Chapter 24 Positional Sacrifice
MIAMI
It’s kind of scary how good I am at acting like I’m okay.
On the plane ride to Miami, sitting next to Faust in first class, I act like nothing happened—is happening.
Like he hadn’t irrevocably changed my relationship with sex less than twenty-four hours ago, like I don’t want to put my head on his shoulder for the flight.
When we land, we meet with Christine, and I act like I don’t notice her side-eyeing me while we climb into the rental car, off to this week’s home base.
All day on Wednesday, I have meetings with Mei where she doesn’t ask me about it at all—besides one quiet, “Anything I should know about?” that’s dropped when I say, “Nope.” I’d saved the day with Faust’s outfit; clearly, I wouldn’t screw up this job by dating a driver we all hate.
I send Maisie a message that everything is fine, Bernard’s tag was a mistake, not to worry her pretty little head. One by one, I deactivate my other social media accounts.
It’s fine. I’m okay.
Because whatever Faust had done to make them trust me again is working.
Eddie’s the only Stark-Benzin employee brave enough to broach the topic, while we’re watching the sprint race on Saturday.
A normal F1 race, but faster and shorter and spontaneously injected into race weekends by the powers that be.
“Heard you’re dating that dude.”
“From?”
“A little birdie.”
“Shoot that bird.”
Eddie snorts. Normally, he watches the sprints in the garage, but the team principal had asked him to keep an eye on Christine while she films. And earlier, she was being filmed here in the Paddock Club, walking through, explaining her pre-race prep. It’s all very meta.
“It isn’t a good idea, y’know.” Eddie spins around on his barstool. How, I don’t know. Mine doesn’t spin. “He’s kind of a shit.”
“I know.”
“Faust is way better.”
Rolling the cuff down on Faust’s jacket, I play with a loose thread on the sleeve. “I’m not going to date anyone, Edward.”
“Not the full name.” His nose wrinkles. “Are you not supposed to? Like, will you get fired?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Gotcha.” He spins toward the balcony. “That’d suck. We like you. And Faust’s like our dad, you know?”
So, what would that make me? I don’t ask, pulling out a new fidget toy I’d gotten in the airport and foisting it onto him. Rainbow, clicky, with those little silicone Bubble Wrap nubbins. “Whoa! Rad.” He starts popping them in and out immediately.
Mostly I’m okay, because I’ve used what happened as an excuse to ice Bernard out this weekend.
Let’s talk in Monaco had been the message.
Okay had been his reply.
It’s a psychological war crime, I know. I’m dumping him in like two weeks, yes. But this is my last weekend here on the team. I’m lying to people I’ve grown to care about every time I open my mouth. And I guess Faust repeatedly asking me what I want has made me more aware of said wants.
I want this weekend. I want to be okay, until I can’t be anymore.
“Hey, Cat.” Eddie has popped every nubbin inside out and is slowly starting to reverse them. Below us, the cars go roaring by, a plastic bag dancing in the wind behind them. “We should go out. Maybe not tonight, but, like, Monday? They have clubs open during the week here.”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve never been out in Miami.”
“Oh my God, it’s literally that Will Smith song. Like—”
“Don’t.”
“No, Mei is evil for that. It’s such a good song.”
“Sorry, boss’s orders.”
But before Monday, there’s Sunday. The Miami Grand Prix.
The weather is downright steamy, sunshine beating down in a way that’s difficult for me to comprehend as a Chicagolander.
Mei is busy today, so I hide in the Stark-Benzin hospitality by myself, and it feels a little on the nose—literally hiding in the shadows for my final race.
Alone, I curl up in a white leather chair, enjoy a single glass of champagne, and alternate between peeking over a balcony to the starting line and watching the action on a seven-foot screen surrounded by miniature palm trees.
The bubbles sting my throat.
I won’t miss the in-your-face luxury of this space, F1 advertising plastering every square inch, the car-shaped sugar cookies, the bored Paddock Club guests.
I will miss the excited ones, though. Two women sitting by me explain that they won their tickets in a contest, then splurged on the plane tickets themselves.
I meet a motorsports influencer who’s just getting started—her eyes pop out of my head when I introduce myself as that Cat.
“You’re a legend,” she whispers. “I heard you’ve got Bern wrapped around your finger. You should snap him.”
I’ll miss watching Faust drive, too.
He starts third from the front today, after a turbulent Qualifying leaned in his favor.
Near the last laps, there’s a kerfuffle with him and both Baudelaire brothers—I miss the replay because I’m reading Mei’s texts; NO and WTFFFF and I’M GOING TO THE FIA MYSELF I WILL BECOME A RACE STEWARD WATCH ME.
