Hustle Read online

  “Not unless you want me to puke all over you.”

  “Fair enough,” I nod. “What about you? What do you drive?”

  She clears her throat. “A Prius.”

  I almost stop in the middle of the road. “A Prius? You’re serious? The vehicular equivalent of a pap smear?”

  For the first time, she smiles. “I love him.”

  “Him?” I question.

  “Thomas.

  I throw my hands up. “You call your joke of a car Thomas?”

  “Like the train.”

  “In god’s name, why?”

  “He’s dependable, adorable… everything I want in a man.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t pull over and kick you out right here.”

  The smile remains. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  She lifts a finger. “In fact, I recall you saying I could ask you three questions, whatever I want.”

  Shit. Forgot about that. “Yep,” I reply, popping the ‘p’.

  She turns in her seat, the traffic thinning out on the motorway. “One, if there was any place in the world you could go, where would it be and why?”

  “I’ve been around, you know.”

  “So they say.”

  “Poor choice of words, but to answer your question, there’s a salt lake in Bolivia I’ve yet to see.”

  “Salar de Uyuni,” she adds.

  “That’s it. Someone once told me it’s the most beautiful place on earth. You been?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but I’ve heard about it, like a giant mirror, right? The sky and land as one.”

  “Correct.”

  “You could fly there in the off-season. You’ve got your own private jet, the means…”

  I look at her, desperately want to pull over and press my lips against hers and sink inside her body. “It’s an experience that needs to be shared. Guess I’m waiting for the right person to share it with.”

  “Interesting,” she says. “Two, who was your first crush?”

  “We’re not in junior school.”

  “You said ‘anything’.”

  “Fine. Gracey Adams.”

  “And?”

  “We were like five-years-old. She had this Dora the Explorer backpack I liked.”

  She stifles laughter, the ice wall ever so close to collapsing. Come on down, motherfucker. “She was your first kiss?”

  “No, that was Amanda Manders.”

  “Her name was Amanda Manders?”

  “Cruel parents. They owned a chain of sports stores but couldn’t fork out a couple of hundred to fix her buck tooth. Always got in the way when we were kissing, and her braces, her hair…” I laugh. “It wasn’t such a pleasant experience, come to think of it.”

  I’m tempted to ask Sara the same question, but no, I have to let her fall into this.

  “Three,” she says, genuinely enthusiastic about the conversation now. It’s good timing, Shanghai International Circuit looming in the distance. “What’s your family like, truthfully?”

  “I’m surprised. Any question and you go with that classic. You in PR or journalism?”

  “Family defines someone, don’t you agree?”

  “I define me.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “My family’s wealthy, but I’m sure you know that. I’m a single child. Both my parents still live in the States on the ranch they’ve owned since I was a kid.”

  “You see them much?”

  I shake my head. “No, they don’t really take an interest in what I do.”

  “They don’t come out to see you race?”

  “Not once.”

  “But they say your father pulled strings, got you into Goodall.”

  “My old man likes racing, Indy Car more than Formula One, and he has friends in high places. I’m sure he helped, but he’s not the one out there driving. There’s a reason I was headhunted by Renault in my teens, a reason I took out the championship in my second season. It’s because I worked my ass off.”

  My back’s up more than it should be, but I can’t stand the insinuation I was somehow handed everything.

  “Can I ask why they don’t come out?” she continues, legs pressing together against her handbag.

  “I can’t say. Dad’s a good man, but he sees what I do as frivolous, that I’m not ‘making a difference’ in the world.”

  “You donate to charity, millions paid out, I’ve read.”

  “You have done your research on me?”

  She turns sheepish. “I was provided some material, yes.”

  “So you know my mother was injured in a car accident when she was sixteen. She hates the fact I’m a turn of the wheel away from hitting a wall at two-hundred miles per hour, and it can get nasty out there. It’s safer than it was ten, even five years ago, but drivers still die. Jesus, this has become far too serious.”

