Hustle Page 23

“No,” she says, freezing over, “it was worse. How do you think I felt after letting you in, trusting you?”

  She looks out the windows, back to me. “I should know better. I’m an actual adult.”

  I put one hand against the glass. “Maybe you’re right.”

  She remains silent, arms crossed.

  I can’t deal with this now, not so close to qualifying.

  Fuck it.

  I head back to the pits instead, set Metallica to full blast in my headphones. I’m not going to be thinking of Sara out there today. I’m going to think about Stacey, about the many ways she’s been fucking me over. I’m going to think about that poisonous bitch and I’m going to use that revulsion to win.

  *

  Rather rare during the Montreal round, it rains—biblical, sheeting rain that turns the track to glass, but I’m on point. I’m aggressive on the hairpins, the best I’ve ever been at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. The curbs on the final chicane are always tricky, but today I blitz everything. The car’s gremlins are magically gone. I’m on top of the fucking world as I make pole position, Carl clocking in second.

  The rain doesn’t let up a single drop for the race. I gun hard, but the initial momentum I felt in qualifying is lost to my increasingly clouded head. I’m not in the right frame of mind and I catch myself watching the box I know Sara is in as I pass down the straight. Carl cuts me off at the Wall of Champions. It’s a ballsy move. Maybe he does have a pair after all.

  I pull ahead, switching with Carl and then back again. This cat-and-mouse game continues the entire race. I’m used to Steven barking in my ear to let Carl through, take the one-two, but this time he’s quiet, only running through the odd piece of data, times. He could be a fucking robot.

  In the end, Carl has me by a car-length down the Casino straight. It’s enough to hand him the win. I know what this means. His newly acquired twenty-five points to my eighteen puts him into the championship lead by one point. It puts everything I’m working towards with Ferrari into jeopardy.

  I dodge as many people as I can on my way out of the pits. They’re all asking the same questions, speculating on the rivalry between us. You’d think we were the only team in the competition.

  I come around the corner and almost slam into Sara.

  She’s holding an umbrella, but I’m enjoying the cold wetness running down my back.

  “I was on my way to see you,” she says.

  “Why?” I snap, not giving a shit about her latest corporate spiel.

  She looks around, but we’re alone. “I came down to the pits earlier, heard Steven talking.”

  “About?” My voice is a bark this time and she recoils.

  “Jesus, I’m trying to help you out here, Andy. I can leave if you want.”

  I put my hand out, feeling instantly guilty. “No, wait. Tell me.”

  “He was talking about team orders. He wants Carl in the lead, whatever it takes.”

  I kick the ground. “Motherfucker. That’s why he was acting so nice. He’s fucking up to something. I know it. ‘Whatever it takes’—Those were his words?”

  “Yes. Look, you’re not going to achieve anything by getting worked up about it. Let me find out more. I’m becoming quite good at snooping around, weird as that sounds.”

  “Does this mean you believe me about the Stacey thing?”

  Her face tightens. “I never said I didn’t, but it still looks bad for business. You can at least understand that, can’t you?”

  I can, but that doesn’t mean it’s not driving me fucking insane.

  Sara looks up at the sky, squinting against the glare. “Come to the party tonight. Forget about the race. I need you there.”

  “You?”

  “Caliber,” she clarifies, but I’ll take it all the same.

  “Fine, but I’m only doing it because of you.”

  She nods. “Okay, I’ll see you there. Your suit’s waiting in your room.” She holds her hand out. “Given the weather, I think blue will be fitting.”

  *

  Quebec has really stepped up its game after the garden debacle last year. The lack of champagne didn’t help, the Championship torn between champagne sponsors at the time. That’s all it comes down to in the end—money, who’s scratching who’s back. Sometimes I think it’s worse than the NFL at the top. But what do I know? I’m just a driver.

  Sara’s on the balcony in a light blue dress that hugs her waist. She’s got this little sparkly crystal belt on that’s probably by a fancy designer I wouldn’t even recognize. But, damn, she is wearing the fuck out of that dress.

