Chapter Three – Cole
CHAPTER THREE
COLE
“I quit!”
Thank fuck.
“Well, if that’s how you feel, Lyle, I support your decision.”
My disgruntled employee’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “My name is Kyle , you asshole.”
I’m pretty sure I heard that at some point. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
It’s 8:30 in the morning, and I have a steaming cup of coffee clutched in my hand—long day is probably a bit of a stretch. “Regardless”—I wave my free hand between us—“I’ll walk you out.”
Maybe he won’t call human resources on his way home. I don’t need another complaint against me. Simon or Samuel really made a stink the last time, and I ended up in front of a bunch of suits, making promises and apologies that I wouldn’t hurt any more delicate feelings this season.
Lyle needs to believe I’m his coworker who gives a shit about him and his emotional state. “Do you want to grab a drink later?”
Lyle blinks several times, seemingly dazed.
“Or dinner,” I suggest, in case it’ll take more than a mojito to smooth things over. Dinner isn’t ideal, but I could go for a steak tonight. I need the protein if I want to add five pounds of muscle by the next race.
“Uh…” Lyle’s mouth closes, and he shakes off whatever he is about to say. “You know what…” He pauses and blinks again. “Never mind. Have a good day, Mr. Lawson.”
Without another word, he turns around and walks off the track.
I’m thinking that was a no for dinner, which, let’s be honest, dinner with Lyle would have been a real bore. Not only is he a shitty race engineer, but he’s proved to be an even worse conversationalist.
“Motherfucker, Cole. Not another one!”
“He quit.” I frown at Gene, my team manager as he walks up with a distinct frown on his face. “What would you have me do? Beg him to stay? Clearly, he had better opportunities available.”
Besides, he is a giant-sized pussy who can’t handle a little yelling.
“I offered him dinner to smooth things over.” I shrug. “He declined.”
“Cole.” He says my name in that fatherly voice I find annoying. “You didn’t really expect that to work, did you?”
Of course not. Though I did hope he’d grow a pair and apologize for being the worst engineer I’ve had in my career. I guess both of us were imagining we were better people.
“Listen, Gene. I did what you asked me to do. I tried to diffuse the situation and smooth things over with a plate of steak and potatoes, but?—”
“He had already quit!”
I wink. “Semantics.”
As if he feels a migraine is coming on, Gene massages his temples. “You know, you could try apologizing every once in a while.”
I could, but I rather not. I definitely didn’t have anything to apologize for with Lyle.
“You don’t have to be a dick all the time.”
Now, he’s just challenging me.
“I can’t help it if people are stupid, Gene. You and I both know that in our line of work, stupid gets me killed. I did the team a favor.”
To be a great race engineer, you need to be able to anticipate your driver’s every move. You have to know them, be in sync with them, trust them.
These Lyles they keep sending my way are supposed to be the best in the business, but turns out, they are the only ones who think so.
“I need someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing,” I say. “And so far, that number remains at zero.”
“Listen, man, Robert is getting really tired of having to find replacement engineers. Especially with this current losing streak you’re on.”
Rage simmers under my skin at the word losing . “It’s these fucking idiots that you keep sending me! Find me someone better!”
“I have! Eight, to be exact. And you lost while using all eight of them.”
That’s because they all sucked.
“You’ve got to help me out here, Cole.”
“I am helping you out. I’m getting rid of the trash you keep sending my way. Send me someone who understands the pressure, the intensity, the absolute need for perfection that comes with being a driver at this level.”
Gene adjusts himself in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “I know you’re frustrated, Cole. It’s hard to keep putting your trust in people when they keep failing you. But you’ve gotta give them a chance, you know?”
My voice is raw with frustration. “I’m not a revolving door, Gene. Give me someone who can handle the pressure.” Handle me.
“All right. But I can’t do this alone, Cole. You’ve gotta meet me halfway.”
“Fine. I'll give the next one a chance. But if they don't measure up... you know what happens next.”
He flashes me a tired smile. “I know, Cole. I know.”
“You’ve been hexed, dude.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Not this again. “I’m not hexed.” I flash Randy, my race strategist, an impatient look. “It’s just a dry spell.” I shake my head, sipping the tepid champagne in my hand. The bubbly nectar of victory tastes about as appealing to me as a swig of truck-stop toilet water.
“A dry spell that has lasted all race season?”
No matter how often Randy pitches this cursed idea, I refuse to accept it. “I don’t believe in luck,” I answer dryly. “Skill and hard work produce wins.”
Randy’s brows arch. “So, you don’t think your losing streak has anything to do with changing your number to thirteen?”
“Second place is not a losing streak, nor is the number thirteen unlucky.”
