"No," I say sharply. "You didn't hear it all because you didn't hear it from me, your driver. The guy who just had his first points evaporate in front of his eyes because why? What the fuck happened?"
Pablo is about sixty, with a shock of pure white hair, wide-set brown eyes, and the wrinkled mouth of a man who smokes a pack a day. Right now there isn't a line on those lips because they are pressed so tight that you can barely make them out. "Listen, mistakes happen. You pushed to come in. We weren't ready. I explained this all to your dad and I'd rather let him tell you than waste my time repeating myself. Samuels made the podium. I'm going to go watch that. I'll email you later, okay?"
I watch him go but do nothing to stop it. Because, as usual, I know I'm not going to make him give a shit. I didn't podium. Samuels did. And that's all anyone here cares about. I turn and look at my dad. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
“I’ve already torn a stripe off Pablo and Bob is next. And that fucking lady mechanic too. I’m going to talk to them,” Dad rants.
“It’s strip, not stripe, and I’d prefer it if you did not,” I say firmly. He jerks his head back a little bit so he can look me in the eye because I’ve got a couple inches on him.
Dad is looking exquisite as always, in clothes and shoes from his own label, a vintage Cartier on his wrist and classic ray-bans shoved up into his perfectly coiffed hair. I wish I had his casual sense of style but I don’t think I do. It’s never come easy, but I’ve never really had to try. He dressed me, like all parents do, when I was a kid. And as I got older, he’s always sent over whatever he wanted me to wear to events. New clothes from his most recent line show up every season at my home. And when I’m not in Allard Couture, I’m in race gear. If left to my own devices, who knows what bad fashion choices I might make. He’s gone out of his way to make sure I don’t find out. I guess he feels the same way about my career choices too. And I guess I’m finally not okay with it.
“I love you. I respect you. And I know, trust me I do, that my ass is in this seat, with this team, because they wanted your cash, not my abilities behind the wheel,” I tell him and he opens his mouth to object. “I don’t care. I honestly don’t. I mean… I care, but I am responsible for it. I let it happen this way. But I don’t want your help now. Not like this.”
"Like what?" he asks, his shoulders jutting back defensively as he crosses his arms in front of him. The sleeve pulls up on the wrist of his jacket and shirt and I see the only tattoo my father has. It's my birthdate in Roman numerals on the inside of his wrist. "Like you said it's my investment. My money. And their inability to find tires cost you points, which costs the team money andyoumoney. Which ismymoney.”
"Yeah. Okay, butPapa…” I sigh and shove a hand into my hair. It’s gritty and damp from this hellish race. “Do you see any other investors here acting like a hooligan at a football match? You invested, they took your money and ran. They don’t owe you,Papa. They owe me. They owe me the same level of respect and accountability they give Samuels. And they’re never going to give it to me if you’re always there demanding they give it to you.”
For the first time in my life, my dad looks like I slapped him. I was never the teenager that talked back. Or the kid who threw tantrums. Oh, I caused plenty of trouble and drama but it was never directedathim. But now I'm talking back and even if I'm right, he's too wounded to see it.
“Fine.” It’s clearly anything but fine. He turns and starts walking away. “I’m flying to Paris tonight. See you at the end of the break.”
“Papa!” I call but he keeps walking. “I was planning on taking my break in Paris too.”
“Your plans changed when you got committed in Vegas.” The way he words that should be funny, but I don’t have time to laugh. “You will be on your commitment-moon. With your partner.”
He marches away and I stand there staring after him with my mouth hanging open so wide I swear my chin is brushing the steamy asphalt.
What the fuck is a commitment-moon?
25AXEL
There are worse placesto have to spend eight days than cruising the Greek islands on a giant yacht. Naked. With a man who never fails to make you see stars when you come. But I’m not there at this exact moment, unfortunately. I’m on the island of Corfu, trying to pay attention while Gabriel gives an interview to a Sky Sports reporter. Damien lined it up. They do these puff pieces on all the drivers, a way for the fans to get a glimpse of their real lives off the track.
Before we got off the yacht to do the interview, Gabriel told me that he didn’t think he was getting a segment with Sky this year because the season was nearing an end and no one had lined one up. He swears it’s only because he’s ‘married’ that they want one so he makes me come with him for it.
And he makes me wear a butt plug.
“Should we sit here?” the reporter asks, motioning toward a small table at the edge of a cafe overlooking the aquamarine water of the marina below.
They’ve just spent twenty minutes walking through the trails of a nature park, I look like the exertion from the easy meander is doing me in, but really, it’s the plug in my ass that’s causing me to sweat and almost pant.
“Sure.” Gabriel pulls out a chair and motions for me to take a seat.
I give him a brief, but scalding glare and then plaster a smile on my face. “You know what? The breeze is lovely. I’m just going to stand here and enjoy it while you two finish up.”
Gabriel grins. I begin to plot my lover’s death, which I’ll initiate moments after I come. Because fuck, do I need to come.
“Okay,mon amour,” Gabriel replies airily, eyes dancing because he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “You enjoy that breeze.”
He sits and the reporter sits down in the other chair and I move to the left, so I'm not in the camera's shot and then stand perfectly still, closing my eyes and thinking of that video I was shown in ninth-grade biology of two kangaroos mating. It was gross, and it's the only thing keeping my dick at half-mast.
They talk about a lot of stupid things, like what Gabriel does in his free time, does he have a favorite piece from his dad's designs, and what he'll do when his driving career ends. "I haven't given it much thought. I'm at the beginning of something. It feels like I'd be robbing myself of the joy of it if I was already thinking about the end."
Wow, that candid remark hits me like a freight train. I always think about the end. What I'll do next. What my backup plan is if something goes wrong. I remember when I got the condo and those keys were in my hand for the first time, I thought of what it would be like to hand them over to someone else. And now, I'm living that. It sucks, so why did I think of that, way back then, when I should have just been enjoying the moment?
“Can I get a happy couple shot? For B roll in the piece?” the reporter asks as they both stand up and shake hands. “Fans will love seeing you here with him.”
I look at Gabriel, who is removing his mic. He hands it to the reporter and nods. “Okay. Sure.”
