Chapter 23 Barcelona, Spain #2
I’m blissfully aware of Alexander moving inside me, his nice long girth stroking me, the warmth and faint vibration of his hand cupping the front of me, the captivating sound of him that always gets me hot as hell.
As turned on as I am, it’s interesting to find that this process is taking me a while—lifted gradually to the peak, not chasing it—without the assist of my hands and movements.
I’m a little self-conscious about looking so lifeless, eyes closed, every muscle lax, existing only in two places: my mind, and the golden glow of arousal below my waist.
“You’re radiant, like a breathtaking painting,” Alexander tells me, his tone hypnotic. “My cock was made for you. The way your sweet pink cunt takes me is fucking poetry.”
His thrusts are leisurely, and I stay cradled in my silence, observing with fascination as climax approaches. It’s as vast and as soundless as the bloom of a sunrise. I relax my hands, my shoulders, my thighs, just breathing and feeling, single-mindedly fixed on the sensations.
As the orgasm cracks open in a flood of bliss, it’s like I’m reading the fine print on my own pleasure for the first time, able to read what it’s saying. I breathe through it, watching where it goes, fascinated to map its trajectory, the small hidden corners of me that it illuminates.
My involuntary moan floats out, and as the wave crests, I’m rattled by a shudder I don’t try to control. I’m liquid everywhere—not only have I flooded the bed, but my eyes run with tears that leave me surprised and slightly embarrassed. A small hiccupping sob betrays me.
Alexander’s voice is tight as he grasps my thigh with one hand and says, “Sage, fuck… I love you…” and pushes deep into me, staying there, grinding against me as he’s annihilated by his own climax.
His crushing fingers divot the Monaco Grand Prix tattoo on my thigh and his face is like a saint in spiritual ecstasy and I suddenly know exactly what he meant about me looking like a painting.
When he opens his eyes and sees me watching him, he smiles, exhausted and beautiful. There’s a wrinkle of fear marring how happy I am, because I’d give anything to never stop feeling this way, and nothing should have that kind of power over me.
He pulls himself up on one elbow and moves to my side and gathers me close, tugging the duvet over us so we’re hidden, at least for now, from whatever’s going to fuck this up.
The next evening, I’m riding high in every way.
Quali went great and I’m starting the race tomorrow in fourth.
My back, oddly enough, hasn’t given me any trouble since the transcendent sex last night.
My mom sent me pics of the cute apartment she just got in the Pearl District, and she seems distinctly unheartbroken by the upcoming divorce.
Julian sent a snail-mail letter to Priya and me, and he told us he got his thirty-day clean-and-sober chip.
And finally?
Yeah, Alexander Demetrius Sebastian Konstantin Laskaris, he of the many middle names (lots of uncles, apparently), has laid siege to my stony little heart.
Because I’m not superstitious, I don’t worry that the abundance of joy is setting me up for a fall.
No malicious Fates are rubbing their hands together with manic, fly-like glee as they engineer my comeuppance.
But I am aware of the unfortunate fact that the faster you’re driving when you overcook a turn, the harder the impact is.
Which is why my stomach flops when Priya calls me instead of texting—always a bad sign. I’m just exiting Phaedra’s office after talking with her and Basil when the phone rings.
“Hey, Pri. What’s up? I’m kinda in a hurry.”
There’s a pause before she replies. “Are you… Is everything okay?”
“What, my back? Yeah, it’s fine. I didn’t—”
“No, I mean, uh… Okay, you need to come to the motor home. Like, now.”
I stop in the middle of the narrow white hallway between meeting rooms. “What’s going on? Is Jules all right? My mom?” I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Grandma Lena?”
“It’s nothing like that,” she tells me. “But you need to come talk to me. There’s something I have to show you.”
I prod myself into motion again, headed for the glass exit doors with the Emerald logo. “Oh, fuckin’ hell,” I say, realizing as the words leave me that I sound a little like Alexander. “It can’t wait? Tomorrow’s the GP and I don’t wanna get upset over trivial bullshit.”
“Sage.” Her tone is bleak. “I’ve been fretting for an hour for exactly that reason.
I wouldn’t bother you, but I don’t want you to hear about this first when some reporter asks.
” My stomach plunges straight to the basement at her next words.
