There are a few questions for everyone else, but also a few more for me, which are remarkably on-point and about racing, not Axel. And not a mention of the accusation and potential court case. That feels like a miracle. And when it ends, it's the first presser I've enjoyed since I moved up from F2.
When I get up and the other set of drivers filters in to take our place I find Axel waiting for me. He’s freshly showered in a crisp deep blue shirt and a pair of beige pants. He gives me a grin, which he tapers down immediately to a smile. Always buttoned down, that boy of mine, I think and I don’t stop to correct myself on the ownership part, although I should.
“That was… Pleasant.”
“Told you this would work,” Axel replies and reaches up to squeeze my shoulder. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I guess you do,” I reply and drop my hand on top of his for a second. Because I want to feel his skin again. “Either that or you’re just my good luck charm.”
“I doubt that,” he replies. “I have shit luck.”
“I don’t, not when you’re around.” I kiss his cheek impulsively and get the blush I love so much as a reward.
“Don’t you have to get ready for your first practice?”
“Yup. But first I need to check with my dad to see if he managed to rebook my acupuncturist,” I explain as I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my pants. “She was coming to my hotel room to help me with my wrists, which sometimes ache after races. But I kind of blew off the appointment.”
“Your acupuncturist?” he repeats, the doubt on his face clearly visible.
“One thing you should know about me,” I tell him as we walk out of the press building and into the glaring sun of Vegas at noon. We both slip our sunglasses from our hair to our eyes. “If I was going to lie, I would make it something much more entertaining and believable than an acupuncturist and sore wrists.”
I hold up my phone, showing him the text I got during the meeting from my dad.
I had to pay double but Dr. Jang will be at your hotel, again, at three. Do not miss this or she might shove those needles of hers up my ass.
“Oh.” Axel swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob.
“It’s okay. I get it,” I reply and reach over and lightly rub my hand on his back in a consoling manner. But really it’s to bring me comfort more than him. I like touching him. “But for the record, I agree. If we’re going to do stuff to each other, even when no one is watching, then we do it monogamously. And I hope we do because last night was fun.”
“It was.” He turns that fabulous shade of sunburn again.
“I’m off to the garage,” I tell him. “Stay close in case I need to rub your belly like a Buddha.”
He laughs and turns off to go to the paddock. I walk to the garage feeling lighter than I have since this scandal began. Hell, since the season began.
17AXEL
Two long,sleepless nights later I haven’t really seen Gabriel outside of the track. The night after our conversation he had a driver’s dinner. I stayed in and made a pros and cons list about whether I should let things keep happening between us. And then tore it up when the cons seemed to be winning.
Last night, he was exhausted after press all day and a practice at dusk and that acupuncturist was seeing him again. I saw her, passed her in the hall, so I know she’s real. Not that I doubted him because I’ve started to realize Gabriel is nothing if not authentic.
I went out to dinner with Billy and Frankie and after two hours of watching them be the perfect couple without even trying, I went home and picked apart every single moment of my six on-and-off again years with Eric, trying to find just one single moment of it where we seemed as in sync, at ease, and in love as Billy and Frankie. I couldn't find one. God, what a waste of my life that was. Then I thought of that one fake but real date with Gabriel and how it was easy and we felt in sync… then I let my brain relive the moments in his hotel afterward and jerked off to the memory in the shower.
So emotional turmoil, the constant dry air-conditioned air pumped into the hotel suite, and my jet lag left me a shell of a man. This is not how I want to be when Louis approaches me while I sip my latte on the balcony of the paddock.
Gabriel should be in the garage now, getting ready for his first qualifying round. I needed a minute before I walked over there. It's not uncommon for wives and girlfriends to be in the garage, especially during non-race sessions when the stakes aren't high and the team is just figuring out the track and the car on the track. Louis also isn't the only dad who shows up in the garage. Cristian Rivera's dad is there a lot, and Lucia Castera's dad is too. I won't be out of place. However, I have a feeling all the media will focus on is me because it's my first appearance since we've been 'outed' by the press. I'm ready for it, at least that's what I keep telling myself.
“I’m pleased,” Louis says as he comes to a stop, leaning on the railing next to where I stand, his hazel eyes surveying the hustle and bustle below us. “I told you though, that there was no real intimacy required. Kissing, on the lips, is real.”
"I know." I stare at the foam in my cup rather than Louis. If I meet his eye, I don't think I have the poker face to hide my attraction to his son. "It just felt right. And it was my decision, not Gabriel's. He has been a perfect gentleman about this arrangement."
“I believe you. Because I know my son, he may be bold and brash but he’s not a predator,” Louis reaffirms. “If I thought he did this, I would, as much as it would destroy me, hold him accountable. But I know he’s not that type of man.”
I nod. We’ve had this conversation, so I don’t need to say much. I wish my father had the same unwavering love, pride, and trust for me as Louis has for Gabriel. My dad doesn’t hate me by any means. He’s never been cruel or even dismissive, but I’m like some puzzle he doesn’t have the time or inclination to figure out. He’s polite, and kind, but he’s distant. I might as well be an employee.
"But did you… I mean, it's not my business but… when you left the lobby…" Louis pauses, his eyes darting from me back out to paddock row below us. He can't look me in the eye, which is astounding. This man runs a fashion empire, he's got the two biggest American racing tycoons under his thumb, and he can't lookmein the eye. That says he knows this isn’t his place. “Look, I just don’t want this to be a French fry to oil… no I mean a fryer to pot… what the hell is that American expression?”
“Fryer to frying pan?”
