Chapter 9
JACK
There’s a full crew here, engineers with laptops, mechanics with tool carts, data guys hovering over screens, plus someone from marketing with an expensive camera who keeps asking me to “look contemplative” while staring at tires.
The morning air smells like racing—rubber, fuel, hot metal.
The smell that means I’m home. Everything else fades to background noise.
Giovanni, the Ferrari tech they sent along for this test, is already plugging his laptop into the car’s diagnostic systems when I arrive. He’s one of those guys who loves data and gets visibly excited about tire temperature variations.
“Morning, Jack,” Giovanni says without looking up from his screen. “We’ll start with the baseline setup, then make incremental adjustments based on your feedback. Standard protocol.”
“Sounds good,” I say, heading toward the garage area to get into my race suit. The familiar pre-drive routine settles over me.
I hear Lark’s distinctive Honda engine pulling into the parking area while I’m zipping up my suit.
We’d planned this earlier in the week, figured it would be excellent Instagram content to have her at a track day, show the supportive girlfriend angle to the sponsors.
But hearing her car approach makes me unexpectedly happy, this warm feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with social media strategy.
Like the day just got significantly better.
“Give me five minutes,” I tell Giovanni, already walking toward the parking area.
“Take your time,” he replies, completely absorbed in his system checks. “I need at least ten minutes to finish the diagnostic calibration anyway.”
I head out to the parking area, where Lark’s getting out of her car.
She’s wearing dark jeans that fit her perfectly, a burgundy sweater that makes her skin glow, and her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail that shows off her neck.
Sunglasses pushed up on her head, camera bag over one shoulder, large thermos of coffee in hand.
She looks fucking gorgeous.
“Morning,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. “You found it okay.”
“GPS is a wonderful modern invention,” she says, smiling back. “Plus you were right, the track is visible from the highway. Kind of hard to miss.”
“Thanks for coming out here,” I say, and I mean it more than the casual words suggest. “I know this is probably not the most exciting way to spend a Tuesday morning. Watching cars go in circles.”
“Are you kidding? I get to see behind the scenes of your actual job,” she says, looking around at all the equipment and people, curiosity lighting up her face. “This is fascinating. Plus, Instagram content.” She holds up her phone with a wry smile.
“Right,” I say, feeling that strange twinge in my chest again. “The content.”
Giovanni waves from the garage bay.
“I should get going,” I tell her reluctantly. “There’s a covered viewing area up on that hill, or you can hang out in the garage. They’re all friendly if you have questions.”
“Go do your thing,” she says, shooing me away with her free hand. “I’ll explore and try not to touch anything expensive.”
The first hour is methodical, technical work.
Ten careful laps, come in, give detailed feedback to Giovanni about understeer in the low-speed corners.
They make minute adjustments to the suspension geometry, I go back out and test again.
I love this part of the job—the problem-solving, the collaborative process, the tiny adjustments that make huge differences.
This is where racing becomes as much science as instinct, where engineering meets art.
Between my second and third session, I spot Lark chatting animatedly with Lorenzo, the lead engineer.
Lorenzo is famously taciturn, barely speaks to anyone, so seeing him engaged in what appears to be an enthusiastic conversation is surprising.
He’s using his hands to gesture at something on his monitor while Lark nods along, asking questions.
“Your girlfriend’s made friends,” Giovanni observes, following my gaze with an amused expression.
“She has that effect on people,” I say, watching her. She fits anywhere. With anyone.
We run three more intensive sessions over the next two hours, getting the car more dialed in each time.
The understeer is completely gone, the balance feels perfect.
Between runs, I keep finding myself looking for Lark.
She’s moved around the facility, talking to different people, taking photos with her camera.
“We’re done with the technical runs,” Giovanni announces after my final session, closing his laptop with satisfaction. “Really good data today. The team will be pleased with these results.”
I pull off my helmet, running a hand through my hair. “Can I take Lark out for a few laps?” I ask, the idea forming as I say it. “Show her what we’ve been working on all morning?”
Giovanni considers for a moment, glancing over to where Lark is reviewing photos on her camera screen. “Insurance covers it as long as she signs the waiver. Just be reasonable out there.”
