Revved

by Samantha Towle

  It feels like forever before he looks back up at me. And when he does, I wish he hadn’t because he looks cold. The warmth in his eyes that I’ve grown so used to is gone, and it’s been replaced by something stony.

  “And what if I said I don’t want to be your friend?”

  A sharp blow hits me, dead in the center of my chest, leaving me gasping for air.

  The thought of not being friends with him…it’s inconceivable. He’s become too important to me in such a short space of time for me to lose him.

  “Carrick…”

  “Answer the fucking question.” His voice is firm and resolute.

  I don’t know what to say. My throat feels tight. I nervously wring my hands in front of me.

  I’m trying to clutch at words, but I’m getting nothing.

  All I have stuck in my head is the total dismay of never being able to be close to him again…to talk to him.

  I never even factored that into the equation.

  Swallowing past my fear, I part my dry lips. “Then…I’d respect your wishes.” And I would spend the rest of my life missing you.

  “Of course you would.” He sounds bitter.

  I’m so confused as to what’s going on here.

  “God, Carrick, are you being this difficult because you didn’t get in first to say that last night was a one-night stand? Have I bruised your ego or something? Because if that’s the case, then I’ll gladly step outside and come back in, so we can start all over again. Then, you could give me the one-night-stand speech.” I’d do just about anything to get back to where we were.

  “Yeah, that’s what this is about—my bruised fucking ego,” he snaps.

  “I just…I don’t understand you!” The anger bursts from me. I’m practically tearing my hair out here. “You sleep with women all the time. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

  Something in his expression changes, and that’s when I see his eyes close down, shutting me out. “I’m not. Whatever, Andressa. We’re done here.” Turning, he walks away from me and over to the window.

  “Done?” Panic slaps me in the face. “Carrick, I can’t lose my job over this.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but it’s too late now.

  I don’t even know why that was the first thing out of my mouth, why I interpreted his words that way, because what I’m more afraid of is losing him from my life. That takes precedence over anything.

  He turns back to me, his expression hardened. And I feel sick to my stomach.

  “Wow…” A bitter laugh escapes him. “I didn’t realize you thought that low of me.”

  “I don’t. I just…I mean—” I trip over my words, trying to correct my error.

  He lifts his hand, stopping me. “You still have your job. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually have some fucking integrity.” He turns away from me, giving me his back. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  “Carrick…” I take a step toward him. “I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. It’s just you know…Amy and Charlotte—they both lost their jobs because they slept with you.” Why can’t I stop talking? I know I’m making it worse, but the words just keep spilling.

  I see his back stiffen. Slowly turning to me, the look on his face hits me like a blast of liquid nitrogen turning me to ice.

  The way he’s looking at me…it’s like he actually hates me.

  I feel winded.

  His jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks like it might shatter. “Get the fuck out, Andressa. Now.” The low warning in his voice is worse than any words he could have yelled at me.

  Biting my lip to stop from crying, I turn to the door. Curling my trembling hand around the handle, I yank it open. Slipping out into the hall, I shut the door behind me and fall against the wall beside it.

  My body is shaking, my heart racing.

  Oh God. I think I just made a huge mistake.

  My stomach bottoms out. I clutch a hand to it as a sob rises in my throat, but I catch it in time, covering my mouth with my hand. But I can’t stop the tears from falling. I swipe at them with the back of my hand.

  I can’t believe I said those things to him. I need to fix this, but I know, there’s no way he’ll listen to me at the moment. He’s too angry, and I’d probably end up saying even more dumb stuff.

  Blinking rapidly and taking calming breaths, I shove my emotions down under a steel trap door for me to deal with later.

  I’ll let Carrick calm down, and then I’ll talk to him after the race. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

  Right now, I have a job to do, and I can be a better friend to him by making sure his car is running perfectly for the race. That’s what’s important right now.

  Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and make my way back downstairs to the garage.

  When it comes to race time, Carrick comes down to the garage, but he doesn’t look my way, and I don’t try to talk to him. Now is not the time, not before his race.

  He exits the garage and heads to the track to talk to the press.

  When his interviews are done, a gaggle of stunning models and grid girls are fawning all over him, and he’s lapping up the attention. They’re all beautiful girls wearing next-to-nothing hot pants and T-shirts with advertisements splashed across their ample chests.

  Seeing him with those girls stings. One particularly beautiful blonde girl sidles in close to him, claiming his space from the others. She presses her body against his side and puts her hand on his chest, getting his undivided attention.

  I feel a flash of jealousy so strong that it shocks me to the core.

  It takes me a while to realize that my hands are actually flexing restlessly at my sides.

  I try to breathe through the hurt, to look away from them, but I can’t. I can’t take my eyes from the scene unfolding before me.

  He’s flirting with her, placing his hand on her shoulder and twisting her hair around his finger, while she talks to him.

  I close my eyes on a long blink. When I open them, Carrick is staring straight at me.

  The look he gives me is empty, almost as if he’s seeing straight through me. It’s like I no longer exist to him.

