Chapter 17
Rocco Passero was an arrogant douchebag.Whoever his PR people were, they deserved a raise, because he one hundred percent believed his own press. He was gruff, recalcitrant and didn’t want anything to do with the promotional side of the job. He just wanted to be behind the steering wheel of the car, and that was it.
Normally, that was something I could understand—even relate to, on a fundamental level. I’d also hated the dog-and-pony show that came with sponsorships and building a team brand when I was in NASCAR. But Rocco Passero was the face of VANT Racing, and we still didn’t have a second driver to pick up the personality slack.
The team was having a press conference today, and I was hiding at the back, listening to the familiar shuffle of journalists talking to each other in hushed tones, the snap of camera shutters. Rocco had rolled in late, hungover as shit. There was still smudged lipstick on his neck. He looked like he’d just rolled out of the clubs and into this press conference.
Hayes was beside me. In fact, the whole team was standing at the back of the room, dressed in our team uniforms—black with the deep purple VANT Racing across the front.
“He smells like a distillery,” one of the mechanics muttered, shaking his head as Rocco stumbled up onto the stage. His smile was lazy and cocksure, and Ari Rome gave him a look that probably would’ve made me wither into nothing more than a husk. But Rocco just smirked. I had to give Ari kudos for not punching him in his smug face.
Antony strolled in, barely casting a look at Rocco or Ari as he sat in the middle of the long table at the front of the room. “Thank you for waiting, ladies and gentleman. I’m very excited to be sitting in front of you today, launching a new name in IndyCar.” Antony launched into a spiel about IndyCar, VANT Racing, the research and technology we were putting into the cars, and the goal of being the premier force in IndyCar within three years.
Ari Rome spoke next, giving a brief overview of his goals as team principal, changing from his former team to one being built from the ground up. Basically, all the boring, predictable questions.
The PR person, Luella, stepped forward. “We’ll take questions now.”
Almost all the hands in front of us rose. There were journalists that I knew from my time on the NASCAR circuit, and I pulled my VANT cap lower over my face.
“Paul Camwood, MotorDrive. I have a question for Mr. Barbieri. You’ve been seen around the Formula One circuit for many years now. Is IndyCar a stepping stone for VANT Racing to reach the bigger leagues of Formula racing?”
Antony gave a lopsided grin. “I don’t think anyone would be surprised to hear that I am a lover of Formula One. I think we can all agree that if you love one side of this sport, you likely love them all, from NASCAR to Formula One. That being said, I wouldn’t consider our place here to be a midway point to anywhere. You’ll see VANT Racing in the Indianapolis 500 for decades to come. Will we perhaps branch out further into different international Formula competitions? Perhaps, like many other teams, we will make that leap. But for now, we are focused on our current plan of dominating the IndyCar competition.”
More hands went up, and Antony pointed to a guy in the front. “Oscar Ruiz, Drive Away Magazine. My question is for Rocco. Does your move from Formula One have anything to do with Lucia Christian, and the rumors that you and she had an affair right under the nose of your teammate, Mattias Christian?”
Anger flashed across Rocco’s face, but he quickly shut it down. He leaned forward lazily in his chair, eyeballing Oscar Ruiz like he was trying to melt him to his chair. “No.” He leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest.
Oscar waited for more, but there was just silence. “Do you have anything else to add in response to those rumors?”
Rocco leaned forward once more. “Not really, no.”
Luella looked like she was about to have a heart attack, and she quickly picked someone else for the next question. The questions mostly flicked back and forth between Ari and Antony, but whenever someone would try and draw Rocco into the conversation, he’d give them nothing. He was a nightmare for the publicists.
I missed the name of the journalist in the back, but he stood up tall, notepad in hand. “So far, you’ve only named Rocco Passero as your driver. Have you approached any other drivers, and did you have reservations about hiring a driver with such a checkered personal history? I mean, from crashing cars to trashing bars, Rocco has been front-page news for the length of his career.”
Rocco leaned forward, clearly angry again, but Antony placed a hand on his chest. “While Rocco might be… boisterous”—the crowd laughed—“he is also the youngest five-time world champion in Formula One history. He’s won more races than many of the greats put together. His record speaks for itself, and VANT Racing is honored that he has come on board for something a little new and exciting. We have no regrets or worries about his performance on the track, which is where it counts.”
Antony’s expression brooked no further questions on Rocco’s suitability to the team. “As for our second and possibly third team drivers, we have a few feelers out, not just from IndyCar drivers, but from other motorsports too. For instance, we have the very talented Tally Palmer, who has come over from NASCAR to help us run sims.”
He pointed to the back of the room, and almost as one, the journalists turned. I almost hid behind Hayes, whose shoulders had gone stiff, but I didn’t. I lifted my chin and eyeballed every single one of those fuckers who’d written about me like I was some grease-covered jezebel after Buck’s death.
Oscar Ruiz laughed. “You have certainly gathered a team that’s no stranger to being in the tabloids, Mr. Barbieri. The Lothario of Europe, and who some refer to as the Delilah of Willtot Racing.”
