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

by Kat Ransom

  Shit shit shit, I curse myself under my breath as my door finally opens and I rush inside, closing it behind me and slinking down to the floor.

  Oh Mallory, you stupid, stupid girl. What were you thinking?

  Ten

  Photo: Gibbes Returns Home to Scotland, Fans Mob Ashaig Airstrip

  angela.mickel99: is that his mom and dad with him?

  nocarbsinlettuce: Aye, and his brother Bram.

  maxpropulsion: Kick ass race in Australia, Lennox!

  derbyhats4sale: swoon…

  Headline: Driver Power Rankings: Gibbes Leads DuPont Ahead of Bahrain

  Headline: F1 Arrives in Bahrain, Schedule of Events

  Lennox

  “Ha! That’s fifty pounds, pay up!” Jack holds his open palm out in front of Matty as Mallory comes barreling into my garage bay at the Bahrain track, dragging her rolling suitcase with her and swearing up a storm. It’s late and she looks a delightful wreck.

  “Damn,” Matty shakes his head and reaches into his pocket for his wallet to make good on the Nanny Longevity Bet he’s just lost.

  She’s officially made it to race two now, looks like Mallory may be in this nanny gig for the long haul. After she showed up in the gym and sent me home with a raging case of blue balls, I wondered how this would play out. If she’s not going to go home, she and I have unfinished business.

  I didn’t even get into trouble, that I know of, back home this past week. Not that there is too much trouble on the Isle of Skye, but sometimes trouble finds me regardless of where I am or whether I’m looking for it or not. Truth be told, I’m finding myself with more respect for this nanny because she fights back instead of shrinking like a violet, like her predecessors. Not that I’m going to admit it to her.

  “Did you just get in, it’s nearly midnight?” I check my watch and question why her suitcase is with. Her hair is pulled up again revealing her sweet little neck I almost had the opportunity to bite, and leggings, or yoga pants, or whatever they’re called trace every curve of her hips. God bless whoever invented those things.

  “Yep, my plane was delayed so I missed my connecting flight. Some pervert on the first flight kept running his hand up my thigh and then got drunk and drooled on me. Then no one from the team was at the airport to pick me up because my flight was so delayed and I had to wait for an Uber since cabs stopped running for the night. I couldn’t even go to the hotel because Jack here, “she points and scowls at him, “apparently has my reservation and key. Total. Shitshow.”

  “Why didn’t you call m… Jack? Jack would have picked you up,” I wave at Jack who is giggling at Mallory trying to drag the suitcase around which is half her size. I don’t think I care for someone manhandling her on Lecherous Pervert Airlines, either. If anyone’s going to manhandle her and touch her thighs, it’ll be me. She is my nanny, after all.

  “I did call Jack! He won’t answer his phone!” She roars at him.

  Jack pulls his phone out of his back pocket as I glare at him, “Whoops, sorry about that,” he says.

  I need to talk to Jack about that later. Regardless of the sexual escapades I have planned for Mallory and those leggings in our very near future, we don’t leave women alone at midnight in airports in other countries. We may be assholes, but we aren’t monsters.

  “Why did you fly commercial?” Matty asks her, stone-faced as usual.

  “How else would you like me to get here, carrier pigeon?” She’s on a tear tonight and clearly in no mood for Matty’s trademark Finnish bluntness. “Will one of you muscle-bound apes please help me with my suitcase! Jesus, were you all born in a barn?”

  Matty is closest to her so he picks up the heavy suitcase and puts it next to our bags to go back to the hotel. “I was born at home. It wasn’t much different from a barn,” he adds. “But, why didn’t you come on the jet with us?”

  “What jet?”

  “We fly private unless it’s too far, like Australia,” Matty answers because he doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose when it comes to women. Jack and I are already shaking our heads at one another knowing she’s about to rip his head off. And Jack’s gay so it would be understandable if his female prowess was subpar.

