by Teagan Kade
Carl’s fast, but he can’t catch Andy’s time, settling for second on the grid.
I watch Steven out of the corner of my eye during the race. His arms are crossed, eyebrows drawn down into two dark arrowheads. He doesn’t look happy, even as Andy manages to pull away from the pack.
There’s a big crash on the tenth lap, one of the Red Bull cars loses a wheel and almost takes out Carl in the process, but he manages to swerve away and keep on. The Spritzer car behind him isn’t as lucky; half of its front end gone is demolished in an instant.
Carl puts the pressure on, his Ferrari edging up towards Andy’s, but nothing he does is enough to catch Andy.
At one stage Steven throws his headset across the room. He pounds his fist into the table, a cup of coffee spilling to the ground. “Motherfucker!”
Carl’s all over Andy’s behind in the last few laps, but Andy keeps him at bay enough to take the win.
Steven should be pleased with yet another one-two, but he’s a human steam whistle as he heads out into pit lane. He may have been in control before, but he doesn’t try to hide it now.
He prods Andy in the chest before he’s even managed to pull himself from the cockpit of his car. “What did I fucking say?”
“I told you,” says Andy, running a hand through his hair, “I’m not fucking doing it. That’s not how I race.”
“I sound like a broken fucking record, you know. I’m your fucking manager, you hear me? I give orders and you obey.”
The fight’s managed to attract attention from some of the nearby teams, one of the press photographers snapping away from his place behind the barrier.
Andy shoves his helmet into Steve’s chest. “I win. That’s what I do. Get the fuck used to it.”
He heads off, Steven throwing the helmet down pit lane after him and forcing the McClaren car to pull up with brakes squealing.
“You’ll be fined for that,” one of the mechanics comments.
He throws his hands up. “Like I give a fuck.”
The tension’s growing, the mechanics and techs looking at each other and wondering whether they should be celebrating or not.
We won, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it.
*
The bar at the hotel is open, the entire front platform looking over the Black Sea. There’s a smudge on the horizon, a rain burst making its way for shore. A few brave souls are in the water. I’d almost be tempted to join them if it wasn’t fifty degrees.
I spin the lemon, lime and bitters on the tabletop in front of me thinking back to the track and the argument between Steven and Andy. Scandal is the last thing I need if this partnership is to succeed. Whoever wrote ‘any publicity is good publicity’ clearly didn’t work for Caliber. We’re high end, yes, but ethical and morally sound. All our celebrity endorsers are squeaky clean A-list movie stars and sporting legends. Andy Fortes is not, which is why I was a bit surprised they pushed for the Goodall thing at all. Someone suggested the brand could do with a dose of edginess and excitement.
They’re sure getting their edginess now.
But is it really Andy’s fault? Although I don’t know exactly what the argument was about, he did win the round. I don’t know any team manager or coach out there who wouldn’t be happy with that unless they had some darker agenda in mind. Maybe Steven does. I wouldn’t put a good back-stabbing past him.
“Sara, right?”
I look sideways and almost choke on my lemon, lime and bitters. The girl from Bahrain, Stacey, takes the seat next to me, a cocktail in hand. Her hair swings around her face luminous, not a strand out of place, but it smells—smells like she’s spent too long with a hair straightener in hand… or lying in a tanning bed.
I place the glass down. “Yes.”
“Stacey,” she smiles, teeth gleaming. “I’ve seen you around. You working for one of the teams?”
There’s something about her I dislike instantly. She’s gorgeous, even obviously tipsy. I can see why Andy would go for a girl like her, one to look good on his arm… in his bed. I scrub the thought away. “For Goodall.”
“Oh?” Stacey acts surprised. “An assistant?”
“I’m a PR manager for Caliber, actually. We’ve got a sponsorship deal with the team this season.”
She places her hand on my arm, every fingernail with the same perfectly crisp French tips. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s great, but it must be hard, right?”
