by Kat Ransom
Guys who didn’t come with a shitload of baggage.
Not guys like me who learned from an early age, and still have it instilled in me every time my father shows up, that it’s okay to beat women and children, then throw them out when you’re sick of them. I kept myself firmly inside of my car all those times I saw her with another guy because I refuse to be that guy. I refuse to saddle her with someone like my father.
As much as it guts me, if she’s happy without me, then I won’t stand in her way.
I will stab a knife through my own heart before I ever become my father and lay a finger on a woman, but it’s part of my DNA, isn’t it? My very birth was a result of what he did to my mother.
I hate that I’ve followed in his footsteps with a revolving door of women. Mine are consensual and leave satisfied, but it’s long since been satisfying for me.
And I am not proud. I hate sharing any traits with my father at all.
The last woman who not only knew the real me but liked me for it was Emily Walker. Everyone since wants Cole Ballentine the wealthy athlete or, like Selfie Sally tonight, they don’t even need to know my name. A penthouse on the river or a three-hundred-thousand dollar sports car is enough for them.
She’s the only one who saw real worth in this fucked up shell of a body. Maybe she still does.
As I’m about to get out of the car, the lights in Emily’s flat go out, so I hang tight. A moment later, the front door to the building opens, and her tall, blond roommate comes out, and she holds the door as Emily follows behind her.
What the fuck is she wearing?
Both of the girls are dressed in tiny little dresses and sky-high heels, which is not unusual for her roommate, but… I have never seen Emily like this. My heart is racing not just because she looks absolutely incredible, but also because I am shocked by this new look.
This is not an outfit that says, ‘let’s have dinner and a pleasant conversation about current news in materials science.’
My plans of finally having an honest conversation with her are put on the back burner. It’s dark out, it’s nearly 11:00 pm, and they’re both walking down the sidewalk alone.
They make it to the end of their block and turn left. I don’t want to be a creeper, but I follow far behind the girls in my car and watch where they’re going. I’ll just make sure they get there safely.
Then you’ll probably make sure they get home safely four hours later.
Several blocks later, they both enter some dance club called ‘The Jungle.’ I can hear the bass thumping from the street, and there’s a bouncer outside sitting on a stool who quickly checks their IDs and lets them inside. The windows are blacked out, but neon red and green strobe lights flash to the sidewalk when the heavy door opens.
This is not at all what I was expecting when I left London tonight.
After half an hour of stewing, I can’t take it anymore. I root around in the backseat and find a hoodie and a baseball hat and throw them both on. I look like the Unabomber, but I don’t want anyone to recognize me. I don’t want to cause a scene. I don’t want to sign autographs or take selfies. I just want to talk to Em, really talk to her. We could always talk, about anything.
When the sidewalk is clear, I walk up to the bouncer with my head down.
“ID,” he waves his hand, bored stiff on his chrome stool.
Damn it.
I pull out my wallet and hand him my ID. He looks up at me standing before him. His eyebrows come together as he recognizes my name, and now the face, hidden beneath my hoodie and hat.
I snap my ID back out of his hands and replace it with a stack of fifty-pound notes. “Not a word.”
The bouncer nods in understanding, no media, no paparazzi,“Have a nice night, Mr. Ballentine.”
I open the door and do my best to keep my head down while I try and make it through the wall-to-wall crowds of drunk university kids. Why is she here? Emily loves music but hates clubs.
There’s a DJ on stage and a crowd of people dancing before him, a horseshoe-shaped bar on the other side of the room. It’s dark, save the flashing strobe lights, and I make my way to the nearest wall.
I don’t see Emily anywhere, she’s shorter than a lot of the people crammed together with their arms up on the dance floor. There’s no sign of her at the bar.
My eyes scanning below the brim of my hat, a light flashes across a tall blond head in the crowd, her roommate. I follow the wall closer and keep in the darkness, moving around the occasional couple mauling each other.
Eventually, the crowd parts in the right way, and I see Emily’s long hair spinning around. Her eyes are closed as she dances to the beat, a drink in a red plastic cup in her left hand. I watch her, transfixed, as she rolls her hips and raises her hands above her head.
Her shoulders are bare, the hollows of her collarbone and her long neck illuminating every time lights pass over her on the dance floor. She’s intoxicating, otherworldly. I can’t take my eyes off the way she’s moving her hips, every curve on display in that tiny dress.
What would she do if I joined her out there? Wrapped my arms around her, like I used to, pulled her tight against me—does she want me even a tenth of how badly I want her? Would her muscle memory kick in, too?
I make my way toward her onto the dance floor, the odd elbow hitting me and person bumping into me as I make my way through the crowd. Emily’s roommate passes right in front of me, pulling a man behind her. She whispers in Emily’s ear and passes the man to Emily.
Emily smiles up at this guy, a tall blond who looks her up and down.
I know that look in his eye.
Emily raises a hand and wraps it around his neck. He drops a hand to her waist and pulls her body close to his.
