Chapter 14 Theo
Theo
Across the grid, Sebastian’s eyes locked on to mine. And he grinned. It was feral, predatory as he stalked across the tarmac towards me. His overalls were tied around his waist, and the thermal under-layer clung to his body like it was painted on.
God, I was down bad. So bad that I didn’t even notice as Brooke sidled up to me. “Christ, you could cut the sexual tension in the air with a knife,” she said.
“Shut up,” I said as she mimed using a bread knife in the space between Sebastian and I.
“How’s it going, sexy Spaniard?” she shouted over at him. Sebastian’s smile just widened as he got close to us, and he sidled alongside me.
“Do I look feminine today? I that why you find me sexy?” he asked, stroking his stubble.
Brooke just laughed. “Nope. I like ‘em butch, Sebastian. Remember that in case any Remini lady-mechanics look my way.” And with a cackle, she was walking back towards British Racing’s garage.
Leaving us alone on the track. Well, alone except for the hundreds of drivers, mechanics, celebrities and millionaires.
Sebastian leaned in, so close we could kiss. But he didn’t. “What do I get for beating you today?” he asked.
“You still want to bet?” I asked. “With everything we’ve done, with what we…are?”
Sebastians lips brushed my ear as he leaned ever closer, and I thanked every version of God for the thick sleeves of my overalls, hanging at my waist and covering up any sign of arousal.
“Why don’t we have a little fun with this, now we have new boundaries? Whoever wins calls all the shots tonight.” Sebastian nipped at my earlobe and then leaned away like nothing had happened.
“Fuck, well I’m never going to win when I’m thinking about that,” I muttered. “Deal.”
“That ass is mine,” Sebastian said, a little too loud for comfort. But two could play at that game. I wasn’t above psychological mind tricks to win a race, even if he was my boyfriend.
“If I win,” I started, grabbing him by the collar so that I could put my lips to his ear, “I might just make you fuck me anyway.”
And with that statement, and an erection that I hoped no paparazzi could capture, I sauntered away. And on to the race.
Monza was known as the temple of speed for a reason. The racetrack on the outskirts of Milan was one of the simplest Moto 1 tracks, but its long straights allowed for the cars to pick up some real speed. Real speed was exactly my problem.
The race started in the middle of one of those long straights, and it was almost seven hundred metres before the first bend.
I was an expert at late braking, and my car was fast in the curves of the track, the chicanes and difficult bends. I was not as fast as every other car on the straights. And I was starting this race in eighth.
My only consolation was that my main competitor for the championship, British Racing’s Max Burnham, was only a couple of spaces ahead of me. And in the second row, I could spot the back of Sebastian’s car. He was starting the race at an advantage. But I’d come back from worse.
The thought of his skin against mine.
Nope, not thinking it. Not letting those thoughts get to me.
Sebastian holding my wrists above his head as he fucks me.
I shook my head like I was trying to get rid of an annoying wasp. Whatever happened, whether I came first or twentieth in the race, I was ninety percent sure I’d be the one getting fucked. So coming first really wouldn’t be an impediment to Sebastian coming inside me.
I grinned at my own internal humour as the lights lit up ahead. One, two, three, four, five.
Engines grumbled, roared as we all teased the bite of the clutch. For a second that felt forever, we all waited.
And then the lights were off, and my foot was off the brake pedal, pressing down on the accelerator. It might have been the best race start of my life as I shot past Burnham, Savage, Schester. And in my line of sight, there he was. García.
But we were all still too close as we approached the first bend in the track.
I nudged my wheel to the right and tried to carve out my own space on the racing line, but Max Burnham had caught up again and was jostling for room.
Whichever of us was behind at the apex of the curve would have to give up the space, and I was determined that wouldn’t be me.
I was so focused on Max that I hadn’t noticed the car on my left until their wheel bumped mine, almost making me careen into Max. Much as I wanted to race, I knew it was too risky. And it was better to drop a place or two than to risk losing everything to a burst tyre.
I tapped the brake, dropping back. Max drove ahead, and so did the black Remini car that had tapped me.
Frankie Jenkins. I waved my middle finger at him to show my frustration, but kept my place behind him in the pack.
“The nepo baby just tapped me at the corner,” I growled into my driver comms, knowing it would get picked up by the TV crews.
“We’re looking into it, Theo. Just keep your cool,” replied my race manager.
I took a sip from the water tube in my helmet rather than reply. I was keeping my cool. I was so, so cool.
The race was hard-fought. I’d battled my way up from eighth to fifth, then back to seventh, but Frankie and Max were still ahead of me, and I couldn’t get my car to catch up on the straights so spent most of the time defending against the cars behind me.
I found myself willing for Frankie to make one of his usual mistakes.
But he never did. Typical, that I was caught up in the one perfect race that Frankie Jenkins had ever had.
By the time I crossed the finish line, I was sweating more than usual.
And stressed. Normally I felt elation on finishing a race, but not this time.
I felt like I could have done so much better.
If I’d just been able to push that little bit further…
I was dreading the debrief. Dreading the interviews with the media.
Dreading seeing other people on the podium.
I disconnected my comms before my racing manager could say anything.
I couldn’t handle his consternation. And if he was feeling sympathetic, I could handle that even less.
I finished my post-race lap and pulled into the entrance of the pit lane.
Ahead, I could see the cars that had pulled into the bays reserved for podium finishes.
A familiar black car with Sebastian’s driver number on the back was in second place.
My stomach did a little flip and I did my best to feel happy for him.
I looked up at the scoreboard, broadcasting for the crowd to see. There was Sebastian, in second, and me in…sixth? I allowed myself a tiny grin. Frankie Jenkins had a five-second penalty against his name, which had pushed me one space up the leaderboard. Take that.
Despite my poor mood, I stuck around to watch Sebastian’s podium. He really deserved to be at the top of his game. I just wouldn’t let him beat me to win the European Tour. I was going to be champion, and to do that I would need to be at the top of my game.