“What’s that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Keeping Andy in line.” She taps the side of her nose. “Take it from me. He doesn’t like being told what to do.”
I find myself growing defensive. “We’ve been getting along. He was a little… reluctant at first, but I think he’s really warming to our line.” And me.
Stacey takes it in, sipping from some sugary abomination of a drink and licking her lips. For one vile moment I imagine them sliding over the head of his cock. “We had a thing, you know, last year.”
I hold my glass with both hands. “Yes, I read about it.”
She waves it off. “Yes, that. A misunderstanding, but it wasn’t all fabricated.”
“No?” I feign.
“He really is a pretty average fuck. Big, yes, but… unimaginative.”
“I see.”
Think of an excuse to leave, but I’m blank. I look around for a way out.
“You’ve got a great face,” Stacey continues. “Have you ever thought about modeling?”
“It’s not really my thing, sorry.”
Stacey stands, winks. “As they say, don’t knock something until you’ve tried it. See you around.”
“Yes,” I reply, a little colder than I intend to, “I will”.
CHAPTER FIVE: SPAIN
Andy
I’m a big fan of Barcelona. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t for the women, not that they’re getting a moment of my attention with Sara about. She proved a distraction last round, a welcome one perhaps, but I’ve reset myself back into race mode. It’s all business on track now.
The mouthful that is the Circuit de Barcelona Catalunya is always packed when the F1 circus is in town. The European rounds are busy affairs, especially with the Spaniards and Italians. They’ve got racing in the blood, a passion for it. I can walk down the street back home in Texas and no one knows who I am. Here? I’m a legend.
A promo girl unzips her jumpsuit, handing over a Sharpie. I smile, sign just under her left nipple. Her friend laughs and they both go bounding away.
It’s a perfect day for racing—not too hot, not too cold, the track temp right for our tires. Records will be set, mark my words.
One of the mechanics, a cheeky German by the name of Jonas, cleans his hands with a rag. Somehow they manage to look dirtier the closer he gets. He wipes his brow with the grimy scrap of fabric. “We’ve tweaked the brake distribution a little, followed up on the camber issue.”
“Good,” I reply. I like order, progress—everything happening as it should.
These guys are the real heroes of F1, staying up to all hours fixing the sleds. They hate the hard time I give the cars, but they respect me all the same. I’d like to think the feeling’s mutual.
He looks around before leaning towards my ear. “Andy…” He pauses, unsure.
“Jonas?”
“There was an adjustment made to the KERS system in your car.”
The fuck. “What kind of adjustment?”
He leans in closer still, reeking of transmission fluid and brake dust. “One of the sub fuses is missing. Without that, too much power to the battery and,” he spreads his hands apart, “kaboom”.
I don’t think it would be quite that dramatic. The Kinetic Energy Recovery System, or KERS, takes the energy used in the braking system and allows a later boost in power. I call it the KITA (Kick in the Ass). It’s vital to the car and quick times. It could be a simple mistake, but I’m concerned all the same.
“You spoke to Klaus?” Ze German Head Mechanic.
<
br /> Jonas nods. “He didn’t know anything about it.”
“Steven?”
Jonas laughs. Even amongst the mechanics Steven’s considered something of a joke. “Wouldn’t know how a KERS system worked if it kicked him in the balls.”
Ain’t that the truth. “You fixed it?”
He nods. “Yes, it’s all good now.”
I place my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Jonas.”
He takes off, leaving me standing there by the garage door. A fuse like that doesn’t just fall out. Someone removed it, but why? I start to see shadowy implications. Would Steven go that far? Carl? Doubtful. Guy’s too busy sucking up to the press to be concerned with such piracy. Still, if someone here wants to play dirty, they’ve picked the perfect fucking victim. There’s nothing I love more than a street brawl.
As if on cue, Steven appears down the back and waves me into the corner. Let’s see what you’ve got to say, asshole.
Steven looks to the techs and mechanics. “Leave us, please.”
