Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The Blue Wall’s priciest whiskey burns going down, but the smoke and peat don’t wash away the taste of a hollow victory. Second place should feel better than this, even if it makes Nico the first loser. It’s a podium and points. Normally, he’d do the math and be satisfied.
Not this time.
Bass thuds through bar speakers, mixing with the cacophony of ice clinking in glasses, laughter, and the constant click and whir of phones capturing social media moments. Race highlights repeat on the bar’s mounted screens.
Nico grips his glass until the cut crystal bites into his palm. How long before he can bail without looking like an ass?
A ways down the bar, Wyn knocks back another shot.
He’s growing more obnoxious with each round.
The Blue Wall is packed. Everyone’s pretending the race’s controversy is just another day in F1.
Wyn’s surrounded by sycophants, his voice carrying over everyone else as he recounts his “masterful defense” against Petra for the fifth time.
“Cono,” Nico mutters into the whiskey he’s been nursing for an hour. He should’ve protested to the stewards.
A hand lands on his shoulder. “Conejo.” Carlos Belmonte’s voice carries over the din of the bar, filled with the same steady authority it’s held for all of Nico’s twenty-six years. “You’re not enjoying this.”
“Not my scene, Papá. You know that.”
“Sí.” Carlos deposits an empty glass on the polished mahogany bar. His one and only drink for the evening. “You drove well today.”
Condensation slides down Nico’s glass and he drags his finger through it. “Sector 1 was sloppy. Need to fix the setup.” His self-analysis is automatic and data-driven. Four championships mean nothing if sector 1 is wrong. Fix the problem, get the result.
“Always so hard on yourself.”
Roxana joins them, tablet still in hand because of course it is.
The blue glow of the screen illuminates the tired lines around her eyes.
“The softs were perfect after the restart.” She’s been analyzing Nico’s telemetry since before the champagne dried on his race suit.
“But we need to discuss Wyn’s defensive positioning. Even before the incident with Petra—”
“Incident?” Carlos sounds as angry as Nico feels, though both men hide it well. “No. Call it what it was, Roxana.”
Nico glances at the big screen. They’re replaying the crash, analyzing it from every angle. “The stewards got it wrong. Not for the first time.” Petra’s line was perfect. Wyn’s move was deliberate.
“Los comisarios pueden besar mi—”
“Carlos.” Roxana’s warning comes with a slight smile. She’s known them both too long to be shocked by Carlos’s protective streak. After all, she’s the one who convinced WolfBett to sign Nico when he was still a pimpled teenager with more talent than good sense. “Necesitamos ser diplomático.”
Like being diplomatic ever stopped anyone from driving like an idiot.
“Some people just don’t belong in F1.” Wyn’s voice carries along the narrow bar, loud and getting louder.
Beside him, Damien Betterton, Junior laughs. “Yeah, well, this sport demands a certain physique. Biology is biology. Right?”
What bullshit.
Nico’s hatred for Junior Betterton is limitless. He catches Wyn’s attention and replies, “Good thing the car doesn’t give a shit if its driver has tits or not.” He gestures toward them with his glass. “Or about the opinions of assholes.”
Junior scowls, but other people along the bar laugh.
Rox grips his arm. “Don’t give the press anything to run with.”
His race engineer is right, of course. But watching his teammate hold court, bragging about a podium achieved through dirty tactics while that rich American asshole, Betterton, eggs him on, makes Nico clench his jaw until his teeth ache.
The crash replays—Petra’s car spinning into the barrier, carbon fiber exploding across the track. Her quali lap yesterday flashes through Nico’s mind. She was perfect, precise, and fearless.
Same as always.
“Your mother called.” Papá’s clearly trying to distract Nico. “She and Nia watched the race. Your sister says you’re getting slow in your old age.”
Despite his anger, Nico snorts. Nia—Nicolina—is his twin. She lives in the U.S. with her boyfriend, Sebastian. She worries about Nico almost as much as he worries about her. They don’t spend enough time together, but Nico texts or calls her weekly to make sure she’s alright.
He glances at the time in Seattle on his phone. It’s Saturday morning there. “Sí, Viejo. I’ll text her tonight.”
“Vale.” Carlos squeezes his shoulder. He knows talking with Nia will calm Nico.
Roxana’s phone alarm rings. “It’s late and tomorrow is busy.”
Papá nods. “Time for bed. Jenni wants to say hello, Rox.” Jenni is Nico and Nia’s American mother.
Carlos turns to Nico. “No te quedes fuera demasiado tarde.” Don’t stay out too late. He’s Nico’s manager, but he’s always Papá first.
