Flawed Formula (Dangerous Speeds #4)

Chapter One

Victoria Linden

There’s nothing quite like the thrill of a racetrack when the sun is up, the fans are out, and the energy is impossibly high. It buzzes against my skin like static electricity, sharp and intense. It’s invigorating. It’s enlivening. It’s a revelation.

Fans cheer from their stands, the roar so loud it’s nearly deafening. Crews for each team buzz around the respective eleven paddocks, all laid out in a neat, uniform row, each paddock armed with a garage just off the pit lane.

Groups of mechanics, engineers, and analysts swarm around the garages, waiting for their cars to leave the track and pull into the pit box for a tyre change or any maintenance permitted by the state of the race.

Across the pitlane from the garages are the pit walls, where a row of the most important people on each team sit before a row of screens and monitors that track race progress live.

Head engineers for each car, heads of trackside engineering, heads of race engineering, chief strategists, and in some cases, even technical directors.

Nerves and excitement coming from tens, hundreds of thousands of people set the air alight and scatter goosebumps across my arms. I’m buzzing with energy, anticipation, and fear—just like the rest of the team. The first race of the season tends to wreak havoc on the nerves.

The effect on my team is even more intense than the others, because we’re much farther behind than we ought to be.

The race is already approaching the last ten laps, and right now, it’s all hands on deck.

Everything I’ve seen in the few hours since I got here—exhausted, sleep-deprived, about a week late, but ready to work—spells out disaster with a capital D.

Our first driver, Elio Santori, isn’t necessarily the issue. He’s 26, has a smile made for the cameras, and is a team sponsor favorite. His driving is solid—he’s good enough to have kept Gaston in the midfield for the last two years, albeit at the bottom. Currently, he’s in P15.

Our second driver is a different story altogether.

His records from his first few years on F1 indicated that he would be one of the greatest talents ever seen, but Asher Lawrence is driving like shit.

He placed last in the practice and qualifying—which I unfortunately missed—and is currently second to last in the race. Out of 22 drivers, he’s P21.

In short, it kinda looks like Gaston—a team that was once a fan and sponsor favorite—is fucked, unless something changes fast.

“What the hell are you doing, Lawrence,” Thomas Sato, Gaston’s top controls and systems engineer, mutters beside me as Asher finishes another lap.

He’s somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, has dark hair that’s an inch too long, almond-shaped amber eyes that are just sharp enough to make a person feel mildly uncomfortable, and zero patience for sloppy thinking.

If one thing’s become clear in the last 10 laps, it’s that Asher doesn’t have a strategic bone in his body, and he’s testing the patience of every Gaston employee assigned to car #2.

I turn away from the track and move back into the garage, gluing my gaze to the screen monitors showing our car’s stats.

Since I’ve been assigned to car #2, I quickly scan over Asher’s lap time—dismal—the track map, where he’s losing time instead of gaining it like he should be, and listen into bits of audio as his engineer gives him directives.

Asher ignores each and every single one.

I recognize Dr. Ilya Koenig, our Trackside Engineering Director’s voice, calmly telling Asher to push—code for drive faster and gain time. Asher’s response?

“In this piece of junk? You’re kidding, right? I’m trying to turn left and it won’t goddamn turn.”

“This piece of junk is technically a solid midfield car. You should be between P17 and P12. Care to explain why you’re at P21?” Ilya responds, manufactured boredom staining his gritty, thick Russian accent.

“Because I can’t drive this piece of shit!” Asher thunders.

I wince; everyone in the garage grimaces. Those expressions turn into groans as one of the race’s commentators live-plays Asher’s words, and makes a sardonic comment on his faith in our car. Ilya’s talk about the midfield quality of our car gets a mention, as well.

That’s one of the shitty parts of in-race comms. Broadcasters can hear every word spoken, and they tend to air anything that’s attention grabbing or embarrassing.

I reach up to rub the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb.

I was supposed to be an intern at Stallion for this season.

Stallion is the #2 ranked team in F1, and is constantly warring for dominance with Cheetah.

I interviewed with Stallion’s technical director and was a day away from getting an offer when one of their sponsors insisted his son should get the only available intern position.

I’ve become used to being knocked down to second-best; it might as well be the theme of my life.

Part of me had foolishly thought that my transition into F1 would turn a new leaf, but that was too much to hope.

For some reason, the universe constantly deems it fit to remind me that I will never be anyone’s #1 choice.

After being humiliated by Stallion, I came back to Gaston, where I’d already been offered a job.

Naturally, leadership wasn’t happy that they’d been my second choice.

I was supposed to come here as a strategy intern; instead, I’m race engineering support for car #2.

That position attaches me to the driver who’s currently making a fool of himself on national television.

The only person who actually wanted me here was Ilya, and that’s because he read and enjoyed my thesis on performance systems’ forecasting programs. Even so, he had no issue bumping me down from car 1 to car 2 after I returned post Stallion rejection, hat in hand.

