by Kat Ransom
“That’s Lennox,” I smile and elbow him in the gut, “a real angel!”
He clears his throat and throws me his best side-eye while introducing himself. Mrs. Callister, the rescue founder I concocted this idea with late last night, gushes over his kindness and generosity.
“We’re all set up in the back, come right this way,” Mrs. Callister says as she rushes into one of the attached rooms.
I start to follow her and Lennox grabs my arm. “What have you done?” He leans and whispers into my ear.
Thirty minutes and a dozen more sarcastic comments whispered into my ear about how he’ll get me back for this, Lennox Gibbes is shirtless and posing while cuddling different rescue cats and kittens. Mrs. Callister has a white sheet hung up on the wall behind him and has brought in assorted props she was able to source on the fly. Her daughter is taking photos on an entry-level camera borrowed from the high school photo lab. It is assuredly the most low budget photoshoot Lennox has ever participated in.
Mrs. Callister is carrying a construction worker hat for the next shot and passes Lennox “Brad Kitt,” an orange kitten with a little blue cast on a hind leg and she tells us the story of how he was found after being hit by a car. Lennox takes Brad in his arms so carefully and gently brings him against his chest to cradle him. He’s been trying to be macho but I hear him cooing every cat she gives to him, and there’s been many.
I snort when she places the construction worker hat on Lennox’s head but my ovaries are on fire. As he was with Francisca and Tatiana and all of his fans, Lennox is patient and kind with Mrs. Callister, even when she drapes an Australian flag around his shoulders and has him pose with an ancient, haggard-looking black cat that would rather maul him than be a part of this hilarious low brow photo shoot.
We wrap up after Mrs. Callister’s daughter says they have enough photos for the charity calendar they’ll be able to fundraise with and, with his shirt back on, Lennox spends some time walking around the shelter and meeting more cats, learning about the rescue that Mrs. Callister founded because there was no place in this small town for animals to go when they needed help. I don’t rush him out the door this time, I just watch him, so very different outside of the racing paddock.
I wonder if I have him wrong but then again, photos don’t lie and he has encyclopedia levels of incriminating evidence against him.
Eight
Headline: Lennox Gibbes Rescues Local Cat Rescue
Headline: Cocky and Cuddly F1 Star Makes Surprise Fundraising Appearance
Photo: Big Dick AND Big Heart? A Sneak Peek at Lennox Gibbes’ Smoking Hot Charity Calendar Shoot
Lennox
“They’re going to think this was a publicity act,” I tell Mallory who is shoving her iPad at me to show me the results of her overnight work on ‘reforming my image.’ I don’t know, or particularly care, what all the engagement rates and metrics are she’s so excited about mean, but she’s all plump smiling lips and touchy-feely this morning. I won’t complain about that.
It was a sneaky trick; I give her props for that. I didn’t hate the time spent with her, not that I’ll let her know it. It was nice to get away from the track, that’s all. Still, I may have paid a hotel worker handsomely to put a snake in Jack’s hotel room toilet as retribution for telling Mallory about the bloody cats.
As soon as I got back to my hotel room yesterday and watched through the peephole of my door to make sure Mallory got into her room across the hall safely and Digby-Free, I told Jack to wire the cat rescue money. Not that I told Mallory about it. I donate generously to several charities but I do it anonymously because I don’t want the attention. As opposed to the jackass in the garage bay next to mine who is a cheap prick and only performs the smallest act of charity when he gets credit and media for it. Not my style, not that Digby has any style beyond the latest fashions at Douchebag Unlimited.
“Do you need to personally verify these ‘big dick’ credentials this blog is talking about? I know you value integrity in your work.” I rib Mallory while she keeps swiping through articles and photos.
“God, Aria would love proof of that,” she says, not looking up from the iPad that has her so entranced.
“Who?”
Mallory stops her incessant scrolling and looks up at me, snaps a curvy hip out to one side and eyes me beneath her long eyelashes, “Promise not to make fun?”
