Chapter Four
Asher Lawrence
“Asher, could I have five minutes—”
People think the difference between Elio and me is astronomical—that he’s the nicer man, better driver, and prettier public persona.
The only real difference is that he’s a better actor. I don’t waste time on the theatrics of media; I have more important shit to do.
I push my way into the office allocated to our team principal, Soren Vale. He’s seated in front of a desk ten times bigger than he is, silver hair slicked close enough to his scalp to make him look like a piece of shit, his posture straight.
Declan is pouring himself more whiskey than he ought to be drinking during a race day from a crystal decanter, and Ilya is standing in front of a wall of windows overlooking the track, his back to me.
Noah Kline, our chief mechanic, is also here, fiddling with his phone like the absolute moron he is.
“For future reference, I’m not a call girl,” I say. “Don’t text me for a late-night quickie.”
“Charming as always,” Declan comments. “Want to explain why you ignored every order I gave you?”
“Because your orders are as shitty as my car.”
“Damnit.” Noah pushes an irate hand through his hair. “You’re being—”
“Ridiculous? Unreasonable? A piece of shit?” I nod. “You just listed my commentary on the car you built—”
“Asher.” Ilya turns away from the window, fixing his cool gaze on me. “The problem, in this case, is not the car. It is the driver behind the wheel.”
“That is what I’ve been saying for the last two seasons!” Noah roars. “You need to—”
I’m across the room in the flash, hand fisted in Noah’s shirt, nose-to-nose with him. “You want to say that to my face?” I snarl.
Soren clears his throat pointedly, and I understand that if I don’t back off now, I’ll be kicked out of the room.
I might not care enough to change my driving, but I still care enough about being in the sport that I know better than to ignore the warning.
I release Noah with a shove, then mockingly wipe invisible lint from his shoulder.
“Sorry. Was just trying to make sure his shirt is as pristine as this team’s image. ”
Ilya sighs, raising a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “The car is not our best—”
“Not our best? It hasn’t had a major upgrade package since I joined Gaston.” I sweep a flat stare across the room. “Two years ago.”
“If you played nice with the media, that might be a different story,” Soren says. “You’re not taking any of your responsibilities seriously.”
“Playing nice with the media isn’t a responsibility; it’s a joke.”
“We don’t have the funding,” Ilya says emphatically. “Not for you. Even the funding for Elio is slim, and he’s a fan-favorite and media darling.”
“And yet, you gave Elio something that isn’t a piece of shit.”
“His car is far from perfect,” Ilya says tersely.
“But he makes the most out of it. You, on the other hand, are not. You should be holding the midfield at the very least, Asher. Is placing last as some form of protest really worth losing your seat on the F1 circuit? You have to stop driving in a way that worked five years ago, and start driving the way you should now.”
Herein lies the fundamental problem. F1 has changed, and I have not followed its evolution as closely as others. Probably because I’m the only one who understands that, while cars are advancing, the technical skillset of drivers are rapidly declining—and I refuse to devalue myself.
I know that despite my grievances with the car, it could technically be driven better. Just not by me. Not unless I have huge incentives.
“Put me as first driver—”
“Absolutely not. You’ll make a fool of us all,” Soren says. “Now, I believe you have several post-race interviews to attend to. I expect you to make all of them, and to smile.”
It’s not a question, and I know team leadership is reaching the end of their ropes with me. I grit my teeth and nod. He wants me to smile? If that’s what it takes to avoid these four, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be seeing more than enough of them for the rest of the season.
“I have a request,” I grunt.
“You—you have a request?” Noah says, before falling into a coughing fit. The idiot choked on the force of his anger.
Huge surprise.
“Yes, I have a request.” I turn my glare to Declan. “Fire the intern.”
Declan squints for a moment, as if trying to remember who I’m talking about. He’d have to be as dumb as Noah not to know—not only because she got the dressing-down of the century from Ilya, but because she is absolutely fucking stunning.
Objectively speaking.