“And you probably won’t want to stay with Alexander tonight once you’ve heard it. ”
When I climb through the doorway of the motor home minutes later, she’s sitting at the banquette with her laptop open on the table and rotates it to face me.
The door shuts behind me with a pneumatic hiss.
I slap down a hand beside the laptop and lean to take in the page of CJ Ardley’s Sports and Tortes on the screen.
Down the right-hand side are publicity photos of me and of Julian, and below that, a candid one of Jules with Alexander in what must be the dining room of our Melbourne hotel.
The headline reads, “Shocking Secret of Formula 1’s Leading Lady!
Junkie Brother She Hides in Luxury Loony Bin. ”
My heart is pounding hard and my back is suddenly such a tangle of pain that I can barely get a breath.
I click rapidly through a slideshow: unflattering paparazzi pics of Jules and me, the front of his treatment facility in Switzerland, old photos of us as kids that CJ must’ve had to dig deep to find online.
I slide into the seat across from Priya, who’s quietly crying. Pulling the laptop around, I start reading the article. It launches with mocking references to celebrities with family skeletons in the closet, sarcastically congratulating me for joining their ranks.
“This is fucking evil,” I growl, shooting a glance at Pri over the laptop screen. “Did you tell Reece and Phaedra yet?”
“Sent them links right after I called you. But, Sage…”
I’m already reading again, now the part about Jules being in rehab and how much the place costs and whether I’ll go bankrupt taking care of him.
“What’s the bit you mentioned about Sandy though?” I ask her distractedly as my eyes track down the page. “There’s this pic from Melbourne, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he was responsible for it. There are a lot of ways she could’ve found this stuff out, right?”
“Sage,” she repeats, “um, keep reading. Then I need to show you something else.”
Finally I get to the part she must be talking about:
After a decade-long rift originating when Sage nearly died of a ruptured appendix during a family trip to Thailand—an incident that apparently owed to Julian’s negligence (Was he already on drugs then, in his teens?
One can’t help but speculate… )—the siblings have buried the hatchet enough for Sage to pay a king’s ransom to dry out her ne’er-do-well brother.
But one couldn’t be called a cynic for suspecting that the most likely reason is discretion, not love.
Such bad timing to have a self-destructive sibling circling the drain during Sage’s debut year at Emerald!
If anything, Julian Sikora’s posh private rehab is an investment in maintaining his famous sister’s carefree image.
My hands are shaking so hard that I lay them flat on the table.
My eyes meet Priya’s teary ones. “How would she know this?” I manage in a near whisper.
“No one does. I didn’t even tell you, Pri.
I mean, you knew about my appendix obviously, but not Jules’s role in what happened.
We didn’t talk about that until Miami, when my mom brought it up. ”
She reaches for the laptop and spins it toward herself, clicking something. “So, I googled their names together, just in case, and I found this. But please believe me: I didn’t want to be right. Despite all the things I said, and how suspicious I was of Alexander at the start.”
She turns the computer back toward me. There’s a new tab open, pics on the HELLO! magazine website—a publishing gala in London about a week before the Australian GP. CJ Ardley sits at a table with Alexander, his hand covering hers, eyes full of flirty mischief.
“You didn’t tell me the details of what happened in Thailand, no,” Priya says solemnly. “But did you tell him?”
I have a strict system I follow the night before a race, and this sure as shit ain’t it. And no matter my training, conditioning, and pro level of control… no mental exercises will help me break up with a guy I’m in love with and then go back to my pre-race routine.
On my way up the steps to the apartment, I coach myself to concentrate on the anger so I can avoid crying.
Have you ever noticed that F1 drivers don’t blink a lot?
That gets surprisingly fucked up if your eyes are irritated because you’ve had a crying jag.
And in a sport where thousandths of a second make the difference, I can’t afford to start at any disadvantage.
When I open the door, I can smell Alexander. I didn’t expect immediate pain, but knowing that breathing in his scent won’t be followed by kisses, arms entangled, his lips on my neck, his voice an inch from my ear… it’s killing me.
He straightens from where he’s leaning into the refrigerator, then swings it shut and makes his way toward me with a smile that fades by a half-dozen steps. He freezes, feet bare on the honey-blond hardwood.
“Salvi, what is it? Has something happened?” When I don’t reply, he continues. “I saw you qualified fourth. Well done, pet.”