Fast & Hard: A Formula 1 Romance (The Fast Series)

by Kat Ransom

  “Dude, you’re on your own with that shit,” he replies before abandoning me in the hallway.

  She’s so mad it’s actually cute. Her long hair is tied onto the top of her head and even the tips of her ears are red with anger. I’m six foot something and she’s five foot nothing, yet she’s looking at me like she’s going to take me outside and beat the shit out of me.

  “Nanny!” I smile and exclaim as if I’m overjoyed to see her. “Do you need a lift to the airport? I could have one of the guys pull a car around.”

  Mallory takes in a long, deep breath and squares off with me. “We aren’t going to the airport, Lennox. We have a photo session with Choman Palé so let’s go.” She grabs me by the elbow and is trying to drag me along, which is so comically adorable I let her.

  “Choman what? The watch company?” I ask her as she pulls me along, not releasing my elbow because she must think I’ll run off and she must believe herself capable of stopping me.

  “Yes, the watch company, Lennox. You know, one of your sponsors?”

  “I wouldn’t wear one of those gaudy watches if you paid me,” I grumble.

  And I wouldn’t. I don’t. I’m not above buying expensive things if they make me happy. I have supercars and for a while, I had a yacht. I can be a rich bastard when it suits me. I just see no value in a £50,000 hunk of ostentatious gold on my wrist that does nothing more than advertise to the world ‘I’m a douche.’

  “They do pay you, Lennox. That’s the point. They pay you several hundred thousand dollars,” she rolls her eyes.

  “No, they don’t. They pay Celeritas. Not me.”

  “What is the difference? Same thing!” She turns and yells at me.

  “No,” I bark and crowd into her space. She takes a step backward and bumps into the wall behind. “You listen up, my naive little American nanny. It is not the same thing. This isn’t some kumbaya feel-good festival. Every single person you see here is out for one thing and one thing only — himself.”

  Her hands are flat on the wall, her chest heaving, and she’s searching my eyes back and forth. “Including you,” she snarls.

  I inch closer to her and she sucks in a breath. “Especially me.”

  We hold this position for several beats until her shoulders drop and she softens ever so slightly, which is the last thing I expect someone in her position to do when I’m in her face and yelling. She looks small and vulnerable and for just a split second, I feel guilty for raising my voice. But she needs to know.

  She’s nothing but another pawn, no different than I am.

  “Why are you like this?” She whispers.

  “What am I like, love?” I revert to my smoldering facade that never fails to drop panties and this time I do reach up to touch her cheek with the back of my fingers. Not in a sexual way, I just want to feel the heat causing the red fire alighting her face, remind myself of what it felt like to be that passionate about anything.

  She turns her face into my fingers just a millimeter, a fraction of a second, but I think I felt it. It’s over before I can be sure and instead, she says, “You’re such an asshole!”

  I can’t help but step back and chuckle, “Aye, I am. Don’t forget that.”

  She pushes off the wall and starts back down the hallway and because I need to go take pictures with ugly watches now, I follow. Or that’s what I tell myself.

  “And go home,” I say to her back as she continues marching ahead.

  “Not going home, Lennox, deal with it!”

  Five

  Mallory

  The sweet burn of top-shelf rye whiskey in my throat has never felt so good. After the day I had today, this is medicinal whiskey I’m enjoying in the hotel bar. I’ve earned it.

  After Lennox treated the press conference like it was open mic night at a standup comedy club, I dragged him to the photo session for a high-end watch manufacturer. He threatened to tell them their watches were ‘as ugly as a shaved ape on a catwalk’ unless I introduced myself to the photographer as his lovestruck fangirl stalker.

  I debated whether caving was the right thing to do, or not, but it was better than him asking me to unbutton my shirt again and the press conference proved that Lennox Gibbes does not bluff. Getting fired on my first trip for the new job was not an option so I proudly marched up to the photography crew and introduced myself as one of his insane groupies.