  It hurts, more than I could have ever anticipated. My heart feels like it’s actually being crushed.

  Then, dismissing me with his eyes, he stares down at the girl, giving her that flirty grin of his, as she speaks to him. Brushing her hair aside, he leans in and says something in her ear.

  I can only imagine what he’s saying—actually, I take that back. I don’t want to imagine.

  She gives him a coy smile, and the hand that was on his chest slides lower.

  My stomach knots painfully. I press a hand to it, trying to hold myself together.

  And when I catch the movement of his hand going down to cup her behind, I know I’ve seen enough.

  Tearing my eyes from the scene, I mumble to Uncle John that I’m heading to the restroom, and then I all but run there, holding my breath and the tears that want to spill.

  Locking myself in a stall, I put the lid down and sit on the toilet, and I let the stupid tears run down my cheeks.

  I know I’m being ridiculous. This is how it has to be.

  It hurts to see him with other women, and that’s normal, of course. I just…I didn’t expect to see him with another woman so soon.

  Then again, this is Carrick Ryan I’m talking about. He doesn’t stay down for long.

  And this is good. Seeing him with her, how he was all over her—it’s the reminder I needed of who he is.

  A player.

  A driver.

  Not the man for me.

  But still, I sit in there, hiding out in that toilet stall until I feel sure that I won’t burst out into tears if I go out there and see Carrick pawing another woman.

  By the time I get back to the garage, the race has already started. I didn’t realize I’d been gone so long.

  “Where the hell have you
been?” Ben hisses, coming up next to me.

  “I’m sorry. I was feeling a bit unwell.” I press my hand to my stomach, feigning sickness. It’s not a total lie. I was feeling sick after seeing Carrick mauling that girl.

  Ben eyes my face for a moment. “You do look a bit peaky. Do you need to go back to the hotel?”

  “No, I’m fine now.” I force a smile, and then I turn my attention to the screen to watch the race.

  Carrick finishes fourth.

  It’s a disappointing finish and surprising, seeing as though he qualified first yesterday. It’s just not like him to finish off-podium. It never happens.

  And for a sickening moment, I wonder if I’m to blame. Maybe our fight before his race affected his concentration.

  Thinking that, I start to hate myself even more for what I said to him.

  When Carrick pulls into the garage, I’m determined to talk to him, but he climbs out of his car without a word or look to anyone. He walks straight out of there, heading upstairs to the driver’s room.

  I’m just about to follow him when I see Owen going up after him.

  Then, I’m pulled back into work, and I don’t see Carrick again for the rest of the day.

  Later, when I arrive back to the hotel, after having to prep the car for shipping, the first thing I do before going to my room to clean up is go straight to his room. We need to sort this mess out and get our friendship back on track because I can’t lose him. He’s become too important for me to lose.

  When I arrive at his room, I find his door open, and a housekeeper is inside.

  “Carrick Ryan?” I say to the woman. “The man who was staying here?” I explain at her blank expression.

  “He checked out, ma’am,” she tells me in broken English.

  He left.

  My heart sinks, and it’s in this moment that I realize that maybe Carrick and I aren’t fixable. Maybe last night was the last time I’ll ever be close to him again.

  As I walk away from the room, this sickly hollow feeling sinks down on me, crushing me to pieces. And I hate myself just a little bit more.

  I HAVEN’T SEEN CARRICK in close to two weeks. When he left Barcelona, he headed straight back home to the UK.

  I only know this because, later that night over dinner, I finally broke down and asked Uncle John about what happened to Carrick after the race. He told me that Carrick was in a foul mood because he’d come in fourth and that he caught an early flight home.

  The next day after Carrick left¸ I flew out with the rest of the team to Monte Carlo, and it’s where I’ve been ever since.

  Monte Carlo is a hard place for me to be. From the moment I signed with Rybell, I haven’t been looking forward to coming here. Monte Carlo is where my life changed forever fourteen years ago.

  Circuit de Monaco is the track where my father had his accident.

  The place where he died.

  Uncle John keeps asking if I’m okay. Before we flew here, he even said to me that I could miss this race. He said I could change my ticket and go back to the UK. It was sweet of him, but I know if I had done that, it would have raised questions, and I don’t like questions. And if I’m to have my career in Formula 1, then I can’t avoid this place forever. Best to get it over and done with.

  So here I am.

  It has gotten easier the longer I’ve been here, but racing day will probably be a different story.

  The first time I went to the track, I came alone, and it was…painful.

  Especially afterward, when I went to see the statue commemorating my father in Casino Square.

  I stood there for a long time, just staring at it, wondering what my life would have been like if my father had never died.

  It’s not that I haven’t had a great life because I have. My mother made the best of what we had left without him, but I’ve felt his loss for the last fourteen years, like a gaping hole in my heart.

  And it only fueled to remind me why Carrick could never be the man for me.

  I know my mother is worried about me being here. She’s been calling twice a day, every day, checking to make sure I’m okay.

  I know it’s hard for her, me being here. It drags up bad memories.