The race ends with me on my feet, yelling at the screen, the two fans and influencer screaming alongside me.
Bernard won. His brother, Jean, got second.
Christine got third.
And I’m so freaking excited for her. “But it should’ve been Faust on the podium, not Bernard,” the influencer hisses. “Bernard swung for him! The stewards missed it! Cat, go destroy him.”
I laugh, something stuck in my throat.
It’ll be too hard to watch F1 after I leave. Do any reality TV stars watch the show after they’ve been written off?
I tell myself that I’m going downstairs to check that Faust’s sartorially prepared for the media pen.
This is my job, after all. He’s going to have to talk to reporters asking why he let Bernard drive him off, over and over and over, and he should look really good during that.
Also, today he’s supposed to wear a certain watch, so I need to help him put it on.
It’s hard to put on men’s watches by yourself.
But when I see him, a tall splash of gray with his black helmet tucked under his arm, I’m just excited. And sad. And feeling things that have nothing to do with work.
We’re in a crowded outdoor breezeway, the sun hot overhead, staff milling around with the occasional fan. “Hey,” I yell.
Out steps a man in a golden racing suit.
“Cat?”
It’s Bernard. Here. In front of me, on his way to the podium, I assume. “Oh. Hi.”
His face is so red and sweaty. He looks like a mess, but his eyes are bright. “Were you trying to talk to me?”
Oh my God. No. “Sorry—I. Um.”
It’s been a while since I’ve felt this slow, trickling awareness, but I recognize it. From across the crowd, Faust is looking at me, stopped, as people walk around him. I feel his eyes on me, just like mine had been on him all morning.
“Congrats,” I tell Bernard, flashing a smile. “You did good today. But I really do have to go.”
My grand-prix-winning boyfriend steps closer to me, smiling himself. “Not so fast, little dove. You know I can sneak you into our podium section with my crew. Come watch me—”
“Hey.”
My gaze flicks over Bernard’s shoulder, like, directly over.
And there’s Faust, still in his racing suit.
The gray fabric curves with the outlines of him—his thick, muscular body like a promise under the stiff fabric.
And his eyes. I meet them, two brown doorways, and I can read everything on his mind.
This must be why Bernard hates him. When Faust is unhappy, he can’t hide it.
When he wants something, he craves it.
He puts a hand on Bernard’s shoulder. “Not here,” he murmurs briskly. His hand drops. “Cat. I need help with that watch. Come with me.”
His staccato tone goes straight to my core, and before I know it, I’m nodding, apologizing to Bernard, then following Faust into Stark-Benzin’s hospitality wing and to a tiny drivers’ room.
At this grand prix, it’s nothing more than a white-walled box with a doorless closet, a television, and a stiff-looking bed.
Theoretically, Faust could take a nap here. Catch up on Drag Race. Or.
Or—
“You needed my help?” I say as the door shuts.
There’s nothing romantic about this setup.
This isn’t a room where you lose your mind and your clothes.
The lighting is fluorescent. There’s zero A/C.
So, when Faust turns to me from the door, I have this split second of indecision, wondering if we’re actually doing this.
If I’m actually doing this. Here. With him.
Again. After how much it hurt last time.
But then he’s looking at me, and I am. Right here.
With him.
Again.
Faust grabs my arms, I grab his waist, and we’re kissing.
He tastes like sweat and something sweet, electrolytes maybe.
Smells exactly the same as he did in his bed, wound up, that night I’ve been trying very hard not to think about.
So hard, in fact, that I hadn’t put together that because we’re the same height, kissing while standing up is ridiculously easy.
That, or I’ve gone on autopilot. Touching him.
Being touched. Getting walked backward until my calves bump against the bed.
“Do you want to—?” Faust starts, and I cut him off by pulling him down with me by his racing suit’s lapels. Are they called that? Don’t care.
“No time.” That, and I don’t want to really go through the whole Yes, I agree to this kinky sexual activity thing right now. I just want whatever we had before. That white noise.
He’s straddling my lap, then pushing me back. Down onto the bed, with him on top. “Can I—?”
“Yes.”
“Stop interrupting me,” he growls.
And all of me perks up.
“You like that?” he says, scowling. “You trying to get me to make you shut up?”
My face goes red. “No.”
“You sure about that?” The knee that’s between my legs pushes up, slotting between my thighs, making me see white. “Think you’re acting like this on purpose. You want me to make you quiet again, hm? Quiet and good for me?”