“Always,” I say, already heading toward her with a spare helmet in hand.
“Want to go for a ride?” I ask as I approach. “See what it feels like from inside?”
She looks up from her camera, eyes bright. “In the car? Like, while you’re driving it fast?”
“Three laps. I promise I’ll be gentle.” I grin. “Mostly gentle.”
“Define gentle,” she says suspiciously, but she’s already standing, setting her camera carefully aside on a workbench.
“Gently terrifying,” I admit.
“Well, when you put it that way,” she laughs, taking the helmet from my hands. “Let’s do it.”
I help her with the helmet, adjusting the straps, my fingers brushing her jaw. Her skin’s so soft I have to resist running my thumb across her cheek. I slide into my seat and she’s gripping the door handle before I’ve even started the engine.
“Relax,” I tell her, settling in and beginning my pre-drive checks. “I’m very good at this.”
“What about Barcelona?” she asks, referencing my crash.
I laugh. “Oh come on, that was in the rain with some idiot taking me out. Today is a completely clear track with just us. No idiots allowed.”
“If you say so,” she says, but her grip on the door handle doesn’t loosen even slightly. “Just remember if I die here, I’m haunting you forever. And I will be an extremely annoying ghost.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I say, firing up the engine.
I keep the first lap reasonable—fast enough to be exciting, but not so fast that she never wants to get in a car with me again. Through the first real corner her hand shoots out to grab my arm as the g-forces push her hard into the seat.
“Oh my god!” she shouts over the engine noise. “This is insane!”
By the second lap she’s relaxed enough to enjoy it, her head turning to watch the track fly by. So on the third lap I really go for it, climbing past 150 miles per hour on the main straight and drifting through the corners with more aggression than Giovanni would probably approve of.
“JACK!” she screams, but she’s laughing too, and the sound makes something warm settle in my chest.
When we pull back into the garage, she fumbles with the harness and yanks off her helmet. Her hair is everywhere, her face flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“That was the most terrifying fun thing I’ve ever experienced!” she says, still breathless.
“So not too scary?” I ask.
“Oh, incredibly scary,” she admits, trying to fix her hair. “But also… I kind of want to do it again.”
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it.
We take photos after that for Instagram—some by the car, some in the cockpit with Lark sitting in the driver’s seat.
When she suggests including the crew, they crowd in enthusiastically.
It’s supposed to be for the narrative we’re building, but I keep catching myself just watching her interact with everyone, the way she makes people smile without even trying.
“Food?” I ask once we’ve wrapped up. “There’s a good place nearby that does amazing burgers.”
“Yes,” she says immediately, emphatically. “Adrenaline makes me absolutely starving.”
We walk out to the parking area and I gesture toward my bike. “We can take the motorcycle if you want.”
She looks at it, then back at me. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Let’s take my car.”
“Sure,” I say, then pause. “Uh, mind if I drive?”
“You just spent four hours driving at ridiculous speeds,” she points out, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you sick of it by now?”
“I never get sick of driving,” I say. “Plus I’m terrible at being a passenger.”
She stops walking and looks at me, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wait, are you scared of being a passenger?”
“Not scared,” I say, feeling my face heat slightly. “I just strongly prefer being in control of the car.”
She chuckles. “Jack Midnight, who drives two hundred miles per hour for a living, can’t handle being a passenger?” She’s absolutely delighted by this discovery, eyes sparkling with amusement. “This is amazing. You have a completely normal person fear! You’re human!”
“It’s not a fear—”
“It’s totally a fear!” she interrupts, laughing, and I can’t help but grin at the sound. She has the best laugh, genuine and unrestrained and infectious.
“Okay fine, it’s a fear,” I admit. “But when I’m in Formula One, I’m racing with nineteen of the best drivers in the world in cars built with millions of dollars of safety tech.
Out on regular roads? Anyone who managed to pass a driving test is out there texting, eating, doing who knows what.
So… not being in control is basically my personal nightmare. ”
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.” She laughs. “Lucky for you I hate driving anyway, so this works out perfectly.”
“Good,” I say with relief, catching the keys she tosses me. “Though I can’t believe you hate driving.”