They dissolve and it’s just the two of us. Steven crosses his arms. Probably scared I’m going to attack at any moment. “I don’t like to repeat myself, Andy, but this has gone too far. You have to ease off.”
I shake my head. “Can you hear yourself, Steven? When do you ever hear the phrase ‘ease off’ in Formula One? Don’t you want your drivers to win?”
“I want Carl to win, yes. It will help his profile, and the team’s.”
“The team’s?” I spin around, looking to the ceiling. “Bull-fucking-shit. You’ve had it in for me since day one, and you know what? I still delivered. You think Goodall would have even made the podium last year without me?”
He steps right up to me, chest to chest. “This is a fucking team, Andy. You will listen to me.”
I push him away. “Oh, I’m listening. Now get out of my face before I have a mind to rearrange it.”
I leave him to bubble and boil. Fucking good. No one tells me what to do, not Steven, not Goodall, not my own damn mother.
*
What should be an easy pole in qualifying slips through my fingers. The bullshit with Steven has put me off. I didn’t account for the change in wind direction, taking Turn Three far too wide and practically handing Carl pole on a silver fucking platter. Worse, my car felt like it was lacking power in the top end. The KERS was working fine, but something weird was definitely going on. I went off at the mechanics, none of which had any idea what I was on about. They all just thought I was blowing off steam. But the car’s a second skin to me, a tailored suit made with the finest materials money can buy. I know it back to front and I damn well know when it’s underperforming.
I couldn’t even stomach the press conference, hitting the gym hard for the next two hours until I could barely stand, core tight, arms burning.
Three laps into the race and it’s clear: There’s something wrong with my car. Without the top end, Carl clocks me easily down the straight. There’s nothing I can do but pull into his slipstream and settle for second. It’s a fucking joke and I let Steven know all about it.
“You’re delusional,” he says, tapping his head.
I punch a monitor, the screen cracking. “There’s a fucking problem, Steven! Fix it.”
Carl watches on against the wall and I swear to god there is the slightest hint of a smirk there.
I clip his shoulder on the way out. “The fuck you looking at, blondie?”
He puts his hands up. “Nothing.”
I’m walking down through the back of the pits when there’s a voice at my back. “Andy.”
I turn, ready to smash someone, but it’s Luigi Stagoni, manager of the Ferrari F1 team. He sees how wound up I am and raises his hands in surrender. “Whoa, Andy, I’m not here for a fight.”
I’ve always had a soft spot for Luigi. He took Ferrari on when it was coming off a horror season and slowly built it back into a real contender. He’s a true manager, not a corporate number-checker like Steven who sucked enough cocks back in Stuttgart to grab this gig. “Sorry, Lui. I’m just…”
“Rough race, huh?”
“You could say that. I was missing some top end.”
“I noticed.”
“Second’s not so bad, hmm?”
“For me, second’s never enough.”
Lui’s got one of those bushy, ringmaster mustaches you could probably find lost tourists in. His eyes are warm, race-weary. “I know, which is why I want to discuss something with you.”
“Now?”
“There’s no better time than the present, right?”
He gestures to the Ferrari transporter. “Come.”
We enter the bottom deck of the truck where the Ferrari cars are kept. I’ve always had a thing for Ferrari. They know how to build more than a car. It sounds corny as hell, but they build dreams.
I run my hand down the end plate of a rear wing, the carbon cold. “Nice.”
The door closes and we’re left under the fluorescents.
“Why the cloak and dagger locale, Lui?”
He leans against the wall and nods to the Ferrari car beside us. “I read in GQ this month that driving for Ferrari was your dream when you were a boy.”
“You read GQ?”
He holds his gut with two hands. “Got to stay in shape somehow.”
I look at the car, my face reflected in its cherry panels. “My father had an F40. He paid half a million for it back in eighty-eight, barely drove the thing. I loved it, of course. It was loud, angry, a real race car for the road, you know?”