  She relaxes into her seat as the gate to the circuit approaches. “I like this Andy, open and honest, far from the pervy flirt.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  She looks at me, eyes smoldering and so overtly sexual I’m certain if I was to stare too long into their depths I’d turn to stone. “Take it however you want.”

  *

  Shanghai has always been an easy circuit for me, but not this time.

  I’m thinking about Sara as I come into the hairpin during qualifying. I’m too late with the change, the rear left kicking out and precious milliseconds squandered. I make up time down the back, but the damage has been done. All I can hope for is that Carl drops the ball.

  He doesn’t.

  The prick’s on fire out there, carving up the track like he’s driven it his whole life. By the time he crosses the line he’s got me by half a second.

  It’s only qualifying, I tell myself, but I’m pissed. I punch the side of the garage wall harder than I should’ve and wind up losing the top layer of skin on my knuckles. I should have been in the game, not thinking about Sara and all the ways I’d make her come. We’re not even together and she’s already messing with my head.

  You’ve worked too hard to fuck it all up over pussy.

  I tell myself this but it’s not with any confidence. The clean Sara. The organized Sara always with her ponytail and steamed clothes. There’s something about it that draws me to her, makes me want to get those perfect clothes dirty and mess up her ponytail, prove she can’t possibly be that perfect. Is that what I am? Someone who gets off on bringing down beauty, dragging it into my muddy world?

  Carl pulls up, handing his helmet over and telling the nearest mechanic to add another degree to the back right, as if he could squeeze his time down even more.

  Keep at it, Dolph. No way I’m letting you have the win come race time.

  I smile, the Andy Fortes everyone knows and loves returning. Bring it on, Heinz. Fucking. Bring. It. On.

  *

  Race time and I forget all about Sara as soon as I hit the throttle. It’s a dog fight out there, dirty, but that’s how I like it. Carl’s constantly on my ass, but he forgot the lube. No matter what he tries he can’t get through. I hold pole through the entire race, much to Steven’s displeasure. Fuck him. Fuck them all. They want to win? They best put their faith in the best man for the job.

  Carl doesn’t acknowledge me on the podium. I’m starting to get to him, and you know what? I don’t care. After all, on top’s the only position I know.

  CHAPTER FOUR: SOCHI

  Sara

  I visited Sochi on a Contiki tour right after school. I don’t seem to remember much apart from a lot of vodka and some really bad company. I spent most of the time on the bus wearing sunglasses and nursing a bottle of water.

  I recall reading something back then about Sochi being the summer capital of Russia, two-hundred days of sunshine a year, but you wouldn’t know it today.

  You do realize that was only five years ago, right? You’re not ready for the retirem
ent home yet.

  Clearly not. No, I feel more alive than ever. Even the jet lag seems to be slipping off. I shift through time zones like a clockwork chameleon, Ms. Sandiego taking on the world… and Andy Fortes. At least he’s stopped fighting me on the outfit choices. I almost dropped dead when he suggested “something slate” for the press conference today.

  I spent last night scrolling through images of him on my phone. He was barely wearing anything in half of them. Research, I justified it to myself. Just research.

  I remember being disappointed on my first visit here that the famous Black Sea was, in fact, blue—a beautiful, postcard blue. Sochi really is a resort town, the Sochi Autodrom running around the former Olympic Park site. The accommodation isn’t as grand as it was in Bahrain or Shanghai, but in many ways I prefer it. There are only so many ways you can stretch out in a fifty-square-foot suite.

  Bet you could find more with Andy…

  Silence, head.

  I can’t tell whether I’m thankful or disappointed to find Andy dressed when I come into his room. I offer up my newly acquired knowledge of the track as he picks between the suits I’ve brought. “So, third-longest circuit in the Championship, two ninety-degree turns. Sounds like fun.”

