Hustle Read online

  I take a shower, toweling myself off when my phone buzzes. It’s Andy: How about that drink?

  Automatically, I start typing an excuse, stopping mid-sentence. Why don’t you? What’s the harm?

  I see headlines in my head, scandals and disgrace, but my libido plows past all that. Private jets, hotel rooms—it’s a life of luxury, for sure, but it’s a lonely one away from the track. I picture Andy sulking by himself, slowly falling apart. It’s more than him now. I can’t let Steven win, not after what he called me.

  Give him a shoulder to cry on, says Libido. Hell, give him everything.

  He answers for me: The pits. Got a Bud with your name on it :)

  I throw my hands up and let my dressing gown drop to the floor. Naked Me looks back in the floor-to-ceiling windows and I have to admit I’m looking half-alright. I recall what a guy once said to me when I refused to sleep with him on the first date: “What’s the good of having a Ferrari if all you do is keep it locked up in the garage?”

  *

  Lord help me. I find Andy lying underneath his car, one wheel jacked up. He’s got a spanner in hand, Caliber distressed denim jeans and nothing in the way of a shirt, the muscles in his arm flexing as he works. He could bend that spanner like a spoon if he wanted.

  “Hi,” I offer.

  He sits upright, knocking his head on the underbody of the car.

  He slides out on the trolley, greasy, sweaty and irre-fucking-sistible. He rubs his head, eyes running up from my bare legs, over my chest and up to my eyes. “Didn’t see you there, sorry.”

  “Am I that easy to miss?”

  His eyes fall again as he sits, abs crunching together. “Dressed like that? Couldn’t miss you if you were stationed on the moon.”

  I run my hand down the front of the dress, a cotton sheath, one of my personal favorites from the Caliber summer collection. I had a subtle hand in the design, even helped choose the fabrics. “This old thing?” I reach down and scoop up a beer from the ice chest, tossing it to Andy. “For your head.”

  He catches it with one hand, flicking the top off and taking a pull. “Thanks.”

  “Getting drunk isn’t going to make you drive any better, you know.”

  He leans forward, beer clutched in his hands. “Maybe not, but it will sure as hell make me feel a lot better.”

  He’s putting on a brave face, but I can see the losses are getting to him, slowly wearing him down. “Why are you here all alone anyhow?”

  He glances behind himself. “Thought I’d check out the car personally.”

  “You found something?”

  He shakes his head. “Sadly, no.” He taps the side of his skull. “Guess that means the problem’s in here.”

  I glance down to his crotch. “Or there.”

  He smirks but doesn’t laugh. “I can assure you there are no problems down there, though it could do with a good oil and lube.”

  I raise an eyebrow, reaching down and picking up my own beer, opening it with one hand like he did. “Getting a little worn out, is it? Overuse?”

  He ignores me. “Where’d you learn to crack open a beer like that?”

  I take a sip, close the lid of the cooler and sit down. My poor pussy could do with a temperature drop. “College. I was a beer pong champion amongst other things.”

  He slides on the trolley lightly back and forth. I imagine myself below him. “No way. You’re shitting me.”

  I run my finger around the rim of the beer. “No lie. Three years in a row. Sigma-Phi for life. Yay.”

  “You were a Greek?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cheerleader?”

  “No.”

  “Pity,” he says, eyes glinting. “Prom Queen?”

  “Some skank named Stephanie took that one out. Dialed in the pity card because her dog died or something.”

  “Harsh.”

  “I’m tougher than you think.”

  He places his beer down and slides forward between my legs, hands hot on the top of my thighs.

  I choke and splutter. He’s inches away from my pussy. “What are you doing?”

  He reaches up and pulls me down to him, lips against my own hard and fast. I taste the beer, smell the manly scent his body is giving off, feel his stubble as it brushes against my lower lip.

  I fall into the kiss, hands gripping the side of the trolley as he kneels forward and deepens the kiss, like he’s starving for it, unable to contain his hunger.