Lui nods. “One of the finest Ferraris ever built.”
“One of?”
He gestures to the Formula One car again. “Yes. We spent more on R&D this season than ever before and our budget will double again next year. Maranello has opened its coffers. They want to be number one again.”
“Not while I’m with the Germans.”
Luigi smiles. “Precisely.”
The secrecy becomes a little clearer. “You want me to race for Ferrari?”
“We’d love to have you.
I wait for the catch. “But?”
He runs his hand across the bottom of his chin, rubbing at the dark stubble there. “You’ll need to retain the championship this season. Do that and we’ll take you on board next year with a new car built to your specifications. We want your expertise and input, whatever it takes.”
“You want my balls.”
“Those too. Avere I coglioni.”
“I didn’t come here to order pasta, my friend.”
“It means ‘To have the balls’, and your friend Carl Heinz does not. Steven does not, but you?” He wags his finger at me. “You need a trailer for your balls. What you did at Monaco last season… I mean, you are the best for a reason.”
“I’m all about pushing the limits. It would be nice to be part of a team that appreciates it.”
“Steven wants you to back off, let Carl have his time in the limelight. Am I right?”
“How’d you come to that conclusion?”
“I read the papers.”
“That might be the case, yes.”
Luigi claps his hands together. “Anyhow, enough, fini. People are going to get suspicious if we spend too long in here. I don’t want to be painted as one of your conquests in the gossip magazines tomorrow.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “You’re way too hairy for me, my friend.”
He opens up his stance. “Vaffanculo, lover boy. Go win your championship. We’ll be waiting.”
I run over Lui’s offer on my way back to the gates. Racing for Ferrari would be a dream come true, what I’ve been working towards my entire life. All I have to do is win the championship. All—the word bounces around in my head. It took all I had to clinch it last season, and that was before Carl showed up on the scene. I was barely able to hold him back in Sochi. Monaco will provide him even more opportunity to put the pressure on.
I crack my knuckles, stretch my neck. Bring
it on, Heinz. Bring it the fuck on.
*
We’re on a rooftop in the grid-like district of Eixample. The sun’s setting, the brooding towers of the Sagrada Familia Cathedral casting long shadows over us all. I’d much prefer to be at one of the tapas bars on Las Ramblas, even catching Real Madrid at the Nou Camp—anywhere but here.
Until I see her.
I manage a smile as Sara walks over from the bar. She’s wearing a red V-neck gown tonight, silk. It runs like a ruby river over her curves, her hips, her breasts. There’s not a single eye at the party that isn’t drawn in her direction.
I can’t help but gush. “You look stunning.”
She runs her hands down her sides. “This? It’s from last season, just a spare.”
“You won’t be short of suitors if you keep dressing like that, especially here in the city of love.”
“I thought that was Paris?”
My smile deepens. “The French are more uptight than people realize. The Spaniards? They know how it’s done.”
Her finger slides up and down the stem of the champagne flute. “How is it done, precisely?”
My cock flutters in response. “Sexo,” I slur, Spanish for ‘sex’.
She nods slowly. “I see, and I suppose you’re an expert in such matters?”
“I am.”
We stand for a moment watching each other. “It’s been two months now and I barely feel like I know you at all.”
The ponytail’s absent, but her hair is still pinned back, restrained. “What do you want to know?”
Why is this so hard? “Anything. Do you like bagels for breakfast?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Do you have siblings, a family?”
A twinge of something I can’t work out.
She reaches up to hold her champagne with both hands. “I have a sister, singular. She’s abroad, in London, a little crazy. My mother lives in a little country town called Rosie. She’s equally insane, spends her days watching Bold & Beautiful re-runs.”
“And why the hell not? How old’s Ridge Forrester now, like a-hundred-and-fifty? Guy’s still sexy as fuck.”
She laughs and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. “Are you coming out to me right now? Because that would be a huge scoop.”