  He looks up at me curiously, paisley tie in his hands. I get a flash of him binding my hands with it. “Well, I know what you’ve been Googling this morning. The question is, why?”

  I shrug. “Thought I may as well learn a bit about the sport.”

  “You didn’t seem so interested earlier.”

  “I like to keep an open mind.”

  ‘And legs,’ I hear him reply in my head.

  He smiles. “Good,” looking back down at the ties. “Think I’ll go with the grey—very Putin, wrestle-a-bear kind of thing, right?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed. “Is it just me or do you seem a little more relaxed?”

  I shrug again, but he’s right. Everything is slotting into place. Caliber’s over the moon with my work, the company’s quarterly results through the roof. There might even be a place on the board for me when I get back home, my own lines and designs. “I’ve been hitting the gym a little,” I lie.

  “I’d like to see that.”

  I wink, a little shocked at myself. “Maybe you will.”

  I get the hell out of there before he can see how rosy my cheeks have suddenly become.

  *

  The sun finally makes its grand entrance. It’s bright at the track, bright and cold as I head down to the pits, the puffy jacket I’m wearing makes me look like an oversized marshmallow.

  “Pink?” says one of the security guys, checking the pass around my neck.

  I shrug. “Last color they had left in the shop.”

  “Looks good.” He nods, waving me through.

  I’m smiling as I find the Goodall garage, but the grin leaves my face when I hear people arguing out the back.

  I walk behind the monitors. The place is largely empty apart from a few techs, but it’s clear the voices belong to Andy and Steven.

  I stand by the back door, listening.

  I can hear the frustration in Steven’s voice, a man who is used to getting his way. “If you’re not going to toe the line, Andy…”

  “You’ll what? Force me out?” Andy laughs. “You’d fucking love that, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all, but team orders are team orders. You can’t go around doing whatever you want. This is a team, not a one-man circus.”

  Andy remains blunt. “Does Goodall want another championship or not?”

  Andy’s on the offensive, but Steven’s remaining surprisingly calm. “Carl’s looking good out there, Andy. Just sayin’.”

  Andy sniggers. “Oh, I know exactly what you’re saying. He’s still wet behind the ears, a kitten. What do you think’s going to happen when the going gets tough out there?”

  “I think he’s going to live up to expectations. I think he’s going to follow orders.”

  “If you wanted a yes man you should have hired Meschartes. He knows how to take a cock.”

  I can’t see them, but I imagine they’re drawing closer, testosterone building.

  “I don’t like your tone,” continues Steven.

  I’m worried this is going to turn into an actual fight. I don’t even really understand what they’re arguing about, only that Andy seems to be growing angrier by the second.

  “Look,” says Steven, firmer now, “it’s simple. You need to ease off, give Carl some glory here.”

  “Like fucking hell.”

  “Andy…”

  “Go back to your fucking boardroom, Steven.”

  Andy storms past me exactly like he did that night in Bahrain with ‘Stacey’. He doesn’t see me, too swept up in his anger as he disappears toward the transporters.

  Steven comes out. I pretend I’m checking my phone.

  “Oh, Sara. Shit, didn’t know you were here. You didn’t…?”

  I shake my head, reach up to my ear. “Sorry? It’s loud.”

  Steven doesn’t look convinced. “Right. Well, if you’re looking for His Highness, I’m afraid he’s having a bit of a hissy fit. Let him simmer down a while unless you want your head bitten off.”

  I nod. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  Steven takes one final look at my tits before he too vanishes.

  I approach a tech working on an array of monitors. “Any idea what that was about?”

  He looks up, hands black, and laughs. “Trust me, miss, that’s one pissing contest you really don’t want to get involved in.”

  *

  Whatever happened in the garage, Andy uses it on the track. I watch him closely, finally able to put together his driving. He’s aggressive out there. The techs at the monitors complain he’s putting too much pressure on everything, from the brakes to the engine and tires, but he does it, qualifying in pole position again.

  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?”