“There’s nothing funny about my dick, Mallory. I cannot emphasize this enough.” I’m trying to put my race suit on in my suite in our motorhome before the race and I can already tell it’s going to be another long, uncomfortable drive in the car thanks to my sassy nanny talking about my cock all the time. Or maybe it’s me who keeps bringing it up when she’s around.
“My roommate Aria is kind of obsessed with you,” she rolls her eyes. “She texts me every day asking when I’m going to send her nudes.”
I have one leg in my race suit and one leg out but I drop the suit to the ground entirely and take Mallory by the shoulders. “Wait, wait, wait. This is serious. Tell me now, is a nanny three-way a possibility?”
“You’re such a pig,” she laughs and shoves me in the chest making me nearly topple over my in the small room.
More touchy feely. More laughing.
I finish climbing into my suit and zip it up. Grabbing my helmet, I let her know I need to get to the garage and we’ll table the three-way conversation until after the race. She follows me the entire way, chatting endlessly about what she’s going to post next and reading me online comments from fans.
I suppose it’s nice to hear some internet comments other than how much I suck, but my mind is drifting elsewhere as it does before every race now. Team strategy for this race is as usual: DuPont gets the priority strategy and pitstop preference, I’m to assist, block our rivals, and not overtake. New season, same bullshit.
I need out of this contract before I kill DuPont or kill my career altogether. More than that, I loathe what this has done to my fans, supporters, people who used to get joy from watching a good race on Sunday. As the only driver from Scotland on the grid right now, every race disappoints my entire country. I disappoint my entire country. The Scottish flags being flown by diehard fans are fewer in number at every race.
Seeing them in the crowd, holding signs and screaming my name, was addictive. For a few minutes after a race win when I was on the podium spraying champagne and hearing the Scottish anthem played, I felt like a god. I was hooked. So when it all came crashing down on me, it crashed hard. Now I’ll never reach those impossible standards I’ve set for myself again - not with Celeritas.
“Are you back to ignoring me, now?” I feel Mallory’s hand on my arm and realize I’ve not heard anything she’s said as we approach the garage bays.
“You talk so much sometimes I need to tune you out, for my sanity.” I keep walking as her short legs hustle to keep up.
“Yes, well, not only am I a damn fine Publicity Manager, I’m a pretty good harpy, too.”
“Aye, A+ on being a harpy. Your parents must be proud.”
Her face falls and her smile fades and I wonder what that’s about but I’m much more concerned about something else when I walk into the garage. “Dicklicker! Back onto your side of the garage,” I point the correct direction to my pompous dimwit of a team member who is on my side, talking to my engineer, Seth.
“Ms. Mitchell,” he croons at Mallory beside me. “Still stuck working with this ill-bred brute, how unfortunate!”
He takes a step toward Mallory but I head him off by putting my body between his and hers. Seth is quick to professionally shuffle him and his dumb coiffed bleach-blond hair back to his own bay and then the crew needs me on track so I grab my helmet and make toward my car that’s parked and waiting for me.
“Hey!” I hear Mallory shout and I turn back at the last second. “Good luck!” She yells.
I’d like to shout back that luck has nothing to do with what’s going to happen today but she’s not my
friend and this is not the time nor place. So I simply dip my head to nod to her then turn back around to keep marching toward the next shitty result I’m about to disappoint everyone with.
On purpose.
◆◆◆
Mallory
Matty hands me an oversized set of black headphones from a wall charging rack and I join him and Jack in the far back of the Celeritas garage as the first race of the season is minutes from kicking off. I’m bouncing with excitement watching the cars lined up on the grid on the dozen live television monitors hanging in the viewing area. This is the first F1 race I’ve ever watched and I have so many questions.
All twenty cars roar to life as the clock ticks toward go-time and they start their formation lap. The whole building rumbles from the chorus of horsepower of these impressive cars making their way past. Matty, who seems to take satisfaction from correcting everyone’s statements on nearly any topic with his encyclopedic knowledge of statistics and figures, is only too happy to point out what I’m watching and why the drivers are doing what they’re doing.