  Mallory all fired up is sexy as hell, though. Her pulse racing, her face and neck flushed, the way she squares her shoulders like she’s marching onto a battlefield. I like a little fight. And she has plenty of it in her.

  Sure enough, Mallory walks up to Matty and pokes her little finger at his chest, “You three are monsters!”

  “Don’t take it out on me, Jack is the assistant. I’m the physio, remember? Also, Sandra should have told you to come with us. It would have been more economical for the company.”

  “Sandra is a troll and Jack will book your travel from now on,” I announce amid the squabbling.

  “What? Now I’m the nanny’s PA, too?” Jack protests.

  I shoot him a glare that says not to argue with me and he knows enough to drop it.

  “Fine. The paid help is going to the hotel now,” he says to Matty as the two of them start throwing luggage into one of the transport cars, “are you two coming?”

  “We’ll be there shortly,” I reply, staring at Mallory as her face slowly registers that yes, I mean she and I will be staying, together, at the garage for the moment. It’s late and almost all the support staff has left for the night.

  Jack and Matty give each other knowing glances, Jack gives Mallory her hotel room keycards, and then they depart. I take a seat on a side pod of my car and sit in silence as Mallory takes a few deep breaths and then starts pacing the garage. She’s frustrated.

  “Listen, about the other night,” she starts.

  “Let’s not,” I cut her off. She’s in no mood for anything fun right now and the last thing I’m interested in is a discussion in which she tells me that we will never, ever sleep together. We will. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  That’s ok. I like a challenge.

  “I think it’s important we clear the air and acknowledge that while we may be attracted to one another…”

  “Who says I’m attracted to you?” I interrupt, half teasing, half starting an argument just for the sake of it.

  “I’m sorry, do you frequently rub yourself up against women you find unattractive?” She spits back.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘frequently’ but it’s happened before, sure.”

  “You’re disgusting,” she growls.

  I stand up from the car and stride toward her. She backs up a few steps then stops when she recognizes my modus operandi, plants her feet, and rolls her eyes at me. Once more, I’m inches away and towering over her, her head meeting the top of my shoulders, at best. I take a lock of her hair from her ponytail and run my fingers down it. “You don’t really think I’m disgusting. Do you?”

  “I have a pulse and a vagina, Lennox. I realize how attractive you are, but that doesn’t mean…”

  “I’m glad you have a vagina. That’ll make things easier,” I smile.

  Ignoring me, she continues, “That does not mean we can do this. I am not quitting and I am not losing my job over you. I don’t have that luxury. So please stop.”

  I pause a moment before stepping away and Mallory smoothes her shirt down nervously. I don’t believe she wants me to stop doing this—whatever this thing is we’re doing—but until I’m one hundred percent sure, some lines don’t get crossed. I’m not going to force her. I’m going to make her beg for it.

  Onto Plan B.

  “You need to learn a few things about the cars and the races,” I change the subject with no finesse whatsoever and pace back to my car so I can explain. “You made a post the other day about DRS that wasn’t correct.”

  “You read my posts?” A quiet voice whispers from behind me.

  Uh-huh, not interested, my ass. She isn’t going to lose her job over sleeping with me, either, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. She may lose her job, or more likely quit, for a thousand othe
r reasons, but not because she gives in to what she wants from me.

  “Aye, and I read the comments from the assholes making fun of you for saying the wrong thing.” Because keyboard warriors and pussies around the world never hesitate to act tough when they can hide behind a screen and anonymity.

  “See this flap here?” I put my hand on the rear of the car and open and close the carbon fiber wing a couple of times. “DRS--Drag Reduction System. At certain points in the race, I can open up this wing and reduce aerodynamic drag on the car. Gives me another twelve kilometers per hour, more or less.”

  “Oh,” she comes over and fiddles with the wing herself, “so you want this open as much as possible.”

  “No. When it’s closed there is more downforce on the car which is better for cornering. Plus, we can only use DRS in certain zones when we’re within one second of the car ahead, and never on certain laps like right after a safety car or the first couple laps of a race.”