“Lawrence will finish last,” Thomas predicts grimly, joining me in front of the monitors. “And his commentary will be the butt of every broadcaster joke. Fucking nightmare.” He claps me on the shoulder and gives me a sardonic smile. “You chose a great day to join us.”

Guilt snakes through me, brightening my cheeks. I was supposed to be here for setup week, but I got called away by a family emergency. “I meant to be with the team this week—”

“Nobody cares,” Thomas cuts me off with a sigh. “You’re here now. Do your job, and you might get hired officially next year.”

It’s a subtle dig. A reminder that I’m just an intern, even though the algorithm I’m meticulously programming already has three buyers from other teams—and I’m nowhere near done with building it.

“I intend to do my job well.” In fact, I have plans to blow past everyone’s expectations of me.

The horn signaling the end of the race goes off. I eye the race stats again, feeling my stomach sink. Somewhere during my conversation with Thomas, Asher managed to drop down to P22. At least Elio climbed to P14, but unfortunately, I’m not assigned to him.

If I want the algorithm I’m building to work well, I need time to study and interview my driver. Something tells me that Asher will not be a good subject to examine, and he won’t be particularly open to interviews.

“Come on.” Thomas bumps my shoulder with his. “It’s time you get educated on who you’ll be dealing with.”

Thomas and I return as all the drivers make their way to the pit lane, parking in front of their respective paddocks.

The top 3 drivers—1 from Cheetah, 2 from Stallion—all look phenomenally pleased with themselves, as they should.

The rest of the top 10 look varying degrees of ecstatic or content.

Those who held solid ground in midfield seem fine, while the drivers who came anywhere after P18 are understandably upset, though most try to hide it as they retreat inside their paddocks.

Asher Lawrence apparently doesn’t have the decency to find a quiet space. As soon as he’s unbuckled from his car and out in the pit lane, he removes his helmet… and the snarl he’s wearing makes me instinctively back up several steps.

“What the fuck was that!” he roars.

Several heads of other drivers and members of their team turn. Elio hides a smile behind a cough.

“Aaaand showtime,” Thomas mutters under his breath. “We’ve got front row seats.”

Dear god.

It’s one thing to watch F1 on my computers, or in my formative years, on the cracked TV screen in the rundown mechanic shop where I spent most of my afternoons.

It’s an entirely different thing to watch the race unfold in real life, only to have it topped off by a Formula One driver publicly losing his shit.

Ilya breaks away from the pit wall and joins us in front of the garage. “That,” he drawls, “was a result of your failure to learn and evolve with upgrades and regulation changes. You’re still driving the way you were five years ago—”

“Because that’s the best way!” Asher shouts.

More staring. People muttering under their breaths. Elio apparently starts to find this scene more embarrassing than amusing, because he turns and trudges into the paddock.

I, on the other hand, am glued in place, staring open-mouthed at Asher. His conduct is like a car crash; utterly appalling and somewhat terrifying, but also… entrancing.

The way he looks certainly doesn’t help tear my gaze away. Jesus Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man who’s this attractive. Frankly, it feels like he should be fined for being a distraction.

He has reddish-brown hair that’s plastered to his head with sweat, yet somehow he makes the messy appearance look…

appealing. His eyes are a piercing, dark cobalt, hooded by endlessly thick lashes that women apply pounds of mascara to replicate.

His cheekbones are high and sharp, aristocratic, and he has a stubborn jaw that speaks volumes about his temperament.

He is, in short, gorgeous. And somehow, I think his fury almost enhances that.

“Is it? Ilya questions calmly. “Remind me, how many races have you won since your contract with us started?”

Asher pants like an angry bull in response, broad shoulders rapidly rising and falling. My god, his glare… I don’t know how Ilya is still standing upright. Asher’s glower would reduce a lesser man to dust.

“None,” Ilya emphasizes. “And you refuse to take direction from your engineer, or any other member of your team. If you’d like, I can have Elio test your car to show you it’s perfectly functional—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,”

An announcement about the upcoming podium echoes above the pit lane. A few cameras flash in Asher’s direction, bringing far too much attention to his public meltdown.

“I don’t have time for this,” Ilya mutters. “Go contemplate how you’ll do better next race, Asher. You’re on thin ice.”

Asher glances around the lane, casts everyone who’s looking his way a complementary snarl, and stalks forward. He ignores Declan, the highest-ranking engineer aside from Ilya on site and my boss, who tries to stop him for a word. Asher literally shoulders past Declan.

He only comes to a halt when he’s about five feet to the left of me, about to step into the garage. He casts me a baleful glance which turns into a second look. His beautiful eyes narrow. His lips thin so much they turn white. A vein on his forehead pulses.

He looks at me as if I’ve recently spent an afternoon decapitating his mother.

Then, he changes course, and storms right up to me.