  To prove a point and take back some control of the situation, I even hammed it up and twirled my hair, spoke like a valley girl, and told them I’ve been following Lennox around the globe for years now. I’m sure they thought I was a complete idiot, especially with Lennox embellishing with more fictional details of my prowess as a stalker, as I gave them my tale.

  And then he actually did as asked, kept his part of the bargain.

  I got some great photos of him to post on social and I think I can spin them as a take on a luxury product for a rugged kind of man. Lennox certainly doesn’t fit the normal demographic of older rich snob, with his tattoos and bad boy persona, so I’m hoping to gain some traction on my actual job duties since I got an hour of partial cooperation out of him.

  Of course, as soon as the photo session ended and I wanted to discuss his social media accounts, so I can do my job and manage his publicity, he was back in his standard form of egomaniacal asshole.

  I do feel slightly accomplished that I got the photoshoot done and I have all the info I need now to tackle all of the online platforms. Come hell or high water, I am not being run out of this job by a tyrannical playboy. I have enough spite and hostility toward my family that I will put up with damn near anything to prove them wrong.

  It would be nice if Lennox Gibbes didn’t make it his life’s mission to push those boundaries, but that doesn’t appear to be an option for him.

  Stupid, sexy asshole.

  I sip my drink and try texting David again. I sent him a photo of downtown Melbourne when I arrived and he replied, hours later, “That’s cute. Hope you’re having fun.”

  Fun. Like I am on vacation.

  He’s never said congratulations on my job, never even expressed that he would miss me when I left. When I tried to discuss how we’d manage a long-distance relationship given my travel schedule, he simply said he wasn’t worried about it. In my heart, I know the writing is on the wall.

  I think the only reason I’ve been ignoring it is because breaking up will cause another fight with Mom and Dad and it was an easy enough relationship to tolerate. It wasn’t bad, he hasn’t cheated or treated me poorly. But it wasn’t good, either. It’s just kind of there, existing but not adding much to life, like plain white bread… technically full of calories but it doesn’t leave you satisfied.

  I deserve good. I deserve earth-shattering, someone that gives me spark. And honestly, someone that supports who I am, doesn’t try to tame me or make me complacent like David who will always side with Dad over me.

  “I see you’re hitting the hard stuff.” I glance up from my medicinal cocktail and Jack has pulled up a stool next to me at the bar and is flagging over the bartender.

  As far as I’m concerned, Jack, Mattias, and Lennox are one and the same, the three of them some sort of band of assholes. Lennox is certainly the ring leader, but they are grown men who should know better. They’re all stupid attractive too, it’s ridiculous.

  “Mmmmm,” I mumble at him. “Have you also come to ask me to portray a stalker or take my shirt off?”

  I just want to drink my drink in peace without more annoyance, insults, or irritation but Jack is making himself plenty cozy on the stool next to me and orders a local draft beer.

  “Nanny, if you haven’t noticed, I’m gay, so no, I don’t want you to take your shirt off. I mean, unless you want my opinion on your goods, in which case I’m happy to offer constructive feedback. I’ve seen a lot of breasts, for a gay man,” he tells me, waving at my chest with his fingers.

  Jack is a good looking man, tall, fit, blue eyes and brown hair with a bit
of curl to it. He has dimples which would be attractive if only I didn’t see them when he was cackling like a schoolboy every time Lennox antagonized me. He’s decidedly less attractive then. He has the same gorgeous Scottish accent that Lennox does and I decide then that all men should have accents.

  I ignore his comment about my chest and snark back at him, “isn’t it a little cliche to have a gay assistant these days?”

  “Yes, definitely,” he nods. “But Lennox didn’t hire me because I’m gay so I don’t think it counts. Well,” he pauses, “no, technically he did hire me because I’m gay.”

  “I’ve been drinking, Jack. You’ll need to make up your mind and be more clear if you insist on harassing me while I’m drinking.”

  “Harassing? No, I’m here for gossip. Tell me all about New York, I love it there.” Jack’s beer has arrived and he downs nearly half of it in one chug. I see I’m not the only power drinker in the bar this evening.

