CHAPTER 2
Dev
Monaco
I’m pretty sure everyone at this party thinks I have an STD.
For the record, I don’t and never have, despite my escapades that the press loves to report on. This rumour has everything to do with my social media manager – ex-social media manager now – who quit her job by announcing to the world on all of my online platforms that I was the new face of at-home STD testing kit brand IYK Quick Results. Without it, I wouldn’t have discovered that I had chlamydia so quickly. But don’t worry, I’m being treated for it. Though, unfortunately, it’s an antibiotic-resistant strain. Some guys just have all the luck.
The posts gave the company a boost, but for me? I haven’t had sex in six weeks, and most of the women here won’t even look at me. It’s a goddamn disaster.
I know I have a case for defamation of character, but the damage is already done, and I’m not interested in hurting Jani in retaliation. Moving past it is my best option at this point. And if I’m being honest with myself, I might have deserved to face her wrath after everything I put her through while working for me. I wasn’t the easiest client, but who the fuck wants to have every aspect of their life documented for the whole world to see? Yet Jani insisted on it day after day until I finally snapped.
Unfortunately, that made her snap in return. Now my reputation is in the shitter, my team is giving me the cold shoulder, and there are whispers that my sponsors believe I might not be the right person to represent them. I can’t lose them – can’t lose that money – because without it, I’ll lose my place with Argonaut Racing.
‘God, would you lighten up? You’re going to scare off all the women looking like that.’
Beside me, Mark innocently sips his champagne. His tux barely fits him, even though I’ve hounded him about replacing it. His shoulders challenge the seams of the jacket, and his pecs strain the buttons of the crisp white shirt. Any second, they’re bound to pop off and blind people unfortunate enough to be in the danger zone. With one glance, anyone would know the man has a job in fitness, and he clearly loves showing off his physique. If he wasn’t my performance coach and one of my best friends since kindergarten, I’d think he was an absolute douche for it.
‘Looking like what?’ I challenge, lifting my own champagne glass and knocking back its contents. I drag the back of my hand across my mouth before continuing. ‘Looking like I’m about to lose my career and fail to get my dick wet all in one night?’ Because that’s what it’s feeling like.
I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am, and I refuse to leave Formula 1 until I’m good and ready. Is Argonaut Racing the best team on the grid? That’s a joke if ever I’ve heard one. But if I’m going to break free from the midfield and land myself a seat at a top-tier team, they’re my best bet.
Every driver aspires to win a championship, and my chances of ever doing that hinge on my performance now. I came up through Argonaut’s driver-development programme as a kid, and I’ve only ever driven for the team, so I’m loyal to them in most respects, but I can’t stay there for ever if I want to win. And yeah, it’s optimistic for a driver who’s never won a single F1 race to be looking toward the championship, but I’m a dumbass with dreams.
The problem is that those dreams feel more out of reach with each passing day. Unless NASA starts designing Argonaut’s cars, I’m never going to win a championship with them. I’m certainly not going to do it while Zaid Yousef and Axel Bergmüller are battling it out at the top, no matter what car I’m driving. Honestly, I’d be thrilled to place third or fourth with my current team, but that seems about as likely as the sun exploding tomorrow.
For now, though, my priority is staying in Formula 1 until I can prove that I belong in the upper upper echelon of this elite sport. I just have to keep my head down and perform well enough to garner the attention of the best teams’ bosses. Zaid should be retiring in the next couple of years, so surely Mascort is thinking about his replacement. Or maybe Specter Energy will decide they need a new number-two driver to support Axel, and if so, I’ll be their man. That won’t get me the title I’m after, but it’ll be a step closer to it.
But none of that will happen if I lose my sponsorships and Argonaut cuts my contract short, all thanks to Jani’s parting gift. The team may not rely heavily on the money I bring in, but no one wants a driver who has nothing but their talent to contribute. It’s shitty, for sure, and yet it’s how our little world works.
After this season, I have another year left with them, and if I don’t live up to – or exceed – their expectations? Fuck, if I think about the possibilities for too long, I might crawl into the nearest hole and never climb out.
‘You’ll get laid again, Dev, I promise,’ Mark says. ‘But only if you stop moping like a little bitch.’
There’s no missing how he ignored the first part of my complaint. I’m not the only one who’s worried about my future in F1.
‘I’m not moping,’ I mumble. But he’s right. I am moping. I’ve always been the smiley guy, not the scowling one. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. ‘I’m just stressed, all right? It’s a big night.’
