The air between us simmers with sexual tension. I don’t dare breathe. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“The answer to your question,” he clarifies, and my heart stutter-steps when I realize that yes, he is saying what I think he’s saying. “It’s yes, goddammit. I want to fucking kiss you.”
He gets in the cab but doesn’t close the door, so his next words—and his message—are loud and clear. “And that’s all the more reason it can’t happen again.”
CHAPTER11
Grady
The most exciting—and most nerve-racking—part of a race is waiting for lights-out. The anticipation, my foot poised and ready to drop the clutch, my hand on the paddle shifter, as first one, then two, three, four, and finally five red lights flicker on and then go out all together after a random, preset interval—random and preset to stop drivers from guessing when the lights will go out or memorizing the timing and starting through muscle memory.
The start in an F1 race is crucial. Even more so here in Monaco, where overtaking is notoriously difficult, making a good start almost if not more important than qualifying, which determines our positions on the grid for race day.
Today, I’m kicking things off in P10. Ironically, the same position I finished in last race. Middle of the pack. Not the best. Not the worst. Definitely something I can work with and hopefully move up a few places before the day is done.
The car has performed great all weekend. The tweaks the engineering team did to the rear wing and engine cover are clearly working. It feels faster and more responsive than ever. And my driving has been on point, too. My reflexes are sharp, my corners tight, and my lines clean. For the first time this season, everything seems to be going my way.
Well, everything on the track. Off, my life is a shit show.
My father has been calling nonstop. I haven’t picked up, but that hasn’t stopped him from leaving detailed instructions on my voicemail for the race this weekend. You’d think he didn’t realize that I have a whole team of engineers and strategists behind me, pumping me full of information and directions.
At least he’s not here in Monaco. He’s come to a few of my races, but this time a business meeting kept him in the States. Some car manufacturer that wants him to endorse their new luxury line. I should send them a flower basket or one of those cookie bouquets as a thank-you. The last thing I need is my father micromanaging me up close and personal. Bad enough when he tries to pull that shit from a distance.
And then there’s Ben.
I can’t stop replaying our conversation from two nights ago. Especially what he said to me before he got into that cab.
I want to fucking kiss you.
Yeah, I know I’m ignoring what came next. Chalk it up to selective memory. Or wishful thinking. Or hormones.
“All right, Grady.” The man in question’s voice comes across the comms. It’s the calm, businesslike tone he uses on race days, not the smoky, sex-laden one from Friday night. I guess it’s a good thing one of us is able to separate the two so easily, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also more than mildly disappointed. And hurt. And insulted. In short, a total mess. “Almost go time. Get ready to race.”
I take a deep breath and focus on the lights. As tough as it is to push down whatever it is simmering between us, I can’t let myself be distracted. Monaco is one of—if not the—most difficult courses on the circuit. Narrow streets, sharp turns, and unforgivable barriers mean there’s virtually no room for error. The slightest mistake could put me into the wall or in a collision with another car. As one driver famously, said, it’s like trying to ride a bicycle in your living room.
“Copy.” I figure it’s safest to keep the chatter brief and to the point today. Less room for miscommunication. Or any of those pesky, hormone-fueled distractions.
I watch as the five lights flicker on one by one and then disappear in unison and then we’re off and running. My start feels good—I’m quick off the line, and all of us make it out of the first corner without any contact. But that doesn’t last long. Only three laps in, Billy clips the back of my teammate René’s car, sending him into Samantha. Both René and Sam spin off the track into the barrier. I narrowly miss getting caught up in the aftermath but somehow manage to navigate my way around it.
“Good driving to stay out of that wreck,” Ben says, and pride swells my chest, making my six-point safety harness feel even tighter than it already is. The most I would have gotten out of Marcel was a noncommittal grunt.
“What’s my position?” I ask.
“P8 now, Grady. P8. Virtual safety car deployed. Keep the delta positive. You’re staying out,” he continues in that race day monotone I’m coming to appreciate. Although would it kill him to show a little excitement?
I’ve never been this high up in the field before. I hate that it’s come at the expense of my teammate. And Samantha. But crashes are part of racing. It’s like Ben said after Zandvoort—luck is when opportunity meets preparation. Yeah, I Googled it after my disastrous interview with Nico so I’d remember it for the next one. It’s exactly the kind of sound bite he’ll eat up.
This is my opportunity. And it’s up to me to be prepared to take advantage of it.
It seems to take forever for track workers to clear the wreck, but in reality it’s only two laps before we’re given the all-clear to race again. Since there’s no overtaking during the VSC, I’m still in P8 when racing resumes. But we’ve got a lot of laps to go, and there’s a lot that can happen before the finish line.
Fortunately, not much does, at least where I’m concerned. Yanni has mechanical problems and DNFs for the second race in a row, although his car doesn’t catch fire this time, thank fuck. About half way through the race, Lionel Hartt, Arete’s number-two driver, manages to pass me with some creative use of his drag reduction system on the main straight, but I return the favor a few laps later, slipstreaming out of the tunnel and outbraking him into the Nouvelle Chicane to overtake him and regain position. And when the checkered flag is finally waved, after 78 laps, 260 kilometers, and almost two hours, wouldn’t you know? There I am, crossing the finish line in points position for the very first time in my F1 career.
“Well done, Grady.” Ben has let the tiniest bit of excitement creep into his voice, and even though I’m already sweating through my race suit, it warms me inside out. “That’s P8.”
“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air as I slow the car down and head straight for parc fermé, the cordoned-off zone controlled by the FIA where all the cars that finish the race undergo the required post-race legality and safety checks. My pulse pounds loud in my ears and my heart is beating so fast it’s about to break through my rib cage. Racing is always an adrenaline rush but this? Damn. “That felt fucking amazing.”
“It should,” Ben agrees. “You drove an excellent race. Smart. Controlled.”