  “I’m sorry,” I crane my neck and face him, “are we friends now? What is happening here?”

  A few guys from a competing team walk in and take a hightop table in the corner and Jack watches them suspiciously and lowers his volume. I’ve only just arrived but there is an awful lot to keep up within this environment and I need to figure out all the dynamics. I’m used to one player and his team goes up against one other team. Here, there are 10 different teams, each with two drivers, and they don’t seem to fraternize with each other much. It’s odd.

  So I take Jack’s cue and turn my back to the other team members and keep my voice down.

  “There’s no reason we can’t be friends, Nanny.”

  “I seem to recall Lennox telling you exactly that you were not allowed to be my friend.” He yelled it, in fact, when he was half-naked in the gym, but I leave that part out.

  “Please,” he spurts, “you can’t take everything so literal. If you survive long enough you’ll see he’s not that bad.”

  With the courage of two tumblers of Masterson’s whiskey in my belly, I bark out a laugh. “He’s awful! He is a chauvinistic man-child and I don’t think he is hiding a single redeeming quality!”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack puts his hand on mine atop the bar and glares at me sympathetically “have you not seen his abs?”

  I can’t help but giggle a little. Jack seems like a likable enough character but he works for the devil and I’m not foolish enough to let my guard down. Though, if he wants to engage in gossip, it might benefit me to let him keep talking.

  “Abs are not a redeeming quality,” I tell him.

  “The hell they aren’t.” His beer is gone and he’s waved a finger toward the bartender to get us another round, which is not a great idea but I’ll nurse mine to keep Jack talking.

  “Name me one redeeming quality. A real one. I dare you.”

  “Oh hell, the man has a house full of cats, for fuck sake. That counts for something, right?” Jack smirks like he knows he’s being naughty revealing inner details about my enemy.

  “Cats?” I exclaim a little too loudly. I don’t know why I cannot picture tough guy Lennox Gibbes with cats. An aggressive, snarling large breed guard dog, maybe. But cats? I mean, I adore cats, all animals really. Except for the little dogs Mom is always carrying around and it’s not even that I don’t like them, it’s that I don’t get attached to them because she never keeps them past the stage when she finds them new and cute.

  They’re for showing off, just like her children.

  I suppose this means Lennox is comfortable with his masculinity but that’s not a big surprise, manwhore that he is.

  “Mmhmm, the man is always bringing home strays. There’s a good quality, Nanny.

  “Stop calling me Nanny,” I blurt out. I’ve had about enough of it from all three of these bozos.

  “Maybe,” he considers. “Tell me why you haven’t quit yet. You’re in the upper 50th percentile for nanny longevity, by the way.”

  “It’s been two days…” I stare at him.

  “Exactly, and you’re still here. That’s a long time, comparatively.”

  Nothing about that statistic is funny but I do giggle and am happy to have someone to talk to. I know absolutely no one on the team and the only people I converse with are hell-bent on sending me home on the next flight.

  “Get on it with it,” he continues, “tell me why you’re still here.”

  “I need the job, Jack. Same reason anyone takes a job. Why are you here? What did you mean that Lennox hired you because you’re gay?”

  “That’s technically two questions, Nanny—sorry, Mallory—but I’ll allow it because you’re new. As I said, always bringing home strays. I was one of them.”

  I’m happy he so easily caved on calling me by my name instead of continuing to address me as a babysitter when that is not at all what I see myself as. Perhaps Jack will end up being the reasonable one of the group.

  “You were a stray gay assistant, how does that work, exactly?” I ask him. “Were you just wandering the streets of Scotland?”

  “Oh hell, that’s a story for another night with a lot more liquor, but let’s just say that being gay in a family of Scottish Catholic zealots was not a good time.” He takes a long pull of his beer and stares at the empty glass.

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry, Jack.” I have zero tolerance for bigotry and this makes my stomach roll. I know how it feels to have parents who shame you instead of support you. I want to put my hand on his to comfort him but I hesitate because it’s not like we’re besties and I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

  “Aye well, anyway, the fam’ thought they’d send me away to be cured of my sinful ways. Lennox gave me a way out, more or less.” He orders another beer and I realize we may be here a while. I’m ok with that.

