‘And there’s Turn Fourteen.’
We’re all gathered in Darien’s Heidelberg garage on the Miami track prior to the first free practice of the weekend. Thegarage should be saving us from the brutal sun but, although I have on a cap and sunglasses, my head still feels like it’s cooking. Miguel shields his eyes and points to the furthest end of the racetrack from us, which is …
‘Is that section of the track under … under a—’
‘Turnpike,’ Darien answers with lips so tight he has to be struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Whoever built this probably went on aserioustrip while they were making the plans.’
‘Driving under a highway in an F1 car definitely wasn’t on my lifelong bingo card,’ adds Miguel. ‘But you get your pick of the bunch in this sport. Pretty much everyone’s a little bit … out there. It’s what gets us fans, to be honest.’ He squints at someone taking a photo by one of the other teams’ cars – Jolt, I believe. ‘And Kardashians, apparently. At least I think that’s a Kardashian. Might be a Jenner.’
‘Being “out there” earns fans?’
‘Beingboldearns fans.’ Darien smirks as he corrects me, exchanging a grin with Miguel.
‘Cowboys,’ they proclaim together, which is just slightly freaky.
‘Okay, cowboys.’ Celina hustles up to us with a hefty clap of Darien’s back. ‘Time to put on the cooling vests and get fluids in you both. Let’s get a move on. No one wants to bake outside without defences.’
‘Agreed.’ I take a generous swig of water from my tumbler. ‘It’s scorching out here.’
‘God, the cockpit will be a nightmare,’ Miguel says as he cranes his neck to continue surveillance. ‘Is that the president?’
His trainer, Louie, appears before us with a tall bottle of electrolyte-rich hydration drink. ‘You can go find out after you’ve downed this.’
While the trainers sort out the vests, I get to watch themechanic crew prepare Darien’s car. The goal of a practice session is essentially to gather track data, figure out how the car and driver can make tweaks to shave off seconds, and that requires change after change to the car, potentially major ones mid-session. The mechanics have to be prepared for anything.
Darien, sitting off towards the pit wall with his vest and electrolyte drink, hops down off his chair and nods towards the car. ‘I see ’em do this all the time, but this never gets old. One of my best buddies from her garagelovesscrewing with the engine and stuff. This is his idea of paradise.’
I couldn’t exactly see how, but I’m also the sort of person who struggles with the instruction manuals for Lego sets. ‘I suppose that could be.’
He cracks a smile. ‘Do you want to sit in it?’
‘Do I …?’ I look up at Darien in shock. ‘Do Iwhat?’
‘Go ahead.’ Darien tips his head at one of the mechanics, and he returns the gesture, calling out to the guys to stop work for a moment. The crew kicks back on the chairs lined up to the right of the garage to take a break, and Darien gives the car a little pat that screamspride and joy. ‘I’ll be right here. Just don’t press anything.’
That’s a quite vague warning but, eyes wide, I tentatively step in the cockpit of theFormula 1 car, a beautiful white and ice blue machine that makes my work car look like a lawnmower, one foot at a time.
‘Hold the halo and lower yourself,’ instructs Darien, crouching down beside the car, his arms resting casually on the edge of the cockpit. He’s so close I can make out every shade of brown in his irises, and as I follow his directions, bringing myself down to the seat that’s moulded specifically to his body, I struggle to look away from him.Look away.
‘And the belt. Is it all right if I …’ He gestures to the straps hanging to the sides.
‘Sure.’
Gently, he brings the seat belts over my shoulders and buckles down, giving the straps a good tug. His arms brush mine, his curls tickling my forehead as they fall forward.
‘Just in case,’ he says, and I can feel the breath that he lets out with every word on my skin. He grins. The dimples, those are the next thing I notice, tiny valleys that etch themselves into his cheeks as his eyes crease happily. The rest of the garage fades out, and it’s just Darien in front of me as he fiddles with the seat belt, his eyebrows knitting in concentration. He grabs the steering wheel off the tool chest to his right and tells me, ‘I’m gonna reach in front of you, Shantal. Sorry …’
He does, he reaches in front of me, and he fits the steering wheel to the dashboard – do they call it that? – in the front of the cockpit. This time, it’s not like Carnaval. I’m very much sober, and I very much take note of every single possible sensation in the moment. His cheek is centimetres from mine, his chin right over my shoulder. He smells of sandalwood and mint, and his body is cold, owing to the vest he’s got on.
‘Okay, and now,’ he messes with the steering, ‘hold on to this at three and nine o’ clock.’
I bring my hands up to the steering wheel, right beneath his, and he turns to me so abruptly that my heart hitches in my chest.
‘Can I show you what the paddles do?’ Darien asks.
I can’t do anything other than nod yes in the moment. My brain is so overcome by his proximity, my senses totally awash in his presence. I feel like my emotions are short-circuiting. I’ve had such a tight grip on myself and now I’m suddenly out of control.
Why do Iwantto be out of control?
