Chapter 41
The first raceof the season was early this year, but we were ready. The Florida government had managed to woo both IndyCar and Formula One to happen within a week of each other, and it was causing a buzz across the racing world.
I wondered if it was because Rocco had defected, and they were trying to lure some of the die-hard Formula One fans to Indy. Already, Rocco had been bombarded with requests from the media for interviews, which his management had accepted. It was good for Rocco, it was good for VANT, and it was good for launching our relationship.
It also probably meant that we would have to walk the paddock at the Miami Formula One race, which terrified me. It was like a fashion show, and I was not a Brazilian lingerie model. I was just a girl with a fast car and a baby.
That was next week’s problem. This week was the launch of the race season, and I’d be watching Rocco and Mickey race for the first time. There was a buzz around the garages, as people stopped to snap photos, and Antony gave interviews, as did the rest of the VANT crew. The whole place was electric with energy, and I was part of it all.
Rocco had flown us all over on a private plane, which seemed a little excessive, but he’d argued that Bobbi-June was still too young to fly commercial. It was hard to believe she was almost twelve weeks old already.
Jesse had her strapped to his chest, and honestly, it was doing something crazy to my ovaries. Like I wanted to have my recently inserted IUD removed and let him impregnate me already.
I mean, I obviously wouldn’t. I was nowhere near mentally ready for another baby, but I wouldn’t mind practicing on any free surface.
“Babe, you gotta stop looking at me like that. I can’t watch this race with a hard-on,” he said softly. “We’ll be up in the grandstands, cheering for our team, and then we can all celebrate properly tonight.”
We’d created a monster when we’d decided to have group sex on Christmas Eve, but it was a hot monster, like Beast from Beauty and The Beast, or like, a dragon. Everyone wanted to fuck a dragon, right?
Kissing me on the cheek, he pushed me gently into the garage. Luckily, being a reserve driver meant I got none of the media attention, which was amazing, and I could hide with the mechanics and engineers out the back. Most of these guys were hardcore sports reporters and didn’t give a fuck about Rocco getting married, especially now it was old news.
If they snapped a picture of me, it would be just a throwaway line at the bottom of their article on why Rocco Passero—a prodigious, somewhat contentious Formula One driver—had switched teams to come to IndyCar. The fight between him and his former teammate was still far bigger news than him marrying a barely newsworthy former NASCAR driver.
We’d been here since Thursday, and both Rocco and Mickey had qualified well. Rocco was third, with Mickey a little further back, but both were in good spots for the team’s maiden race. The whole of VANT Racing had been flown out for today to witness our hard work finally come to fruition.
Alphonso patted my back. “Exciting, right?” he whispered, and I sucked in a deep, shaky breath. I wasn’t even racing, and I had nerves.
“I think I’m going to throw up. I’m so hyped.”
Alphonso chuckled. “Trash can is over there, kid. Don’t puke on the cars.” I shook my head with a laugh.
Rocco finished his interview and moved back into the garage. Spotting me, he walked over, that little smirk on his face. God, he was beautiful in the black and purple VANT gear. It made him look like a villain, and it was sexy as hell.
“Are you eye-fucking me, my star?” He leaned closer. “Baciami. Kiss me, Stellina.”
Gah.When he whispered to me in that sexy Italian-English mix, I was helpless to resist. I leaned forward, kissing him softly, as I chased the taste of him with my lips. He kissed with an expertise that made me weak in the knees. He should be locked away as a hazard to free-thinking women everywhere, because when his lips touched mine, my brain turned to mush.
“Wish me luck, beautiful.”
I shook my head. “You don’t need luck, Rocco Passero. Show these people why they call you Il Diavolo in Europe.” It was because even if you got in front of him, the devil was always nipping at your heels.
“Because I tempted too many virgins into sinning?” he asked lightly, and I slapped his chest.
“I think it’s poor form to talk about all the naive women you deflowered to your wife.”
He kissed me hard. “You’re the only woman who matters now,” he whispered against my lips.
“Passero, let’s go!”
He pulled back and winked at me, and I had to acknowledge the truth I’d avoided for a couple of weeks now. I’d caught feelings for my fake husband.
St. Pete in Florida was a hundred-lap race, and at some point, it became less about driving and more about fuel preservation. That didn’t mean it wasn’t tense as hell. As soon as the strategy engineer breathed, “Green, green, green,” down the line, we were out there to win.
I sat in the garage, watching the race on the screens as Rocco maneuvered his way from third up to second almost immediately. I had the headphones on so I could hear the team radio, and it was absolutely electrifying. The high-pitched whine of the cars roaring past made my heart palpitate in my chest. It was amazing.