It’s a big week is more like it. Tonight, I have to prove that I’m an asset to the world of racing, not a liability. Tomorrow, I have to grin my way through my media duties for Argonaut and pretend I don’t hate my teammate. Then I have to get a solid time during free practice on Friday, qualify higher than P10 on Saturday – there’s no way I’m scoring points otherwise at a circuit like Monaco, where overtakes are nearly impossible – and drive like my life depends on it on Sunday.
In a way, I guess it does.
‘You’re gonna get through it.’ Mark sounds assured, but I know he has his doubts too. ‘And if you don’t believe me,’ he says, nodding to the other side of the room, ‘go ask Oakley. You know he won’t sugar-coat anything for you.’
I turn in the direction Mark’s nodding in, spotting our friend by the doors to the ballroom where he’s shaking hands and slapping shoulders.
Thank fucking god. It feels like I’ve been waiting years for that dickhead to get here and save me from the boredom these stuffy sponsor events always inspire.
I’ve known Oakley since before I could walk. Our families have been neighbours for longer than I’ve been alive, and he and I grew up together in the karting circuits. We’re the founding members of the Awkward White Dads Club, two mixed kids – Black in Oakley’s case, Indian in mine – with white fathers, who bonded over never quite fitting into the motorsport world thanks to the colour of our skin. And also, because our dads are easily the most awkward people on the planet. Nerds, the both of them, but considering Oakley’s job these days, he’s not far behind them on the nerd scale.
Needless to say, we’ve been friends for ever.
And I almost ruined it all in a single moment last year when I kissed his sister.
I shake the memory from my head before it can replant itself and grow roots again. I know better than to dwell on it – I’ve done enough of that already and faced the consequences. Besides, I refuse to let it interfere with my friendship with Oakley; it was a one-time mistake, never to be repeated. I know better now.
Before I can make a move to head in Oakley’s direction, my agent steps into my path, blocking me from going anywhere. Great.
Mark, the bastard, manages to sidestep the glowering man and grins at my misfortune, lifting his empty champagne glass in a sardonic toast. ‘Catch you later, buddy,’ he calls to me before striding away.
A few steps behind my agent stands an exasperated Chava, his hands held out to the side in a universal I tried gesture. No doubt my assistant did his best, but there’s no stopping Howard Featherstone when he’s on a mission to make my life a living hell.
‘Howard!’ I call out, donning my signature smile and feigning enthusiasm. I knew he’d be here tonight, but I was hoping to avoid him for at least a little while longer. ‘How the hell are ya?’
‘I’ve been better, Dev,’ he says flatly, those cold grey eyes levelling on me. ‘But I think you know that.’
I’m tempted to stick my fingers in my ears and mockingly repeat Howard’s words back to him, but I have to remind myself that I’m a twenty-five-year-old man – the appropriate response at my big age is to tell him to go fuck himself.
Thankfully, I’ve had enough media training to keep me from behaving either way in public, so I school my expression into one of understanding and nod solemnly.
‘I hear you,’ I agree. ‘We’ve had some tough times lately.’
He eyes me suspiciously, probably well aware that I’m putting on a front. But he’s not about to call me out on it in case it leads us off-topic. ‘We have. And it’s past time to fix things. We could have started sooner if you weren’t avoiding my calls.’
I chuckle and drag a hand through my hair in an act of false sheepishness, though I can’t resist lifting my middle finger just a little as I drop my hand back to my side. I haven’t wanted to talk to him because I knew what he’d say. You need to fix this, Dev. Hire someone to clean up your image. Get a full PR team in place. Let them turn you into a robot. Let them drain the life from you.
‘Sorry about that,’ I reply, boldly dishonest. ‘The past few weeks have been crazy, you know? Hey, did you catch the race in Azerbaijan? I managed to make it to Q3 in—’
‘Cut the shit.’
I can’t help but cringe a little at the force behind his words. Oh, I’m definitely in trouble.
‘No one is happy with you right now,’ Howard ploughs on. ‘Not your team, not the sponsors. Certainly not me. And everyone else? They’re laughing at you.’
‘I mean, I’m used to being laughed at,’ I point out, shrugging. ‘I’m a funny guy.’
Apparently, this isn’t the time for jokes, because the next thing I know, I’m nose to nose with him, his age spots and close-to-bursting veins the only things I can see.