“When they swerve back and forth like that across the track,” he points as I watch all twenty cars weaving and bobbling across the tarmac, “they’re warming up their tires.”
“Because cold tires have no grip, right?” I’ve done as much reading as I can on the subject, but cars and I have never seen eye-to-eye, so my technical knowledge is limited. Plus, seeing it in person, hearing it, feeling the engines reverberating in my bones, is a much different experience.
The energy in the air is palpable as the cars line up on the grid and the overhead start lights come on above the drivers.
5,4,3,2,1 and lights out.
The cars take off like a shot, the whole pack bunching up as cars try to dart around each other, maneuvering into prime position for the first corner. It is beautiful, controlled chaos. Before the pack reaches Turn 1, two cars at the rear of the group have rubbed tires together and a plume of smoke arises between them, sending one car halfway off the track but the driver recovers after a partial spin and takes off after the pack again.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand but then the camera pans to the front of the group of cars and Matty lets out a roar, “Yes!”, his clenched fists pumping into the air as he watches the television monitor.
“Run right into that foppish fuckboy,” Jack joins in screaming.
Lennox has passed two cars and is now right behind Digby, inches off his rear wing. The two cars dance around the track, blasting down straights and swooping through chicanes as the pack separates and spreads out, the front-running cars pulling away from the slower cars at the rear. Lap after lap they chase each other.
One yellow car near the back has a tire blow out and the driver creeps it back into the pit lane, chunks of rubber flying off the damaged wheel. My fingers are clenched in front of me and my stomach is rolling in excitement and nerves. I had no idea this was so exciting and… fun! I jump and clap as both Digby and Lennox pass another car in quick succession. Twenty laps pass before I know it. Matty’s doing his best to answer my questions and point out what’s happening.
Digby’s car darts into the pit lane and moments later he stops in front of the garage where ninjas in black Celeritas jumpsuits change his tires out in the literal blink of an eye, then his car takes off again. On the next lap, its Lennox’s car in for fresh tires and as he stops the car for 2.3 seconds in front of us, I can’t help but scream for him, even though he surely cannot hear me, “Go, Lennox!”
He re-enters the race right behind Digby on track again and Matty explains that was the goal, to put him back out right there in that position. They’re back on it, Lennox so close to the rear of Digby’s car I don’t see how they don’t touch and crash. Finally, on a long straight, Lennox darts out from behind Digby and pulls alongside him, both cars blasting along the street circuit at unimaginable speeds, neck and neck. “Yes! Go, go, go!” I bounce and grab Jack’s arm in excitement. But Lennox just holds steady, squarely even with Digby’s car, then falls back behind him as they take a sharp corner.
“Why didn’t he pass Digby?” I shout to Matty over the noise of the circuit.
“He’s not allowed. He was just showing DuPunk that he could,” Matty closes his lips tightly and folds his arms over his chest.
“What, why?” I ask. That doesn’t make any sense. I thought the whole point of racing was that the fastest driver wins. Matty just shakes his head knowingly and continues watching the television monitors. Jack slips one of his long, toned arms around my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze of comfort. We’re commiserating, but I don’t understand why. I have so much to learn.
Round and round they go, Lennox chasing Digby and the cars behind them occasionally changing positions and coming into the pit lanes, some cars break down and they retire from the race. Rounding a hairpin corner with just ten laps to go, suddenly the cameras pan to both Celeritas cars again and Digby has gone too fast into a corner. Blue smoke pours from his front tires which are locked up stiff. His car smacks the side of another one, and Digby goes off track, into a gravel pit, careening the nose straight into a barrier wall, bits of carbon fiber and plastic shards shattering off the car.