  I approach her and desperately want to reach out and touch the bare skin of her arm. “I hate to sound like I’m on a loop, but you look stunning.”

  She turns around. “I did some research of my own into Stacey.”

  “And?”

  “I found your photographer.”

  “You did? How did you manage that? I had three guys working on it.”

  She rolls her lips together, coral lipstick complementing the color of her dress perfectly. “I can be charming when I want to.”

  “What did he say, the photographer?”

  “He kept shooting after the kiss. The sequence shows the full story.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I have.”

  “So I’m in the clear?”

  “Not quite. He wants a fee, a substantial one, but I’ve already talked to Caliber and they’re happy to foot the bill. I have a friend back in New York tight with the press. She’s a real feminist war bringer. Hates girls like Stacey. She’ll make sure the pictures get out to every agency short of Timbuktu.”

  “Wow, what can I say?”

  Her expression is serious. “Thank you for a start, but you’ve got to be more careful, Andy. She’s a honey trap.”

  ‘Sweet’ is the last word I’d use to describe Stacey Solomon. “A what now?”

  “I don’t think this was her idea. I think someone was trying to do some serious damage.”

  “Carl?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think he’s the type.”

  “Clearly you haven’t raced against him.”

  “I don’t know who, or why, but you should watch your back. Formula One is far more political than I realized.”

  I lean against the railing, look down into the lights of Rue St. Catherine where the real party is happening. “You have no idea.”

  “So you’ll be careful?”

  I smile. “I’m always careful. Now, about that drink…”

  *

  I spend the night with Sara at the pop-up bar ordering cocktails. Her ability to handle liquor is impressive, especially for such a small gal.

  Hiding it in her curves.

  I watch her and yes, she really could be a supermodel. Perhaps she doesn’t have the height, but those legs… I picture running my hands up from her calves to the soft give of her inner thigh.

  By my fourth drink I’m well on my way to completely hammered. I’m telling her things I haven’t even told my own mother. I’m disappointed when she helps me up, her lack of balance somehow cancelling out my own so we actually look pretty damn coordinated leaving the party.

  We collapse onto a bench outside and a gust of chilly wind makes her shiver.

  “I’m cold,” she says, rubbing her shoulders.

  I take off my jacket and sling it around her. My hands linger there while she looks up at me with those laser-beam blues that make my cock hard every time they turn my way. That damn look sends my heart into overdrive every single time without fail.

  I lean forward and our lips connect, the cold forgotten.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: BAKU

  Sara

  Admittedly, I had no idea where Baku was when I saw it on the itinerary, but so far the city has exceeded my expectations—a kind of infant Dubai or Abu Dhabi with a medieval bent perched right on the western edge of the Caspian Sea. ‘The Paris of the East’ might be taking it too far, but it
is beautiful.

  Could recent events with one Andy Fortes be influencing your mood, perhaps?

  Probably. Okay, definitely. It’s good. He’s good. I’m good. It’s all good.

  I didn’t do so well pronouncing ‘Azerbaijan’ to my liaison at Caliber. Poor girl’s probably never been out of Fifth Avenue. “I love those things,” she exclaims to me down the line. “Have you tried shish kabob?”

  I laugh quietly to myself. Worldly my fellow Americans are not, except for Andy. Over these last few months I’ve noticed he goes out of his way to get to know the hotel staff, people working at the track. Just this morning a street kid ran up to him in the hotel lobby. Security was on the boy in a second, but Andy put his hand up, spoke to him quietly in a language I still don’t understand. The kid went off beaming.

  “What did you say?” I asked him.

  Andy smiled back, that slackened smile that always makes me quiver a little. “I told him there would be tickets for him and three of his friends at the desk this afternoon.”

  My inner skeptic gets the better of me. “They won’t let him back in here.”

  Andy looks over to the concierge. “After the all-access pass I gave him, I’m sure they will.”