My blood runs cold as I watch the two of them start dancing together. His knee parts Emily’s legs, and he lowers his head to her neck, whispering something in her ear. She raises her head and laughs, her fingers tickling the hair at the base of his neck.
His hand lowers to her ass. He pulls her in even tighter, the two of them writhing and grinding on each other.
Watching this unfold ten feet away from me as if in slow-motion is the most excruciating torture I have ever experienced. Every cell in my body wants to rip this guy’s filthy, groping hands off of her. I want to throw her over my shoulder and get her out of here.
Emily isn’t here to talk tonight. Not to me. Not to anyone.
Who in the hell is this woman?
It hits me like a runaway freight train through my chest.
This is not my Emily.
This is not the good girl I knew who looked at me like I hung the moon, the girl everyone thought was quiet but had more to say than anyone I’ve ever met. The Emily I know—the one I loved—was more comfortable in my old tee-shirts than fancy dresses. She wore minty lip gloss and had the lightest dusting of freckles across her face that you’d only notice after she’d been in the sun all day.
Emily liked small groups of close friends, not big groups of associates. She liked curling up with books, not strangers.
Emily hated parties and clubs. She sure as shit wasn’t into grinding on stranger’s thighs in seedy nightclubs or drinking cheap liquor out of Solo cups. The Emily I know would have kneed this guy in the balls for grabbing her ass like this.
But yet, she’s smiling and laughing and touching him as much as he’s touching her.
My Emily is gone.
You stupid motherfucker, you’re too late.
I turn to leave as she spins, and there’s the briefest flash of recognition in her eyes. But then my back is turned, and I’m lost in the crowd on my way out the door.
How could I be so stupid? It’s been years. Of course she isn’t the same person.
I’m not.
This is the first night in six years where no matter where I am in the world, regardless of what continent I am on or who is next to me, I am truly alone.
There is no one now.
Eight
Hockenheimring—Hockenheim Germany
Emily
I’ve been thrown into the deep end of the pool a little bit, but I know how to tread water—figuratively and literally—indefinitely. Honestly, I’m pretty excited to be here in Germany at my first race with Imperium. I wasn’t expecting to be this pleasantly surprised.
Maybe things are finally looking up. It’s about time.
After I accepted the formal job offer and completed all the HR paperwork and Imperium helped me file for the right work visas, I only had a few days at the factory until all the personnel left for the German Grand Prix.
I spent them meeting the team of engineers. There are over twenty of them who work in the factory on different car components and areas of performance, plus more on-track engineers like myself who will travel to each race.
Then there are a million designers, logistics staff, aerodynamicists, hospitality, IT, media—thank god we all have name badges that control our access into factory areas so I can look at everyone’s name until I memorize them.
The Composites team, though, I am in love with it.
I spent so long actively hiding from Formula 1 that I never realized this industry is at the cutting edge of materials science. Many of the teams even produce aviation and aerospace components. As thrilled as I am to be in Germany for the first time in my life, I can’t wait to get back to London and the factory.
Plus, I haven’t seen Cole at all, besides some very brief sightings around the track today. I’ve been able to keep my emotions in check. I’m doing it.
I am in my element learning so many new things. I don’t have a moment of free time because I’m studying build sheets and industry regulations trying to get caught up.
This was the right decision.
I owe Professor Tillman an email update and will make sure to thank him. I feel like I’m moving forward in my life, not looking back. I’m surviving with, and despite, Cole.
I can do this.
I know I will see him more this weekend. I do have to work with both drivers directly on tire performance, but I feel like I’m handling it better than I expected. According to the crew, the drivers are swamped with media and sponsor engagements most of the weekend anyway.
Maybe this is just what I needed, to be thrown into the pool and forced to swim.
On Friday morning, I’m sunning myself on a cushy cream-colored outdoor sofa and studying 3D models in the Imperium on-track motorhome. Every team has a traveling, portable building that takes the crew all night to set up, and Imperium’s is nothing short of an engineering marvel.
Three stories in height, all the walls are dark, one-way glass. It has everything from a full restaurant-sized kitchen to my favorite area—a rooftop hospitality area that can host parties and can even convert into a swimming pool. There’s a full bar up here with a fancy-ass coffee machine.
I see no reason to ever leave this safe haven.
“Ah, there you are,” I look up from my new laptop to see Edmund coming up the stairs.
“Hi there,” I smile.
I like Edmund. He’s an old school nerd. He looks like he’s past retirement age with his grey beard and wrinkles, but he reminds me of university professors. Like he has a lifetime of experience and knowledge that I’m eager to extract.
He’s also been abundantly kind answering my sixty-five million questions, so far.
“Let’s head down to the garages,” he waves me over.
I flip my laptop closed, and we leave the motorhome to trek to the trackside team garage. According to the schedule, the cars will be running free practice sessions today, so this will be my first time seeing all the parts in motion live and in-person.
As we walk to the garages, Edmund introduces me to a few people we run across, and he points out all the other teams, nine, plus us. There is a shocking amount of media everywhere. I’ve seen it on television, of course, but in person, it’s a wild hive of buzzing activity, cameramen dragging cables and microphones with them.