Matty and Jack both erupt into a ruckus of laughter but I’m wide-eyed and shocked. Is he hurt? Apparently not, as seconds later, Digby removes his steering wheel, climbs out of the cockpit, then spikes the steering wheel down into the gravel in a rant. The track marshals are there to escort him off the race track and Digby kicks one of the car’s tires on his way past.
“Now’s your time,” Matty says to no one in particular, his head forward and locked onto the television monitors. We all watch silently as the laps tick down and Lennox comes to life, inching ever closer to the lead cars on every straight and into every corner. He passes one blue car and is in third place. Matty, Jack, and I squeal and jump and pump our fists. There’s one lap to go and the television shows the crowd on their feet, erupting with cheers as Lennox overtakes one more red car on the final lap right before the checkered flag. Second!
My heart is beating so loud I can hear it pumping through my earphones. Jack and Matty give each other a one-armed manly hug and Jack pulls my head to his chest to muss up my hair. “Second, that’s amazing!” I cry.
“It’s not first,” Matty quips, ever the pessimist and fact-checker, “but it’s a win for Lennox.”
As the cars cross the finish line and start making their way back into the pits, Jack and Matty take off to meet Lennox and to assist with the post-race ritual. I follow the group of pit crew and engineers to swarm beneath the elevated podium platform and by the time we arrive, the top three drivers are making their way onto the platform as their names and final positions are called. Hundreds of people clamor against the metal crowd barricades to get as close as possible and, for once, my small size helps me squeeze in upfront amongst other Celeritas crew.
Lennox is standing tall and proud on his second-place step, his hair soaked from sweat, drops of perspiration dripping from his dark brown locks down his face and into the neck of his race suit. His face is red from physical exertion but there is no hiding the emotion and glee in his eyes as he points to fans with a huge Scottish flag below the podium, taps a fist to his heart than points directly at them.
The drivers are handed their trophies by diplomats in swanky pinstriped suits and another man in with a British accent asks each driver a few interview questions but I barely hear them. I am captivated watching Lennox stand with his shoulders back and his head tall, hands behind his back as he scans the crowd and nods to pockets of fans screaming his name.
I feel my eyes start to fill with moisture and quickly dab them and clear my throat to get ahold of myself. I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It’s just seeing him up there, chest flexed, the wide stance of his hips, and the noble square of his jaw - I’m proud of him.
Music kicks off and each driver grabs an oversized bottle of Monet champagne and spray
each other down, spray the British interviewer, and take long, deep chugs of the cool bubbly. Lennox comes to the edge of the elevated platform and sprays everyone below, several droplets of the sticky, cold sweetness hitting me as the Celeritas pit crew scream and celebrate.
As the drivers make their way off the podium, I fight my way through the mob and start jogging my way back to the motorhome so I can capture any celebratory moments with Lennox and be present during the post-race press coverage.
I’m winded by the time I arrive to the front of our the Celeritas motorhome where Lennox has also just swaggered up and is about to head inside, leaving a herd of cameramen and media just outside our door. “Lennox!” I call and he pauses his hand on the door.
He swivels just in time for me to pirouette on my tiptoes and throw my arms around his neck. “Congratulations,” I exclaim into his neck as he bends to wrap one strong arm under my ass and lift me up to his full height, pulling me tight against him. It’s only a second before he drops me back down but he’s slick with sweat and filled with testosterone and adrenaline. Despite racing for two hours in the Australian sun, his scent of wood and moss and leather surrounds me.
I gaze up at his hollowed cheeks and chiseled jaw and I want to kiss this stupidly handsome, proud man.
Nine
MUST SEE: Gibbes Storms to Second Place Finish in Cracking Australian Grand Prix
Headline: Lennox Gibbes Cinches Driver of the Day Award by Sport Guild Readers
Blog: Give us More Gibbes!
“Gettin’ robbed, gettin’ stoned, gettin’ beat up, broken boned. Gettin’ had, gettin’ took, I tell you, folks. It’s harder than it looks.” - AC/DC - It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock and Roll)