‘You keep this up, and you’re done,’ he snarls. ‘There won’t even be a seat for you in NASCAR.’
I don’t appreciate him insulting the chaotic art of turning left that is NASCAR, and I certainly don’t like the way he’s in my face. ‘I suggest taking a step back, Howard,’ I murmur. ‘This isn’t the place to make a scene.’ And I really don’t want to have to fight a sixty-year-old man who thinks he’s hiding his growing bald spot with that comb-over.
As if suddenly remembering where he is, Howard blinks away his anger and takes a stumbling step back, huffing as he straightens his tuxedo jacket. He glances around to see if his outburst drew any attention, but it seems the only person watching us is a grimacing Chava.
‘Get it through your head,’ he says after he’s recovered, careful to keep his voice low. ‘Your career is on the rocks, and I can’t save you unless you let me try.’
I blow out a breath. I’m not interested in the angle he’s come up with, one he’s presented to me many times before. ‘Look, if Axel can come back from getting caught on camera screaming the N-word multiple times while rapping along to a song, I think I’ll be fine with my fake STD.’
Howard shakes his head like he can’t believe I’d be so stupid. ‘You should know better than anyone that people will forgive racism far faster than a sex scandal.’
That gets me to snap my mouth shut. Because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. That is, unfortunately, how the world we live in works.
Taking advantage of my silence, he squeezes my shoulder, holding my gaze. ‘Let me fix this, Dev.’
The worst part is that I know he can do it. He can hire people that will sweep this all under the rug and make me look like the perfect little prince of the paddock. It would be so simple.
But I’ve done that before – I’ve given up control of my image and let them make the world believe I have the personality of a cardboard cutout. I wasn’t allowed to talk about anything even remotely political or ‘controversial’, even if the issue I wanted to address affected me or people I cared about directly. I wasn’t allowed to share my opinions or honest thoughts; I had to be the poster boy everyone else could project on. And I hated it, but I played along because everyone said that was best for me.
Yeah, right.
Jani was supposed to be the compromise. Instead of a full team, she was hired to handle my sponsored social media posts and anything mandated by Argonaut, maybe delve shallowly into facets of my personality for my fans. But she took it a step too far by trying to butt into my personal life and post it online. And after she attempted to get me to overshare one too many times, I was done.
So, yeah. I’m uninterested in handing my image over to people I don’t remotely trust.
‘I can fix it myself,’ I say, though my voice hardly sounds like my own. ‘Just give me some time.’
‘You don’t have much time left before people are going to give up on you.’ He takes a breath and straightens his shoulders. ‘I’m going to get a glass of champagne. But when I come back, we’ll make the rounds together and remind everyone why you’re such a delight to have in the paddock and on their billboards. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I barely resist the urge to salute him.
As if he can tell, Howard glares at me and then stalks off, leaving me to lock eyes with Chava.
‘Well,’ my assistant huffs as he approaches. His skin is close to the same shade as my own light brown, but it doesn’t hide the flush that’s crept up his neck. He hates Howard as much as I do. ‘This is a fucking mess.’
‘You’re telling me,’ I grumble, wishing I had a whole case of champagne to chug right now. ‘I’ve got to fix this.’
‘Any ideas how? Short of hiring a PR firm?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know yet.’ Blowing out a breath, I rest my elbow on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. ‘I’ve got too many problems to solve right now.’
‘Including how every woman here is looking at you like you’re tainted,’ Chava says drily as a trio of ladies in expensive gowns side-eye me while they saunter by, giving us a wide berth. ‘And me too, by association. Damn it, Dev.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ I groan, dropping my head back. ‘But I’ve got to get laid. At the least, I need to fix that problem tonight.’
There’s a very slim chance that I’ll find someone here who doesn’t believe I’m currently being treated for an STD and will come back to my apartment, but I have to try. All I have to do is find a woman willing to give me the time of day and explain the situation to her. Just laugh it off like a joke, because that’s exactly what it is. A cruel, cruel joke.
It’s simple. I face harder strategies each and every race day. This is nothing.
Straightening up, I pass my empty champagne glass off to Chava and run my fingers through my hair to sweep it off my forehead. I’m a good-looking guy, and I’m charming as fuck, so this should be a breeze. I’m writing off the past six weeks as a fluke. I just haven’t tried hard enough. Now, though? I’m in it to win it.
But all my plans go out the window the second Willow Williams walks into the room.