  “Wikipedia did not mention all of that,” she looks up at me, her face softening and the tension melting from her stiff shoulders. The same porcelain shoulders that were bare for me last week.

  “Aye, you confused DRS with KERS, Kinetic Energy Recovery System. See this reservoir here?” I kneel next to a wheel and she joins me to poke around under the car. I’m oddly turned on talking shop with her. She seems genuinely interested, like she’s not just doing this to humor me or for some ulterior motive. And the damn jasmine smell is wafting off her again.

  “This big metal thing?” She asks and touches the smooth titanium component.

  “Aye. The KERS harvests energy produced by braking. It stores it and then, when I choose, I press a button and can use that stored energy for more horsepower.”

  “All the buttons on the steering wheel are making more sense now.” She’s biting her bottom lip as she contemplates and asks more questions. I want to know what those lips taste like, be the one biting her lip.

  She asks a dozen more questions and even finds paper to start taking notes, halfway through. Pausing her writing, she lifts an eyebrow as if there’s been a sudden rush of skepticism, “Why are you helping me?”

  Because you smell like heaven and I want to see you naked in my sheets flushed with satisfaction that I give you. Because I want to run my tongue over every inch of you and I want to hear you scream my name. Because the way we argue is such a turn on I think the way we fuck will be cataclysmic.

  Because I’m lonely and like spending time with you even though I have no business dragging you into my mess.

  “You’re supposed to be here to help me. If I help you, that only helps me. No?”

  Lies. I can tell them, too.

  Mallory nods, either believing my bullshit or pretending to. I can’t tell.

  “Most people here have dreamt of working in F1 since birth. You don’t know the first thing about it. Why are you here?” I ask her, flat out. I have no right to ask, I know this. But Mallory feels oddly tangible to me, something real amidst the facade. There’s no Botox, no duck lips stuffed with filler. No kissing my ass or trying to get me into bed so she can post it on Instagram. She could have done that on Day One.

  The reality is, I don’t particularly want her to leave anymore. Celeritas will just replace her with someone far less tolerable or fuckable. If she won’t leave on her own, we’re going to do this. And if we’re going to do this, more than once, I need to know what I’m getting into. Besides her leggings.

  Mallory hesitates for a moment then sinks to the floor and sits with her legs crossed, facing me and leaning up against a toolbox that separates the garage bays. “I’m new to racing but it’s always been sports,’ she fidgets with the hem of her shirt and avoids eye contact.

  I pretend to inspect something on the car that does not need any inspecting. “Let me guess, you were a tomboy and this was Daddy’s dream.” Pretty sure that was the case with Nanny numbers two and six, though they didn’t last long and it was just speculation. I certainly never cared enough to ask.

  “Nope, my father does not believe driving is a sport and is disgusted that I’m here.” She shakes her head. I guess she wants me to pull it out of her.

  “So this is revenge. You’re getting back at him?”

  “He probably thinks so. I doubt he even realizes that I went into Sports PR because he got me hooked on it when I was a kid.” Mallory slouches forward and rests her head on her palm, her hazel eyes sagging from her flight ordeal.

  “Go on.”

  “We used to go to games with him when we were little - the Mets, the Knicks. The Jets once or twice. He had box seats and would entertain clients there.”

  “That sounds wholesome enough,” I add. Daddy may be ignorant about driving not being a sport, but no skin off my nose.

  “He quit taking us when we were ‘too old to be cute’ for the cameras photographing him there as a ‘family man’ and Mom decided it was ‘unbecoming’.” Mallory makes air quotes around several phrases and her face twists up in bitterness. “We were just there to be seen. There was nothing wholesome about it.”

  “But now you do the same thing, participate in the media circus.” What an enigma, this one.