Hayes was part of the pit crew, and the mechanics rushed around, getting orders from the performance engineers up in the timing stand on the pit wall. A few wheel touches, a little bump and grind in the first chicane as they all jostled for a good position, but soon, it relaxed out into a proper race. Mickey had lost it a little, falling to eighth after someone nudged him, but he pulled it back and honestly, that was a testament to his skill.
They were going so fast, so few inches from the ground and so close to the driver next to them, it took some serious balls of steel. If I had my way, soon balls wouldn’t be needed at all.
I watched it all with bated breath—every pass, every takedown, every decision I heard over the radio. They pitted Rocco, but they took way too long. Ten-point-six seconds, nearly four seconds more than acceptable. Rocco fell back to seventh, and after they pitted Mickey, at a minorly better seven-point-eight seconds, the team came back looking dejected.
Hayes was on the airjack, and it wasn’t his fault, but I could still see the annoyance in his eyes. You wouldn’t know it, though, by the way he slapped shoulders and told his team they would be better next pit. He boosted them all up, and as Rocco climbed back up to sixth, then fifth, then fourth, I could see the determination to be better settle on their faces.
Another forty laps, and they pitted again a little early, getting Rocco out in seven-point-one seconds, which was pretty fucking good.
Fist pumping in the air, I hollered for Rocco to go. He slipped back out well, getting into a good position to hopefully eat the distance between himself and the race leader as they all pitted for the second time.
Mickey got shoved into the wall, spinning him out and putting the track on a yellow. “Dammit,” I breathed, but it happened. It had happened to at least three other drivers already today. A bunch of cars pitted under the yellow flag, and that would filter Rocco back up the front. Then he’d just have to keep the spot, for himself and for VANT.
Finally, we were down to the last five laps of the race, and Rocco was in an epic battle for one of the top three places. He was in a dogfight for first, but Powski was riding his ass like Mary on the way to Bethlehem.
Second. Third. Second again. First for a moment, before it was taken back on the second turn. I held my breath as they came up to the finish line, their speed on the straight hitting well over the two-twenties, and I couldn’t believe it.
“And Rocco Passero and VANT get a podium in their debut race! P2 for Passero and for VANT Racing.” The announcer’s voice boomed around the paddock, and I jumped to my feet.
“Yes! YES!” I bounced over to the closest stunned mechanic, wrapping my arms around him and jumping up and down. Hayes was down on the pit wall with the other mechanics, so this dude would have to do. “We did it! We podiumed on our first run!”
I spotted Mickey looking dejected in the corner, but that wasn’t allowed.
“Get over here, Mickey Macguire! You’re part of a podium team and you have to celebrate.” Pulling him up, I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tightly. “You should be so damn proud of yourself. You’ve achieved something today.”
“Choking out and crashing in the final moments of the race?” he asked sullenly.
Teenagers, man.“We both know Millward touched your rear tire, Mickey. It wasn’t your fault. It’s just racing—you know this in that big head of yours. Celebrate with your team, and then next race, we’re going to kick fucking ass! We’ll be one-two on that damn podium, you mark my words.”
That goofy grin I’d come to associate with Mickey finally lit up his face. “Yeah, okay.”
I grabbed his hand. “Let’s go and congratulate the team down in Victory Lane, you included. You did good, kid!”
We raced down to Victory Lane, where Rocco was in the second-place spot. I hopped the wall, stopping to congratulate Antony and Ari as they gave interviews to the press around them. Rocco was out of his car, talking to the trackside interviewer. I waited off at the side as he answered questions about the first disastrous pit, about climbing back up, about how it felt in comparison to Formula One.
As soon as he spotted me, though, he curled his finger at me, so I ran over and jumped into his arms. He kissed me hard on the lips, and I pulled back grinning. “P2, baby!”
He laughed, joy emanating from every inch of his face.
“I can’t see Powski and Millward of Team Beerberg kissing in celebration, ladies and gentlemen. Tally Palmer, reserve driver for VANT Racing,” the interviewer said, laughing.
I raised my hand in greeting at the cameraman, flushing a little, and moved back so they could finish the interview. Spotting Hayes, I went over and hugged him too. “You guys totally nailed that last pit stop,” I yelled over the sound of the crowd, kissing him as he spun me around.
A throat cleared behind me. “Excuse me. You must be the new Mrs. Passero.” I turned and met the disapproving features of an Italian guy in his late twenties, or maybe early thirties.
“Uh, Tally Palmer-Passero. It’s nice to meet you.” I put out my hand to shake, mostly out of instinct.
The guy raised a single eyebrow. “Rafa Passero. Your brother-in-law.”
A brother-in-law who’d just seen me kissing a man who wasn’t his brother. Fuck.