  He sees me looking at him curiously. He runs his hand over his chin. “What is it? Did I miss a spot?”

  “No, it’s… I don’t know. The more I get to know you, the more you surprise me.”

  He looks down between his legs. “I’m saving the best surprise for last, you know.”

  While we have been darting off into dark places and groping like a couple of teenagers, we still haven’t had actual sex. I always find an excuse to leave and promptly sit alone in my hotel suite wondering why I always looked for a way out. But if Andy really wants it, if he wants me, he’ll wait. I’m testing him.

  He walks off leaving me hot, bothered and, for the first time, definitely considering going there.

  *

  When we arrive at a city square instead of a circuit, I lean forwards and ask the driver, “Formula One?”

  He turns, smelling of tobacco and garlic. “Yes,” he gestures to the city around us, “street”.

  Baku City Circuit is a new addition to the F1 calendar, yet everyone but me seems to know exactly what’s going on.

  My stupidity is confirmed at the team meeting, each team housed in pop-up pit garages smack-dab in the center of town where the Old City of Icheri Shehair is flanked by the distinctive mirror facades of the Flame Towers.

  “Now,” Steven addresses the collected, “this is a brand-new circuit.” He looks right at Andy, who’s scratching his chin. “Anything could happen.”

  Steven points to the track layout on a whiteboard. “Six kilometers counter-clockwise through the heart of Baku, fastest street circuit in the world. Past Azadiig Square, the Maiden Tower and looping around Government House.” His attention is on Andy again. “It’s a tight one. We want to minimize contact if we can.”

  Even I know Steven’s words are direct from a press release.

  Andy looks over at Carl. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The rivalry between them has ratcheted up to unbelievable levels. It’s all the press is talking about. In one way it’s perfect for exposure, but Caliber wants the right exposure, not two of Formula One’s biggest stars coming to blows by the seaside.

  Steven claps his hands together. I can imagine him doing it in front of a bunch of suits in a Manhattan tower, but it’s odd here, forced. As for taming Andy Fortes… I know who has the upper hand there.

  “Steven,” says Andy, flicking his eyes to the back of the tent. “A moment.”

  Reluctantly, Steven meets Andy up the back. I can’t resist. I slide into Nancy Drew mode and walk behind the tent, finding a small gap to see through.

  Most of the crew heads off to official briefings, Andy and Steven left alone in a corner stacked high with tires. The smell of fresh rubber is ripe.

  Steven starts. “Yes, Andy?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  Old Steven returns. “You want a pat on the back, a blowjob? How about you get back to work?” He starts to walk away, but Andy blocks his path.

  “Team orders. Can’t say you looped me in.”

  That gets Steven’s attention. “Who told you?”

  “A friend.”

  Steven tries to walk away again, but I can see he’s been thrown. “Your ‘friend’ is ill-informed.”

  Andy blocks him with his hand. “She doesn’t have any reason to lie.”

  Shit.

  Steven’s onto it. “She? Only two females frequent the pits and I sure as hell don’t think you’re talking about Katy Perry.”

  Andy has to admit it. Don’t, please. But he has no choice. “Fine, so Sara told me. Don’t blame the messenger.”

  Steven’s kicks the tires. “Fucking bitch. What did she say?”

  Andy slams him hard against the tires, bulging arm up under his throat. I’ve never seen him so angry. “You talk about her like that again and I’ll put you the fuck away, you hear me?”

  Steven wheezes, hands gripping Andy’s arm but he’s unable to pull it away. When he doesn’t reply, Andy presses harder.

  “I said,” continues Andy, teeth clenched, “did you hear me?”

  “Yes,” croaks Steven. “Yes.”

  Andy lets him go and backs away. Steven crumples in half, coughing and clutching at his throat. “Are you screwing her? Is that it?”

  “If I was it would be none of your fucking business.”

  Steven tries to assert his control. “Everything that happens in this team is my business.”

  “Not any more. You think I give a shit about your team orders? Fuck you, fuck Carl and fuck any idea you have of me gracefully accepting second place.”