  “I was fascinated by the athletes and wanted to know everything about them, how they got to be the best in the world at their craft. And I wanted to control the narrative of what got told. I guess that’s why I can relate to your fans wanting to know about your personal life, little things about you. Media was in my blood, the family business, I just went a different direction.”

  “Let me guess,” I smile, “they do not approve.”

  “They do not. You’re a bunch of barbarians driving around in circles all day and my work in social media is an embarrassment. Working with disgraced barbarians on social media is a triple threat.” Mallory is staring at the concrete ground beneath her, her face blank and zoned out, no fire. The paddock has grown quiet and it’s getting chilly here in the desert now that the sun has long since gone to bed for the night.

  “Here,” I say, handing Mallory one of my team jackets that’s hanging on a wall nearby. Again, asshole, not monster. “So this is a revenge plot, I can dig that.”

  “No, I just want what I want and this is how I’m going to get it.” A little bit of sass has returned to her voice and some color to her face.

  I reach for her hand to help her off the ground and she takes it. Her fingers are cold as I pull her up. I have several ideas on how to warm her up. Even if now is not the time, I want her sassy mouth back and I want her to argue with me. God help me, I don’t know why I like her arguing with me. Last I checked, I was not a masochist and I have no mommy issues. “And what is it you want?” I ask and pull her closer to me than is just a friendly assist off the ground.

  “I want you to behave this weekend and not insult the press,” she puts both hands on my chest and bats her eyelashes at me, feigning innocence. The same trick she used to pull off her ridiculous cat shelter scheme. Unfortunately for her, my balls are still firmly attached to my body and not in her possession.

  “I can’t make you any promises,” I say, putting my large hands over hers and holding them in place on my pecs.

  “Right,” she pulls her hands back and steps away, “You’re not a promises kind of guy, are you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” she turns away, my jacket floating around her, far too big and long. But I like how it looks on her. “Can you take me back to the hotel, it’s getting late and we have a lot to do this weekend.”

  Ah, classic deflection. “Aye,” I nod and grab the keys to the loaner Ferrari I’m driving this weekend from the local dealership. She’s right, though. I don’t do promises anymore. No one keeps their end of the bargain, so what’s the point? She wants what she needs out of me to get back at Daddy, and I want what I need out of her—mainly her legs wrapped around me while I’m buried inside of her. Seems there’s a contract negotiation to be made here.
>
  Another day.

  The ride to our hotel is starting to look like a silent one as Mallory’s eyes get heavy and she struggles to keep them open in the warm, comfortable seats with the engine lulling a soothing lullaby. “How did you get here?” Comes a whisper as she curls up facing me.

  “Private jet,” I answer immediately.

  “Don’t be a dick,” she replies in the same whisper as if it’s a request to me, not a demand. As if she doesn’t have the energy to fight. Shame.

  “Worked my ass off.” That’s the honest truth, unlike DuPont who sailed in from Monaco on his money and family name and keeps his place on the grid only because he pays for it. It’s a bloody insult to all the parents like mine who sacrificed everything for their kid to make it here.

  “I can Google the facts, Lennox. How did you get here?”

  I sigh, debate taking the long route back to the hotel so we can stay in the car together and I have a chance to swing the conversation back to my comfortable topics, but she needs sleep. “Pop built me my first kart when I was 3 years old. It was all downhill from there.”

  “Three? How can a three-year-old drive anything?”

  “You were born being a danger to society behind the wheel, guess I was the counterbalance.”

  “I bet you were a cute kid,” she yawns.

  “You’d have to ask my Mum.”

  “Does your family ever come to races? The internet would love embarrassing photos of you as a kid.”

  “No, almost never. I’m not interested in sharing my family with a few million people who follow a phony version of me online, either.” I also can’t bear to see their disappointed faces when the truth of Celeritas is thrown into their faces, everything they sacrificed for me pissed away over greed and fame. I won’t do it to them.

  “I’m trying to make it less phony, you know,” Mallory whispers so quietly I can barely hear her. Her eyes have blinked close and her head rests back into the leather seat.