  I’ve made sure to keep myself busy. When I’m not working, I’ve been doing touristy stuff and going out with the guys at night, having fun.

  Today is Thursday, and racing weekend starts tomorrow. Carrick arrived today, not that I’ve seen him. I just heard he was getting in today, and it’s evening now, so he should be here.

  I don’t know where things stand between us.

  I haven’t heard from him, not that I’ve tried to get in touch with him either. I did almost crack and text him to apologize a few days after he’d gone back to the UK. I was feeling emotional from being here, and I missed talking to him. I typed the whole text out, but then I chickened out before sending it, and I erased it.

  I know the time when I have to face him is fast approaching, and I’m dreading it.

  I’m worried that he’ll ignore me because I know that will hurt more than anything.

  Hence, why I’m out in a bar with the team, drinking up some Dutch courage in case I do see Carrick tonight.

  We’re in a bar called Pattaya, which overlooks the harbor. It’s really pretty here. We’re sitting outside, and I’m sipping on a glass of local beer, chatting with Ben. Petra’s not arrived in Monaco yet. Her brother’s wife went into early labor yesterday, six weeks early, so she delayed her flight. She wanted to stay and make sure everything was okay with the baby. Fortunately, it was, and now, Petra is the proud auntie of a baby boy yet to be named.

  She could only get on an evening flight in, so she’ll be arriving later on. I can’t wait until she gets here. Even though the guys are great, to be honest, I’m missing her company.

  “Carrick just texted, asking where we are,” Ben informs me. His eyes are down on his phone as he types out a text, presumably back to Carrick.

  “He’s here?” My voice comes out sounding a little strangled. I cover it with a cough.

  “Yeah, he’s coming to meet us.” He puts his phone down on the table.

  Panic slides a hand around my throat and squeezes tight. I take a few calming sips of my beer.

  I can do this. It’s going to be fine.

  Needing a moment, I excuse myself to the restroom. When I get back, Carrick still hasn’t arrived.

  My nerves are on edge. I can’t sit still in my chair. I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin, and my head is rotating every few minutes, looking for a sign of him. I just need to see him, so I know how things stand between us.

  It’s been a long while since Ben texted him back, and I’m starting to think that maybe Carrick’s not coming after all. But then I hear Robbie start catcalling, and the rest of them join in, so I know Carrick has arrived.

  My stomach and head fill with butterflies, making me feel a little dizzy.

  Be breezy, Andi. Breezy…

  Trying to act nonchalant, I cast a glance back over my shoulder to Carrick.

  And I feel like I’ve just been smacked in the face with a brick.

  He’s walking toward us with a girl attached to his arm. A really pretty and tall—probably about my height—model-looking girl with long brown hair.

  Those butterflies I was feeling turn to dust, and I’m just left empty.

  I can’t believe that he’s picked up some random and brought her with him.

  Of course he has. This is Carrick.

  Deep breaths. It doesn’t matter.

  It’s none of my business what he does and who he does it with. All I care about is getting my friendship with him back on track.

  Right?

  Pressing my lips together, I turn back to the table. I grab my phone off it and stare down at it, like I’m reading something really interesting.

  “Hey,” Carrick says from behind me.

  Not hearing his voice, that Irish twang of his, for nearly two weeks has it shi
vering through me.

  I clamp down the feeling, pushing it away.

  Assuming he’s talking to the whole table and not directly to me, I don’t turn around, but I do mutter a vague-sounding, “Hello.”

  Some of the guys get up to greet him, doing that manly handshake thing, Ben being one of them.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Ben says.

  “Nah. Don’t worry. I’ll get them. What are you drinking?”

  “Beer,” Ben tells him.

  “Get me a cosmo, will you, baby?” the girl says.

  Baby?

  She has a really nice English accent, sweet and posh. Not like my fucked-up English mixed with Brazilian accent.

  “Sure thing, babe.”

  Babe?

  The memory of being in bed with Carrick, his body wrapped around mine, his sleepy voice murmuring in my ear, “Night, babe,” slams into me painfully.

  Their terms of endearment seem awfully forward for two people who just met.

  Or maybe they didn’t just meet.

  The thought makes my empty feeling quickly turn to a sick feeling. A really sick feeling.

  “Let me get you a chair,” Ben says.

  I’m assuming he’s speaking to the girl.

  He drags over a chair, putting it next to me.

  Thanks, Ben.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit in the chair with the grace of a gazelle. She’s wearing a short skirt, which rides up, revealing more of her long tanned legs.

  I look down at my own legs, thanking my mother for passing on her good genes to me and thanking my good sense for at least wearing jean shorts to show them off—not that it’s a competition in any way. And in no way do I look anywhere near as nice as she does. She’s dressed up for a night out, completing that short skirt with heels and a halter top. All notably designer compared to my high street jean shorts, flip-flops, and red T-shirt, which has the word Geek emblazoned across the chest.

  God, I am a geek.

  Actually, the only things I have going for me right now are my legs and my hair. I’m wearing it down, and it looks pretty.

  Since when did I start caring how I look or comparing myself to other women?