  “So you grew up together?”

  “He’s a few years older, but aye.”

  “And Matthias, was he also a stray?” I ask him.

  “That’s Matty’s story to tell.”

  Interesting. I make a mental note about this theme of taking in strays, might be one good factoid to help counter the thousand negative pieces on him that exist on the internet.

  “So, what’s the real reason, Mallory?” He asks. “This is not an easy business to be in. Has to be more than the paycheck.”

  I take a deep breath and think for a moment of how to respond. I’m not naive, or drunk, enough to open up to the childhood friend of my arch-nemesis, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to keep the goodwill going. It’s not like I am failing or quitting at this job no matter what Lennox or Celeritas think.

  “Dysfunctional families make us all do strange things, I guess.”

  Jack nods at me knowingly and thankfully, does not push the issue.

  He lifts his beer mug and clinks it against my glass tumbler, “Cheers to dysfunction.”

  We have one more round together and then I excuse myself before I say more things that I shouldn’t. I’m the slightest bit buzzed and don’t want to give anyone room to suggest I’m not professional. Plus, I need to dive into all these Facebook and Twitter and Insta accounts tonight. I have a feeling there’s a lot of damage control awaiting me.

  A long hot shower later, I’m camped out on my bed in my hotel room, which I do not have to share with anyone else, thank god. My laptop is out and Sandra sent me passwords to all the accounts today so it’s time to get to work. Sandra’s team at headquarters manages the company’s pages but anyone Googling Lennox Gibbes comes across his personal accounts, too, so those are my first priority.

  I log in to his Instagram account which he seems to have had enough sense to lock down to private. Still, there are over 6,000 requests to friend him and the direct message icon simply reads “99+”. Oh, joy.

  The last photo he posted was actually almost two years ago, but he’s been tagged in hundreds and hundreds of photos. Photos of him driving on track, those are innocent enough. Then there are photos of him with cheerleaders, random women pressing themselves into t
he side of him for selfies and squealing about getting to meet him. A supermodel he was linked to a while back, hanging all over him and kissing him.

  Yep, manwhore.

  I spend nearly an hour untagging him from all of the posts I can and try not to read too much into the comments because they’re either girls gushing about how much they want to bang him, or they’re comments from armchair critics who leave messages ranging from constructive criticism to suggestions that he drowns himself in Loch Ness.

  Social media can be ugly like that, I know all too well. As much as Lennox is a pig and a bully, as much as my other clients have also screwed up, no one deserves total strangers publicly decrying their value as human beings.

  I open up Facebook next, his Public Person fan page. He says he doesn’t have a personal account and Sandra says that’s accurate as far as she can tell, so this should be easier and then I can go to sleep.

  There are posts I can tell previous nannies, or Publicity Managers, have left more recently. The number of horny women throwing themselves at him compared to angry F1 fans seems to be three to one. I hide a gaggle of comments that the world is better off without, edit some of the previous nanny posts that I think were done poorly, and I make a new post from today’s watch promo shoot.

  “What happens when you annoy a clock? It gets ticked off. #LennoxGibbes. The time has come.”

  The attached photo features Lennox in a wide power stance, arms crossed over his chest so the watch on his wrist is prominent, and he is staring into the camera like it’s going to get its ass beat. His eyes are emerald green and he looks intimidating as fuck with his forearms and biceps bulging.

  Should appeal to the ladies, assuming they have a pulse. I want to avoid this man like the plague and it makes my lady parts tingly. And I think it might register with the race fans who are demanding a comeback. We’ll see how it does overnight.

  I cringe as I open up Messenger, knowing there will be more of the same and I am not disappointed. Pleas of bearing his children. Phone numbers galore, from every phone extension on every continent. I’m scrolling and deleting as I go when I almost delete one from Kate Allendale, the supermodel. It looks like it’s from her real personal account and they’re all unread.