stares at the bank of monitors in front of her, but I know she’s not really looking at them. She’s trying to rein in her emotions. I pick the patch off the ground and look at it.
It’s a bit much. A teal, glittery palm tree with the name in cursive font underneath. The company is mostly known for making very skimpy, very expensive bikinis, but they have recently branched out into men’s beach wear and sunglasses, she isn’t lying. I glance at my own race suit, it’s got logos all over it—a tire company, motor oil, the car company that makes our engines, a cellphone provider. Sure, this logo might be more flashy than the others, but who gives a fuck if they’re helping us on the track?
“You gonna bitch about a little fucking scrap of fabric too?” Frankie asks, her eyes still glued to the blank screens.
Today her hair is swept up in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a loose fitting Mirabella T-shirt. It’s slightly longer in the back to cover that perfect ass of hers, and she’s paired it with black leggings and a pair of simple, black trainers. She’s subdued make-up and no jewelry. Still the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, but not her trademark flare. “Hell, I’ll race in one of their bikinis if they pay me enough.”
Even Rocco beside her chuckles at that as he stands and leaves the monitors to go check on something. Now, it’s just Frankie and me in the tight space, and she caves and cracks a small smile at that. So I double down. “You think they make that little shimmery white number you had on in Barcelona in my size?”
The smile grows, and her eyes dart to mine, but it’s too brief. “I think it might be hard to find a bottom that fits. Especially if we’re talking the size you were that night. That was pretty big.”