  A hand runs up over my breast, the arrowhead of an engorged nipple below pressing into his palm as it fills his hand.

  I spread my legs wider, push myself closer to his body. Oh god.

  My hands actually start to shake, a deep vibration starting in my core and spreading out to my extremities, my whole body thrumming and alive.

  His hand grips my breast tighter, kneads it, the other swimming through my hair, clutching it with possession.

  What the hell are you doing, Sara?

  I don’t know. I can’t think. I can’t respond. All I can do is allow myself to be swept away.

  But the more he gropes and moans into my mouth, the more I burn and crave his touch, the stronger the familiar voice of reason becomes, a rapid-fire string of excuses snapping out.

  Don’t become a conquest.

  Don’t mix business and pleasure.

  You’re better than this.

  You’re strong.

  I never thought I would, but I want this more than anything. If he doesn’t touch me there, things are going to get crazy. I’m talking serious, self-combustion shit.

  I shift forward, the crotch of my panties pressing against the corrugated board of his abs, the light pressure exquisite.

  I’m just about to take his hand and guide it between us when everything suddenly becomes vivid and real, the illusion lost.

  I snap away.

  He looks confused. “What is it? Do you want me to slow down?”

  I look down and see he has a raging hard-on, a zipper pull away from being revealed, from sinking deep into the wet channel of my pussy, but I’m awake—wide awake.

  I’m not in control of myself as I push away and stand, stumbling over the box, my beer spilling across the floor.

  He sees I’m torn. “Wait,” he pleads, eyes fraught.

  “I’m sorry, Andy—” I start, unable to elaborate further before fleeing into the night, the LED-screened lights of the Flame Towers falling in rainbow ribbons across my path.

  CHAPTER NINE: AUSTRIA

  Andy

  If I had to choose a second home, Spielberg, Austria would have to be up there—the food, the scenery, the fresh air filling your lungs. The place astonishes around every corner. My father took us skiing in Austria every winter. It would be the highlight of my year, the time when we most felt like a family even if my father couldn’t handle the cold. We weren’t exactly swimming in snow back in Texas.

  Austria is a relatively new addition to the F1 calendar. For over a decade it was off the program until a year or two ago, the aptly named Red Bull Ring became one of the easier circuits, not that Carl I’m-A-Cock Heinz isn’t going to put up a fight. The Championship is slipping through my fingers and it’s seriously fucking up my head. I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Fear.

  Fuck that. I don’t let my emotions rule my head. I don’t get distracted. I get off my ass and get to work.

  I’m on my way to speak to Klaus when I see Sara emerging from the back of the trailer—Steven’s office. Against the rolling greenery in the background she looks positively European.

  I’ve always hated the little manager’s room tucked up the back of the transporter. It’s claustrophobic, filled with framed pictures of Steven with celebrities and politicians, playing a bit of hover hand with Miss World. From the moment I saw those photos I knew he was a fraud. You won’t find sentimental shit in Luigi’s office. No, the walls are filled, but it’s with data, track charts lit with highlighter and pen
. Formula One is that man’s life, not a hobby or box to be ticked on a bucket list.

  Sara has her arms crossed over her chest. For all the beauty around us she appears rather glum.

  I cut her off. “Everything okay?”

  Since what happened in the pits at Baku we’ve hardly spoken. She’s been going out of her way to avoid me, which only makes me want her more.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her to go further, but I’ve never been real good at taking it slow. If she wants another go she’ll have to come to me this time no matter how much I want to feel her up, kiss her, and suffocate between her legs.

  She looks defeated, eyes lacking a little of their usual luster. “Just a little sit-down with Steven.”

  “About the team order thing?”

  “Yes,” she replies simply.

  Prick took his time. “Fuck, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t let him push you around. Caliber’s a big fish as far as sponsors are concerned. You have real power.”

