The note is sweet and the food and lavender means he went out of his way for me. Still, I don’t like that he’s not here. I spend forty-five minutes telling myself it’s for the best as I shower and pick my way through the chicken kale Caesar and crispy wonton shrimp on rice that he ordered me. But while the food quells one hunger, another grows, until I find myself standing in the hallway in nothing but some Mayflower track pants, knocking on his door.
It opens just a crack. He's in a plain V-neck shirt and navy boxer briefs. When he sees it's me the door swings wider and he steps to the side so I can walk in. As the door closes behind me he looks down at my hand to see I'm holding the small vase of lavender.
“You don’t like it? Does it make you sneeze or something?” Axel asks and his face pales. “Shit. I didn’t even think about potential allergies. Do you need an antihistamine? Are you allowed to take those? Will they show up on a drug test? Or make you drows—”
I kiss him because, Jesus, Joseph, and Mother Mary, I need him to shut up. It takes him a minute but he starts kissing me back, opening his mouth, and meeting my tongue with his own. It’s a languid kiss, and it takes the edge off the pointed emotional parts of this day.
“I like the lavender,” I reply when we finally break apart and I take a breath. “I brought it with me because I kind of want to sleep here and I didn’t want to skip the aromatherapy part of the night that you put together for me.”
"Oh," Axel blinks those bottomless brown eyes. God, I swear I can see my own soul in them. He smiles, it's little but it's everything. "Okay."
“Okay? I can stay?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Because…” God I am so needy right now I want to crawl out of my own skin. I learned a very long time ago I wouldn’t survive long if I cared what other people thought. So why does this man’s opinion matter so much all of a sudden? Why do I desperately want him to tell me that I can stay because he wants me here, and not because it’s part of this damn job.
"Because you want to be here. With me," he replies, and he gently takes the vase of lavender from me and walks it past his living area to his bedside table.
I follow along behind. He was obviously in the living room. There're rumpled cushions on the small couch and the nature show on the TV is low and his own, now-empty room service dishes are on the cart by the window. In the bedroom, after he puts the vase down, he turns slowly to face me. "I want you to be wherever you need to be to get in the zone for tomorrow."
I nod. It wasn’t exactly the answer I was longing for. But it isn’t horrible either. Nico’s little tidbits about Axel’s life bounce around my brain.
“Where are you going to live after this? And work?” I ask and his eyes move away from my face, down to the small scrap of carpet between our bare feet.
“After this, what?” he asks softly.
“After the season ends, or this woman’s claims get proven false and my dad and Damien decide we don’t have to dothisanymore.” I wait for him to look at me, or answer. Preferably both. But for several long minutes I get neither. And I fucking hate it. I reach up and hold his chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting it up until our eyes meet. “Just tell me whatever you’re thinking, Axel. It’s fine. I promise.”
I am lying like a goddamn rug.
“I have some ideas of what might be next,” Axel says finally. “But if you want me to be honest, I’m not so sure about my game plan anymore. All I do know is that I hope it isn’t Damien or your dad who decides when we don’t dothisanymore. I hope it’s you. And me. I want it to be us that decides if and when this ends.”
Every muscle in my body loosens, and that knot of melancholy that was writhing and twisting painfully in my chest melts away like the rubber off my tires when I spin out. And fuck, yeah I am spinning out right now. I’ve lost complete control over my feelings for this man, and I don’t even care.
I let my hand slip from his chin, then across his jaw and back around his neck, my fingers threading into that thick, dark hair of his. “I like that. A lot. It’s up to us. Just us.”
And then I kiss him as I push him back towards his bed.
24GABRIEL
I wakeup the next morning being spooned by Axel and his naked, perfect warm and solid body and feeling like I’m already the biggest winner on the planet. And then the universe said hold my beer.
The race, to be blunt, was an absolute nightmare. On the very first lap I narrowly avoid getting caught up in the collision between James and Spencer Samuels, my teammate's younger brother, because it happens directly in front of me. I take some wing damage from it but can keep going, and only drop to sixth. By lap nine I have to come in and fix the wing. I drop again, but only to ninth. After a few DRS attempts I get past the driver in eighth and then breeze by Samantha in seventh. Then, thanks to the driver in sixth spinning out and tapping a wall, and then Grady dropping out with engine trouble, I’m comfortably in fifth. Fucking fifth!
But on lap thirty the tires are all but gone. I keep telling Pablo that I have to come in. That the tires are dead. He keeps telling me I have to wait. I’m gritting my teeth, my hands shake with tension in every turn as I fight to keep the car on the track and then, I get passed and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
“Pablo. I need to fucking pit. Now!” I growl into the radio.
“Fine. Yes. Now. Do it now. Pit.”
That should have been a relief. The answer. My chance at staying within points. If the team had managed a decent pit, getting me in and out with fresh tires in under two-and-a-half seconds, I would have come out in tenth and I could have held the position or even passed someone. But they didn't. When I slip into the pit, the mechanics swarm the car, the jack lifts me up, the tires are removed, and… nothing happens. Seconds tick by, everyone's heads move every which way like they're fucking bobbleheads, but no tires go on my car. For several agonizing, points-consuming seconds. Finally, in a burst of frantic movement new tires are slapped on, the jack drops me, and I roll back into the pit lane, cursing every swear word I can think of in two languages.
I finish twelfth. No points for the team. No points for me. No money. No nothing.
My blood is boiling as I get out of the car, after taking out my frustration on the steering wheel and my helmet, which I throw across the garage. The mechanics by my car all go still. I yank off as much of my gear as I can as I stalk over to the pit wall. My father is already there and I feel my chest get even tighter.
He’s ranting at Pablo, on my behalf. And a lot of people are staring. I walk up beside him. “Save it,” Pablo snaps at me before I even open my mouth. “I heard it all from your dad.”