Nico nods. “Yo sé.” He knows. “Dite a Mamá que la llamaré manana.” He’ll call his mother tomorrow when he has time to chat. They have a few days off before they fly to COTA—the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas.
Papá and Roxana leave.
Wyn get more shit-faced.
Deciding he’s had enough bullshit, Nico downs the rest of his whiskey. He’s about to abandon his barstool when the energy in the room shifts, and he knows who’s arrived before he even sees her.
Petra Hayter.
She appears in the doorway, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders.
Her signature pink streaks, equally rebellious and perfect, are purple under the bar’s blue lights.
The elegant dress she wears is sponsorship-dinner appropriate, but there’s nothing corporate about the steel in her spine, and nothing fake about the dark bruises marring her left arm. Bruises Petra’s not hiding.
“Mierda.” This will end badly. Nico feels it in his bones.
But she doesn’t storm up to Wyn. Instead, she claims a spot at the bar, orders sparkling water, and waits, setting up an overtake several corners in advance. Her eyes never leave Wyn, but her posture is relaxed. Too casual.
Nico frowns. Trouble’s brewing. Petra Hayter doesn’t attack, she calculates.
He sets down his empty glass. This isn’t the woman telling jokes in the paddock, racing karts with mechanics’ kids, bringing coffee to exhausted garage crews.
This is the driver who fought through every rank of motorsport.
Who set lap records in F4 and F3. Who would’ve been F2 champion if not for Wyn.
“Not my fault if Hayter doesn’t know how to recover when her arse slips out from under her.”
Nico looks up at his idiot teammate.
Junior laughs. “Yeah, she should stick to pretty. It’s what she does best.”
Petra smiles as people pause beside her.
Doubtless she heard Wyn and Junior’s comments, but she’s not showing it.
She returns a greeting from Dixon Atteberry, then accepts a drink from Lynch Sutton.
But she leaves it on the bar and keeps watching Wyn.
Her expression is serene, hands steady. How many times have those hands worked magic in a car?
How many times has Nico been mesmerized by her precision, brilliance, and sheer instinctive skill?
“Hostia.” Nico’s instincts are screaming about her doing something that will either end her career or start a war. Possibly both.
And as much as she infuriates him, as much as she challenges every hundredth of a second he fights for on track, Petra Hayter has been the center of Nico Belmonte’s universe since they were fourteen.
Not that she knows it.
Not that anyone knows it.
He can’t just stand by while she sets fire to everything she’s worked so hard to achieve. Even if she’s right to have the matches in hand.
Wyn’s getting sloppier and louder, gestures more expansive, words slurring.
Nico counts the shots—six, seven? Between the champagne from the podium and whatever he’s drinking now, the guy’s absolutely wasted.
He stands, swaying slightly, looks around, then heads toward the bathrooms down the back hallway.
Petra leaves her still-full glass and follows, her movements casual.
Nothing about her stride suggests confrontation.
To anyone else, she’s just heading to the ladies’ room as she checks her watch and glances at the big screen.
She smiles and touches Maiken Pritchard’s arm as she passes, says something to make Reece’s wife laugh, then fist-bumps the man himself.
But Nico’s spent a dozen years studying Petra’s moves, learning her tells, and anticipating her strategies. He stands and follows her. It’s like being on the track again, hoping to prevent disaster and not knowing if he can get there in time.
The hallway stretches behind the bar, dark and narrow, and the club’s music is muffled here. It smells of stale beer and industrial cleanser, and Nico’s shoes stick to the floor with each step.
The gents’ door swings shut behind Wyn. Petra slips in after him, and Nico follows.
A white granite wall separates the entrance from the stalls. She’s stopped on this side of it. She glances at Nico, and surprise flickers across her face, chased away by suspicion, and it occurs to him that she thinks he’s followed to defend his teammate.
Her dress whispers against the wall as she turns toward him. Nico respects her more than any other driver on the grid, but whatever she’s planning could destroy everything she’s worked for.
And he can’t let that happen.
He opens his mouth to talk her out of this moment, but a urinal flushes, followed by water rushing in a sink.
Wyn rounds the end of the wall muttering about “real racing” and “showing that asshat.” The fluorescent light catches the cold triumph in Petra’s sharp-edged smile as she steps out of the shadows to block his escape.
Nico’s suddenly torn between intervening and wanting to see what comes next. Because this is Petra Hayter, and if there’s one thing he’s learned from racing against her, it’s that she always has a plan.