  She looks sideways, speaking to the hills. “No, he was right. I shouldn’t have passed on confidential information.”

  “You did the right thing. I’m being railroaded out of the Championship for Christ’s sake.”

  She looks down and up, finally meeting my eyes. “Maybe, but I can’t afford to lose this deal for Caliber. My job’s on the line, a job I’ve worked really, really hard for.”

  “He wouldn’t dare, Sara.”

  “He might and it would be justified. Whatever’s going on between us, whatever was, we need to cool it.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  But her eyes remain tired. “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  She walks off and I’m getting awfully sick of seeing the back of her. I consider storming into Steven’s office and tearing it apart, maybe his face too while I’m at it, but I know it would achieve nothing. I’ll speak my mind on the track. The hills are going to be alive, alright, but it sure as fuck won’t be with the sound of music.

  *

  I make pole position—barely. If Carl was any closer to my ass he’d be a hemorrhoid. Even in the main event I can’t seem to shake him, even through Wurth Kurve. It’s like the other drivers don’t exist. It’s the two of us—mano y mano.

  Steven’s a little more vocal than usual in my ear, but I’ve become good at zoning him out. I concentrate on the wheel between my hands instead, the line, the tactility of my foot against the pedals. I drop a second or two during the tire change, but Carl gets held up in pit lane. The win seems certain until Carl pulls another cock maneuver, literally risking his entire car to take the inside line on Turn Eight.

  It’s too much. I can’t claw back the ground before the checkered flag, the second tier of the podium becoming an all too familiar place.

  I make it out from a scrum of reporters, easing into the shadowy alley between the pits and track.

  “Andy.”

  I turn around, Lui bent over trying to catch his breath.

  He shakes his finger. “You walk too fast. We’re two-thousand feet above sea level.”

  “And you smoke too many cigars.”

  He straightens up. “You shouldn’t have let Carl get under your skin like that. You should have seen it coming.”

  He’s right. That’s what I love about Lui—all of the passion with none of the bullshit. He might wear red, but he’s black and white when it comes to speaking his mind.

  “I know,” I concede. “I can’t work what’s going on in my head.”

  “You’re not yourself.”

  “No.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Thanks, Lui, but I don’t think Steven will be too keen having you show up to team meetings.”

  He laughs. “Perhaps not, but I have to remind you, you need to retain the championship if you want a place with Ferrari next season. Maranello was very, very clear on this. You have to be the one holding that cup.”

  I nod. “I understand. I won’t disappoint.”

  Lui places his hand on my shoulder. For an old bastard he’s got a hell of a grip. “I know.”

  *

  Lenny Kravitz stands beside me at the bar toweling himself off.

  “Great show,” I offer.

  “I’m a big fan of your work, too, my man,” he replies. He leans in closer. “Promise me one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  He pulls down his sunglasses. “Prove to them you’re more than a one-hit wonder.”

  I smile down into the amber pool of my whiskey. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Lenny!” someone calls, and he’s gone.

  He’s replaced by Stacey.

  I turn, admittedly a little surprised. “Not that I recall them, but you have some balls showing up here.”

  “It is my party.”

  “Your company’s party,” I correct, “and truth be told I’m really fucking surprised they keep you on after the shit you pulled. Daddy help out with that?”

  She ignores me and runs her hand along the bar. Every move she makes is with seduction in mind, but what once would have made my cock hard now makes me want to puke. “You’re going to let that ruin what we have going?” she purrs.

  I’m tempted to smash this glass into her botoxed fucking face. “We have nothing,” I hiss. “You are fucking scum.”

  She reaches to take my hand, but I’m wise to her tricks now. I snap it away, looking to the back of the room. “Where is he?”

  She acts dumb. “Who?”

  “Your photographer friend. Oh wait, I found him, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I speak casually, calmly. “By the time I’m done with you there won’t be a kid’s birthday party that’ll let you in.”