Hayes was all but vibrating now, and I grabbed the back of his belt before he did something stupid, like punch a journalist at the team’s first press conference. Rocco met my eyes, and his gaze assessed me in a new light. Obviously, he was the last person to pay attention to tabloid bullshit.
Antony gave Oscar Ruiz what could only be described as the stink eye. “I guess that is why I am the billionaire, and you are the reporter, Mr. Ruiz. I see their performance on the track and the benefits of their experience for the team, not the sensationalized fabrications made up to sell cheap magazines.” He cleared his throat. “Now, does anyone have questions that people actually interested in motorsports might like answers to, or are we devolving into some kind of soap opera?”
The questions continued from the more professional pundits, but I could still feel the eyes of some journalists on me. I looked over their heads at the front of the room, trying not to tug at the bottom of my shirt so that my stomach bulge was covered properly. I told myself that it was okay. No one would know. And even if they did, they’d never guess it was Buck’s baby. I wouldn’t be front-page news again. It would be fine.
I kept repeating that to myself as they wrapped up the conference and the journalists filed out. This time, I purposefully hid behind Hayes, though I pretended it was because I was talking to Stephie, a software engineer who was working on the simulator with me.
The girl was insanely clever, just a little socially awkward. Her hair was a fuzzy red, her skin was so pale she basically glowed, and every time she spoke to anyone, she flushed bright red. But Antony had poached her from VANT Enterprises over to the racing team, and I could understand why. She was a prodigy, that was for sure.
She fanned her face. “Why was that so stressful? No one gives a damn about me, but when they all turned around to stare at you, I thought I was going to wet myself,” she squeaked out. “I’m definitely not doing this again.”
Hell, if I could get out of it, I’d also avoid more of these conferences. “Me too. I was thinking, the percussion of lap sixty at Iowa Speedway is off. By that stage, there’d be a fair amount of marbling on the road, and you want to factor that into your handling through that on both hard and?—”
“Tally Palmer. I thought you’d slunk away into obscurity.”
My spine snapped straight, and I tried not to externally freak out. I looked over my shoulder at Rupert Ballantyne, one of Brick Willtot’s cronies and one of the premier race pundits for NASCAR.
Pasting a tight smile on my face, I turned. “Rupert. What are you doing covering IndyCar? Get demoted? Did they find out you were taking bets on races?” I teased, though it might have been a little too sharp to ever be considered good-natured. “Did they find you jerking off to pictures of Brick Willtot in the garages again?”
Stephie let out a high-pitched gasp. Okay, that might have been too far.
I had no good feelings when it came to this old fuck. Brick might have blacklisted me with the teams, but it had been Rupert who’d ensured that my reputation went into the trash right along with it. He was the one who’d painted me as the distraction to the NASCAR viewers, and he was the reason I was painted as—how had Oscar Ruiz put it?—the Delilah to Buck Willtot’s Sampson. Like fucking me was akin to cutting his hair and losing his ability to drive around the track without crashing.
It had been Rupert who’d insinuated I was the cause of Buck’s death in the media. I fucking hated him.
Rupert gave me an equally sharp-toothed smile. “A new team is big news in motorsport. The magazine wanted to run a story on it.” It didn’t help that Rupert was one of the key writers for the biggest motorsports magazine in the world. “Though, given the professional quality of the drivers, it might be a footnote in the archives rather quickly.”
Hayes snorted. “I’ve always wondered how your career was so long. You never did know jack shit about racing.”
Rupert slid his crocodile eyes to Hayes. “You’re one of the former mechanics for Ryclo, right?” He lowered his voice. “That tracks for the Jezebel of NASCAR, doesn’t it? Were you fucking this one too?” He sneered at me, before flicking his gaze back to Hayes. “At least you only threw away your career, and not your life.”
I felt like I was being stabbed in the heart, but I wouldn’t give this old bastard the satisfaction of knowing that. “How about you go fuck yourself, Rupert?”
“Listen here, you little?—”
“Palmer. It’s time to get back to work.” My gaze whipped to Rocco Passero, who was standing behind Rupert Ballantyne, looking annoyed.
Rupert pasted one of those smarmy expressions on his face. “Rocco, welcome to IndyCar. I’m sure it was quite a coup for VANT to get you. How much are they paying you?”
Rocco gave Rupert an expression that I wanted to take a mental snapshot of, so I could recall it every day just to make myself happy. A little serotonin boost. He stared at Rupert, as if he was somewhere between stinky dog shit and an annoying little fly. He eyed him up and down slowly, then dismissed him as inconsequential as he met my eyes again. “Let’s go.”
Swallowing hard, I gave a tight nod. “Sure.”
Rupert, the snake that he was, couldn’t let it go without one more barb. “Watch yourself, Passero. This one is a black widow.” He curled his upper lip. “I’ll let Brick know I saw you.”
The threat was there. If Brick knew I was working again, he’d fuck my career just as some weird, fucked-up form of vengeance.
I gave him the sweetest smile I could muster. “Sure, tell him I said to go fuck himself too. I mean, if he takes his cock from your mouth long enough for you to get a whole sentence out.”
With that, I spun on my heel and left the room before I did something completely uncool, like burst into tears.