Thankfully, very few people want to talk to engineers, so they never spare Edmund or I a glance. They’re more concerned with the occasional celebrity they come across, or a driver, of course. These are the people who make all the videos and clips of Cole I’ve watched over the years.
Stop it. You’re doing good.
The garage bays themselves are nothing short of impressive, either. Walking into the back entrance, there is a private area with a restroom and two smaller rooms that I suppose the team can meet in, or the drivers can change inside.
Then, moving toward the track is a private viewing area with stools and televisions of track action and one entire wall is composed of rechargeable headsets. Edmund picks a fully charged unit off the rack and hands it to me as we walk past.
Beyond are two concrete bays where the cars sit and a frenzy of mechanics and pit crew bustle around. Racks of tires catch my eye. They’re all wrapped in individual covers and numbered. I’ve been learning how strict the tire regulations are.
Each team only gets a certain number of each tire compound, there are rules about when each can be used, rules about how much they can be inflated, at what temperatures they can be run. There are rules upon rules upon rules. I haven’t been able to glean much information on the actual structure of the tires online yet, but there simply hasn’t been enough time.
“I want you to spend today on the pit wall with us,” Edmund says, and he leads us past the garage bay to an extended covered workstation that runs parallel to the pit lane. A dozen computer monitors sit elevated on a wall with five stools facing them for different race engineers and strategists. The track itself is right in front of us and the garages behind.
It’s so easy to get caught up in the grandeur of it all, being right on track smack dab in the middle of this elaborate festival of speed.
Edmund points to a seat, and I take a stool next to him after more introductions. I’m taking in all the data running across computer screens in front of me. It shows everything from local weather to screens showing the performance and status of each individual component on the car. There are even intercom systems in front of each stool that allow us to speak with drivers or the factory back in London.
I’m fiddling with the tech so much I jump when a car fires up behind me in the garage. Dante is inside his car already, the pit crew makes sure the coast is clear, and then he pulls out.
Cole is just about to step into his car in his black and green race suit and helmet. His helmet this race is silver and black, an elaborate geometric pattern all over it. He likes to change them up frequently with new designs and colors.
My eyes run up and down Cole’s tall frame. There’s a bulge visible in his tight-fitting race suit, and as he prepares to get into the car, he turns around briefly, and it’s obvious he’s adjusting himself before getting into the cockpit.
I can’t tear my eyes away, I’m not even aware of my surroundings.
You hear about these moments when people say that time stops, and the world fades away, and it always sounded like embellishment—or psychosis—but it’s real. There are simply times when the body’s needs override the brain’s orders.
Cole turns back, and I know I’ve just been caught staring at him. I can only see his eyes through his helmet, but he looks right at me with those impossibly blue orbs. I see the corners crinkle. Then he winks and climbs in the car.
Damn it.
This is the first time I’ve been close to him this week, and I’ve already been caught checking him out. I’m reasonably sure my jaw was open. I’m surprised I’m not drooling.
No other man does this to my body, no one else makes my mind shut down like this. It’s like a switch he has complete control over. One flick of his finger and it’s lights out, no more racing thoughts, no more analysis or thinking. My lizard brain takes over, and its sole purpose is physical need.
Survival.
Edmund taps the headset sitting on my pit wall station, “
Start listening to the drivers and their feedback and comparing it to your data sets.”
I put the clunky headphones on and move the mouthpiece away from my chin. I won’t be adding to conversation today, I’m just here to learn right now.
With both cars on track, the data on my computer screens comes to life—wind flow measurements over parts of the vehicle, brake temperatures, downforce measurements, fuel levels, tire life models. The monitors spit out hundreds of data points in real-time as the two cars go around the flat track in the Rhine Valley.
It is seriously impressive.
“Okay, Cole, Strat Mode 11, please,” I hear Edmund issue the command over the headset to run a practice program. There’s a cheat sheet taped to the counter telling us all what the Strategy Modes mean this weekend. It’s kept confidential so that other teams don’t know each other’s plans.
It looks like this mode is our standard race pace setting, and I’m starting to see patterns in all of the data before me. I can almost see the tire temperatures, PSI, and degradation changing before me as the cars increase their speed and payload under cornering. Dante’s car and Cole’s car differ entirely as they’re both running different tire compounds.
Both Dante and Cole respond over the radio several times, providing feedback on how the cars feel, reporting oversteer or understeer, asking for changes of settings. I have a lot of jargon to learn.
A tingle runs down my spine every time Cole talks over the radio, I can hear his breathing right in my ear, and it’s like he’s whispering to me again. I swear I can feel his breath on my skin.
I only look up from the monitors when Cole passes us on the track each lap, a flash of green and black, and then he’s gone. This is worlds different from all the days I spent watching him at karting tracks, a bunch of guys and a few girls zipping around in go-karts.
That was fun. This is engineered insanity.
I can’t help but feel a little proud of Cole. Regardless of everything else, he’s worked hard to get here, and he’s made it.