  She acts shocked. “You’re threatening me?”

  “No,” comes a familiar voice at my back, “I am”.

  I swivel and there’s Sara right behind me looking fucking amazing in a violet minidress, her hair out for the first time and framing her features to perfection. God what I wouldn’t give to bury my face in it right now.

  Stacey’s lips tighten. “Sara, nice to see you again.”

  “Pity I can’t say the same.”

  Stacey points between us. “Are you two…?”

  Sara steps around me, gets right up in Stacey’s face. I have to admit, it’s fucking hot. “Maybe, maybe not, but all you need to know is that if you don’t stay the fuck away from me, from Andy, I’ll release all the photos.”

  Stacey laughs, phony. “What photos?”

  Sara holds up a phone, scrolling through the full sequence of shots the photographer took that night showing me pushing Stacey away. It makes the entire thing clear.

  Stacey remains resolute. “Two lovers having a fight. So what?”

  Sara pats her clutch. “Not with the bartender’s statement or those from the seven patrons who witnessed the so-called ‘kiss’.”

  Stacey’s face hardens. “This isn’t your world.”

  Sara stands taller. “I’m making it my world. Now fuck off.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so New York.

  Stacey’s lips tighten, but she’s out of ammunition. She snorts and vanishes back into the party.

  “Thanks,” I offer, “not that I need you to fight my battles”.

  “You were falling into her web again, Andy. She’s so obvious. Can’t you see it?”

  “I can.”

  “It sure as hell didn’t look like it.”

  She seems frustrated. No, it’s something else. “What’s going on? You’ve hardly said ‘boo’ to me in two weeks and suddenly you’re here flying the Fortes flag. I don’t get it.”

  And then it clicks.

  “What?” she snaps, but she knows I can see it.

  I reel back in mock surprise. “Holy fucking shit. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  The way she blushes and turns away says it all. “Am not.”

  “Which completely
confirms it.”

  “And if I am?” she counters.

  “Then we should leave this party ASAP.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I reply, like we’ve just signed a custody contract.

  We remain locked like that for a moment, a DJ spinning the decks behind the bar, the noise of chatter not helping the build-up of sexual energy that’s threatening to overflow between us.

  “Room Eleven,” she says, quick as can be, darting off to the front doors.

  I wait as long as I can, but soon I can’t look at the bottom of my glass any longer. I’ve never wanted to catch an elevator more in my life.

  *

  I can’t get to her room fast enough. I’m tense, nervous, the head of my cock caught between my belt and navel rock-fucking-hard and growing.

  This is it.

  All the teasing, the flirting, and I have been reading the signs. She wants this as much as I do, but something, whatever it is, is stopping her from taking it to the next level.

  Maybe she’s a virgin?

  Doubtful. Virgin’s don’t flirt like that. They don’t stand up to girls like Stacey, vagina-fronting and playing the bad-ass. Sara’s upbringing was clearly tougher than I gave her credit for. I swear to god another minute and she would have been hauling that bitch to the ground by her hair yelling in a thick New York drawl, ‘That was my cab!’

  My kind of girl.

  The hallways of the Hotel Steirerscholoessl are surprisingly modern given the classical exterior. I take a breath and knock, the door swinging open with a whine.

  The suite is dark. I step inside giddy with anticipation. “Sara?”

  “Down here.” Her voice is coming from the back, weak, uncertain. Nervous?

  The balcony doors are open, the gauzy curtains fanning back into the room with the breeze like twin apparitions. Between them Sara leans against the railing, her heels gone.

  Slowly, I come up behind her, pause with my hands extended.

  “It’s freezing out here,” I note, seeing the goose bumps on her shoulders and arms, the earthy aroma of her alarmingly seductive.

  “Guess you better warm me up,” she says, continuing to stare into the mountain-peaked distance.

  I place my hands on her hips and exhale. Her back arches. She moans, low, already wanton.