Randy flashes me a smirk that resembles someone who wants to get hit. “Then why change your car number? Why not keep the number forty-five that you’ve had for years?”
Because I’m a petty asshole, and I wanted to fuck with Chad, my long-time rival’s head. Not that I feel inclined to share that with Randy.
“Can’t I refresh my brand?”
“Sure.” Randy nods. “But why go with the most superstitious number in Britain’s racing history? There’s a reason no one has used the number thirteen since the seventies.”
This again. “I’m not superstitious. I thought you knew that about me.” I don’t give two shits if the rest of the world fears a number. I don’t.
“Yet, ever since you’ve had that number painted on your car, you haven’t placed first on the podium.”
“A minor setback. One I will remedy soon enough once I adjust a few things.”
Randy sighs, clearly frustrated with my lack of concern on the matter. Truth be told, I should be very concerned. The prelims are over. I’ve been driving like shit. My focus is shot, and my reflexes are off. I’m not performing like I should despite changing up my routine and even going as far as changing my car number.
Nothing seems to work.
I take another sip of the champagne, the taste a bitter reminder of my shortcomings. I’m a trainwreck, and I know it. The more I push it aside and channel all my focus onto the race, the worse I get. A new season is supposed to be a time for fresh starts, a chance to turn over a new leaf. But this year, I’m drowning in the same old patterns of self-sabotage.
Randy, seemingly picking up that I’m no longer interested in this conversation, stands and flips me off. “You’re shitty company tonight.”
I’m shitty company every night. He shouldn’t feel special.
I didn’t want to have this celebratory party in the first place, but as usual my team wouldn’t hear of it. Second place is still a win, though clearly, from Randy’s comments, it’s not good enough. Maybe he’s right, maybe I have been cursed.
The music throbs a relentless beat that vibrates through my bones. I’m standing by the bar, the champagne long forgotten, nursing a glass of whiskey, my gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid, lost in thought. I can’t stand the noise, the chatter, the constant influx of people vying for my attention. I am a solitary creature, happiest in the silence of my own company.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” a voice chirps, interrupting my reverie. I don’t bother to turn to see the woman attempting to hit on me. I know the routine. I’ve been the object of unwanted attention since I was a teenager, just a trophy to be claimed.
I take a slow sip of my drink, continuing to ignore her presence beside me. I’m not here to socialize, and I sure as hell am not interested in dating. I have one obsession, and it’s way more demanding than any woman could ever be: racing.
“You ignoring me?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. I finally turn, my gaze meeting hers with an icy indifference.
She’s tall, blonde, and pretty in a way that meant she’d spent a small fortune to perfect her look.
“I’m not interested,” I say, my voice devoid of warmth.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that,” she says as she leans closer. Her perfume, a saccharine concoction of vanilla and something floral, invades my senses. “You’re Cole Lawson, right? I recognize you. You’re a legend.”
I couldn’t help but scoff. Legend? More like a cautionary tale. A reminder that even the best can fall.
“Listen, sweetheart,” I say, my voice low and menacing, “I’m not in the mood. I came here for a drink, not a conversation. So why don’t you do us both a favor and go find someone else.”
Her smile falters, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She didn’t expect that kind of reaction, not from the famous Cole Lawson. They all want to be close to me, to bask in the reflected glory of my fame.
“You’re a real charmer.” Her voice is laced with a hint of anger.
I simply shrug and turn away, my gaze once again focused on my drink. I can’t be bothered to explain my disinterest in the game of social interaction. I don’t need this. I don’t want this. I’d be happy if I never had to do this dog and pony show again. I have my car, my team, and the track. That is all I need.
I’m not looking for a girlfriend. I not looking for friends. I am, however, looking for answers. Answers to the questions that continue to haunt me, answers that might explain my perpetual failure. And I know, deep down, that I won’t find them amongst these shallow distractions, in this sea of superficiality.
I finish my drink, my gaze lingering on the woman for a moment longer before I turn and walk away. I don’t have time for this shit. It has already been an exhausting day, and I have no more fucks to give about anyone’s feelings but my own. Besides, everyone at this party claims to be a racing legend. It shouldn’t take her long to find someone else to entertain her for the evening.
As I navigate the crowded room, I keep my gaze downcast so I don’t draw any more unwanted attention when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and immediately recognize the number—Bal Harbour County Jail. When I was younger, I called home many times from that number after being caught street racing.
“What?” I answer, unsure who would be calling me from jail. I don’t speak to many people, but I definitely don’t maintain friendships from my hometown—my father made sure of that.
But the voice on the other line is one I immediately recognize. “Gah. You’re such a prick.”