  I expect Steven to lash out again, but he remains quiet as Andy walks off.

  My skin’s prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. The whole situation is extremely uncomfortable, Formula One’s top team breaking apart from the inside. I never knew the sport was so cut-throat. It’s House Of Cards with five-hundred horsepower.

  Still, I couldn’t help the way my heart swelled with pride when Andy came to my defense.

  He’s the one who ratted you out.

  True, but he was juiced up on testosterone, too busy thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

  His dick.

  I press my legs tighter together, the sound of pneumatic tools and clanging metal mingles with the song of the busy city just outside and it’s intoxicating. My nipples are diamond hard and I’m wet—standing here in the middle of Baku with the crotch of my panties soaking and one person responsible.

  I close my eyes for a moment and he’s there, no Caliber suit or shirt, no anything. His hands run up my sides, my blouse fluttering away on the breeze like a lifted feather. He kneels before me, presses his face between my legs, tongue probing into my moist flesh.

  My eyes snap open and I lean against one of the tent poles for support, suddenly breathless. I place a hand over my chest, my heart running its own, rapid race.

  Andy fucking Fortes—what have you done to me?

  *

  Although Carl poles again in qualifying, Andy placing second on the grid, Andy remains largely upbeat during the press conference. The young brunette closest to him is leaning forward when she asks her question, her cleavage on display, her eyes swimming with stars. I’m surprised she doesn’t simply hand over her panties right then and there.

  “Andy,” she begins, a second away from shedding her top or flinging her panties at him, “what do you think of,” she leans forward, the movement jiggling her breasts practically in his lap, “…the circuit?”

  He puts on ‘the smile’, turns it right up and leans over the desk. “It suits my style.”

  “And what’s that?” she presses, falling for it.

  Andy’s smile deepens and I know what’s coming next. “Fast, dirty and held in close quart
ers—I’m going to make it mine today. Watch and see.”

  He gives her a wink and I straighten up like someone’s shoved a lightning rod up my ass. I almost don’t know why until it suddenly strikes me: My god. I’m jealous.

  I avoid pressing the flesh in the VIP area and join the crowd trackside. I’m sure I spot the street kid. He’s with three other boys his age, all of them dressed in suits three or four sizes too small and ratty in the extreme, but they’re here and clearly loving it.

  True to Andy’s words, the racing is tight and dirty. The layout of the circuit allows little room for error. Before long there’s carnage on the track, one of the Brabus cars totaled as it’s jammed up against the barrier in a shower of sparks and metal.

  There’s contact everywhere, even between Andy and Carl as they fight for first place.

  In the end Carl manages to squeeze Andy out in a ballsy move through the final kink past the Maiden Tower. It elicits a gasp from the crowd, the elderly man beside me shaking his head in disbelief.

  Carl’s car clips Andy’s at the back ever so slightly. Andy fishtails, but pulls the car under control to snake across the line ahead of a Ferrari in third. I can’t imagine he’ll be happy.

  And he’s not.

  I make it to the pits in time to see the two of them circling each other, Steven stuck in the middle trying to push them apart, Carl’s bimbo girlfriend clutches his arm crying “Babe! Babe!”

  “You’re a fucking dog, Heinz,” Andy jabs.

  “Calm down,” Steven shouts.

  So the wrong thing to say.

  I’m sure this will send Andy right over the top, but he starts stepping back. He points at Carl. “Watch your back, my friend. I’m coming for you. I fucking invented dirty.”

  Andy starts to walk towards the crowd.

  I try to catch up with him, Steven casting me the evil eye.

  Screw you.

  “Andy!” I shout, just as he’s lost in a thunder cloud of camera flashes.

  *

  I pace around my hotel suite in bare feet, the carpet of the JW Marriott soft and luxurious. I call Andy not really knowing why, but he doesn’t pick up. I haven’t been summoned by Steven either, not that he’s about to bite the hand that feeds him. He should be more careful what he says when he thinks nobody is around.