“I’ll call her on the way to the plane,” I reply. Clara pulls my phone out of the pocket of her tailored Mirabella track pants she’s wearing and tosses it to me from across the room. I catch it with ease as I rise to my full six-feet. I shove it in my back pocket. “She probably just wants to complain because I wouldn’t fly her out for this one.”
“She does love to be here when you win,” Clara remarks. “She’ll be annoyed she wasn’t.”
“She’ll live,” I say and Clara grimaces ever so slightly. “No, seriously. I talked to her doc just yesterday. She will live. New meds are working well.”
My mother, Sherry Buckingham, has been battling mental health issues since my dad died and left her a single mom with a teenager. The problems only got worse when, six months after he passed, we found out about Clara. The child no one knew my father had and the love affair that created her, sent my mom spiraling.
My sister pulls herself off the couch. She’s tall like me, but it’s one of the only features we both inherited from Tommy James. She’s got her mom’s dark hair and eyes and delicately exotic features whereas I’ve got Billy’s lighter hair, blue eyes, and rougher features. She starts gathering my things for me. “Car should be waiting.”
I glance at my Apple watch. “I have to see Bash.”
Clara’s dark eyebrows furrow. “I think he left already. I saw him getting into a car with the wife about twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh. Really?” I pull my phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, I have text from him.
Adelaide is under the weather. Had to jet. Promise you’re coming to the party.
I smile and text him back.
When have I ever skipped a party?
I shove my phone back in my pocket and hold open the door for Clara. As soon as we get outside, I take the trophy from her, and she tries to balance an umbrella over both of us as we dart toward the parking lot. Once in the back of the Escalade with the driver making his way through downtown Vancouver, my phone buzzes again.
Find me as soon as you get to SS. It’s imperative.
I send Bash back a thumbs-up emoji, but my brow furrows, and the back of my neck tingles. Something is up. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think it’s good. Clara is watching me, studying me like she always does. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” I glance over at her. “Bash is all up in my face about talking to me before his birthday party in San Sebastian.”
Her dark eyes glint with excitement. “The wife is preggo!”
I fight to keep my jaw from dropping. “What? No fucking way. That would be insane.”
“Why? Her reproductive system is ripe. And everyone knows men can spawn kids even as geriatrics,” Clara replies.
“Thanks for that fucking visual,” I mutter and then shake my head. “It wouldn’t be that. I mean, if it was that, there is no need to tell me before he shares with anyone else. But he’s insistent we chat privately, so it’s got be team-related.”
“Maybe they’re dumping Antonio next season,” Clara suggests. “The daughter is ready to go.”
“Lucia is doing great in F2 because it’s F2,” I say flatly. I’m not insulting Bash’s youngest daughter, but I’ve been in both circuits, and I know there’s a difference. Lucia Castera may in fact make history and become the first female F1 driver, but it won’t be after one good year in F2. It’ll take a little bit more than that.
Clara gives me a long stare, her deep, dark eyes unblinking. “You of all people should realize that blood isn’t just thicker than water. It’s thicker than logic.”
“Dario owns half the team. He’s not going to let it happen if for no other reason than ego,” I reply and pull up Instagram and pop in my ear pods.
Clara doesn’t answer my statement, but the quirk of her eyebrow before she turns to watch soggy Vancouver blur by tells me all I need to know. She isn’t sold on my opinion. Only time will tell, I guess. I turn my focus to Instagram and pretend I’m just aimlessly scrolling through the stories of the very few people I follow. But I have an aim. I am looking for one person’s feed in particular. And boom. After a few seconds, there she is. Francesca ‘Frankie’ Castera. She’s dancing on a table in the sexiest dress I have ever seen. Her thick, gorgeous brown hair is swept up. The woman has the longest, most delectably kissable neck. The video is followed quickly by another in which she is sipping a neon green drink. “Perfection,” she purrs into the camera, and then she takes the stir stick made of rock candy in the same bold color and slips it between her perfect, plump pink lips, and I officially have to look away and think of my grandmother to keep from popping a tent in my pants.
Holy shit that woman is…everything I would want if I could allow myself to want.
As I’m staring at the back of our driver’s head, trying to keep my dick at half-mast, a new sound fills my ears and brings my attention back to the app still playing on my phone. It’s no longer Frankie’s stories. It’s moved on to a story from one of the sports accounts I follow. Before I can scroll past the video though, there she is again. Frankie Castera, her hazel eyes twinkling in the flashing lights of the night club. The words F1 Hot Take spin over her face and then she says, “Drivers are needy and aggressive and greedy, as I just explained, and it doesn’t stay on the track. They’d date me for a shot at a seat on my dad’s team, not because of me. I deserve better than that.”
Fuck me. That’s the most honest, unguarded thing I’ve heard come out of her sweet mouth since she came home from rehab ten years ago. The authenticity of it is jarring. Because she’s talking about me. I think. Does she think that night we had in Monaco as kids was me faking interest to get on her father’s radar? Really?
Half of me says who cares? I mean, I did ghost her before ghosting was even a thing, although not on purpose. And I made the decision to never even try and explain myself to her. To let her ignore me and act like we never had a thing... and by ‘thing’ I mean the strongest attraction and connection I’ve ever felt in my life. But for some reason, suddenly, it matters. I don’t want her to think that I was trying to use her.
I close the app after watching the clip four more times, tip my head back, and close my eyes. Can I live with it?
No, jackass, you can’t.