I smile for the first time tonight. “Well, I do try to stay in your good graces.”
“You’ve never been in my good graces.”
Don’t I know it, but that still doesn’t stop me from trying to piss her off. Nothing in this life is as fun as aggravating Lola Quinn. “What can I do for you, love?”
“Don’t call me love,” she snaps.
“Okay, what can I do for you, Lilith—I mean Lola?”
I swear I can hear the fury she tries to contain in that little lithe body of hers. “I need your help,” she grits out between her teeth. “I’ve been in an accident.”
An accident that clearly landed her in the slammer.
“What kind of accident are we talking about? Like you accidentally poisoned someone’s drink, or you accidentally ran a red light?” I can never be sure with Lola. You don’t become her best friend in high school without experiencing a few crazy nights.
“Like I accidentally left Chad alive, and he blacklisted me from racing.”
I find a more private corner where I can hear her better. “I heard something about that. What a shame. I’m sure he’s weeping as we speak.”
“Fuck off, Lawson.” Her words are like fireballs. “You’re lucky I left you alive after what you did.”
And there it is. The same old song and dance we’ve done for the past six years.
“Can’t we get through at least one conversation without bringing up the past?”
It’s been six years since she tried to kiss me. And six long years since I rejected her, then disappeared from her life, well, as much as I could since we’re both on the Formula One racing circuit. It was a bad move on my part—one that destroyed our friendship and exploded it into a million pounds of hatred.
“No, we can’t, Cole,” she argues. “Because you need to know you’re still a piece of shit.”
“Aww, come on now, Quinn. I didn’t know you cared so much.”
She nearly spits the words. “I fucking can’t with you today. This was such a bad idea. I have no idea what I was thinking.”
She must have been thinking she missed me. “All right. All right. I’ll stop. What do you need my help with? Bail money?”
She goes quiet for a moment before she lets out a deep breath. “Actually, I need help with a couple of things.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well…”
I can’t take the suspense any longer. “Just spit it out, Lola. I don’t have all night.”
“I need a job,” she rushes out, “and a place to keep Eleanor. I sort of got into a little fender bender, and her whole side is crushed in. As you know, my brother’s apartment doesn’t have a garage where I can work?—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupt. “How bad is Eleanor?”
There’s one thing that will always tie me to Lola, regardless of our ruined friendship, and that’s Eleanor, the car we restored together in high school. We were supposed to share it, but after I was offered a spot on Hahn’s Formula One US team, I let Lola have her. It was a parting gift—one that she didn’t appreciate like I thought she would.
“She’s not terrible.” Her voice softens while talking about the car. “With the proper equipment, I can get her up and running soon.”
Hence the reason she needs me and my state-of-the-art garage.
“What’s in it for me?”
“You are such a dick,” she snaps, “I don’t even know why I called.”
My smile widens. “Maybe it’s because I’m the only one crazy enough to touch your reputation right now.”
Lola might be known as an unhinged ex who took it out on her coworkers, but I find it rather exciting.
“It’s not like you have a stellar reputation either, Cole.”
That is for certain. “But I didn’t try to run over my boss with my car either.”
Yeah, word travels fast around here.
“He wasn’t my boss, and I was only trying to scare him a bit.”
A woman after my own heart.
“And you think I want to deal with that drama on my team?” I love nothing more than pushing Lola’s buttons.
“I would think you feel like a dick for what happened between us and want to give me a break.”
Not this time, love.
“On one condition,” I counter, eyeing a woman approaching me in nothing but a minidress and heels. “You pretend to be my girlfriend.”
“What?” she practically shouts. “No.”
“My sponsors would love nothing more than for me to settle down.” And considering they are dropping like flies, thanks to my losing streak, I need something for them to get excited about.
“That’s stupid. Visit a children’s hospital instead.”
The woman in the minidress flashes me a wink, and I groan. “Come on, Lola. You know I hate people. Having a pretend girlfriend will keep the women from constantly thinking they have a chance.”
She belts out a laugh that is a little too loud to be genuine. “Aww. Is poor little Cole-y getting hit on all the time? What a horrible life you lead.”
She has no idea.
“I’m so glad you get me.”
“I get that you’re a selfish prick who thinks he’s too good to do someone a favor.”
“That’s not true.” I just don’t want to do her a favor without pissing her off in return. “I am doing you a favor. I’ll give you a job. All you need to do is pretend to be my girlfriend while we’re at work and in front of the cameras. It’s super simple.”
“No, Cole. It’s not super simple. It’s super torture.”
“I don’t mind a little torture.”
“Oh, my gosh. This day can go fuck itself.”
“Now, don’t blame the day,” I start, but realize the line is awfully quiet.
She hung up.