Raven-black hair that glints blue in the sun. Big, steely grey eyes. Full, strawberry-tinted lips that I wouldn’t mind wrapped around my co—
“No,” Ilya says. “Miss Linden could be useful to the team. If she fails this season, she’s out.”
“She’s already failed. You said she wasn’t here for setup,” I remind him.
“You should be counting your own failures, not focusing on those of an intern,” Noah snaps.
Soren rolls his eyes. Declan sighs. Ilya briefly tilts his head heavenwards, shaking his head at whatever deity might be paying attention to him.
“This isn’t up for discussion,” he says. “If Declan reports that her performance is abysmal moving forward, I’ll adjust accordingly, but that is really none of your business. Now, you’re dismissed. We all have interviews to suffer through.”
“No, no, no!” Our PR and media coordinator catches up with me as I try to slip away after two interviews to lick my wounds in private, and punch a body bag with Noah’s face plastered on it until my knuckles are cracked and bleeding. “We still have the team press conference!” he cries dramatically.
Elio chooses that moment to appear in the hallway, shooting me an extremely punchable smile. “You wouldn’t want to miss it, would you, Lawrence? I heard Soren ordered you to attend. I’d hate to see you become even more of an outcast than you already are.”
I know a challenge when I hear one. Usually, I’d avoid rising to his taunts, but right now… well. I did tell Soren that I’d sit my ass in front of the cameras and smile, and I’m a man of my word.
Five minutes later, I’m wishing I was not a man of my word as bright lights flash in my face, hurting my brain, and reporters yell questions at Elio.
I’ll give him this much; he answers each one like a pro.
His dazzling smile never wavers—I wonder how much cash he’s dropped on teeth whitening—and he’s level-headed, calm, and collected.
I, on the other hand, sit back with my arms crossed, occasionally baring my teeth at the cameras in an imitation of a smile.
The press conference stretches out for an eternity. After a while, I start replaying my favorite movies in my head, up until my name gets called for a question. I look up, finding a beady-eyed reporter staring at me with a hungry look on his face.
Here we go.
“Asher, it’s quite surprising to see you’ve joined the panel today!” the reporter says, flashing me a sharky grin. “After avoiding us for so long, I think we all worried you didn’t like us.”
He releases an unpleasant chuckle, while nobody else makes a peep.
All eyes are on me, and the attention makes my skin crawl.
One thing I’ve never enjoyed about F1 is all the fucking attention.
I just want to drive a good, well-built, durable car without having to worry about what hundreds of thousands of people will think about it.
The cameras and press might’ve held some appeal in my early twenties, but now…
it’s just exhausting. This sport has become exhausting.
It’s lost the addictive jolt of electricity that used to keep me on the balls of my feet, eager for each new race.
“What a strange conclusion to jump to,” I say flatly. I barely refrain from tacking on, with that brainpower, you really deserve an award.
That gets a few uneasy laughs, not from reporters, but from my team. A flash of raven-black hair catches my eyes, and that’s when my mood plummets from bad but stable to terrible.
She’s here. The intern. The one I thought I successfully scared away. If I can’t get her fired, I can at least get her to stay as far away from me as humanly possible.
Except, apparently, I can’t.
“So, you started in F1 eight years ago after a brief stint in F2, where you had a meteoritic rise to stardom.”
I nod. “Yup.”
The reporter waits for a moment for me to expand, but he didn’t ask me a question; he stated facts.
I’m not gonna hold his fucking hand through these questions.
And, besides, I’m distracted. My attention keeps straying to the intern, and I swear to fuck, a storm cloud gathers over my head when I see her quietly murmuring with a vaguely familiar engineer. I think his name is Tommy? Toby?
“You had a stellar first few seasons with us,” the reporter gabs on. “Everyone thought you were going to be one of the greatest talents to grace the race tracks.”
“Well, nobody’s right 100% of the time,” Elio decides to pipe up, smile widening.
My jaw tightens. “No, they most certainly are not,” I say sharply. “It seems the media often misinterprets the good guys and bad guys, don’t they, Elio?”
I look at Elio, who smiles good-naturedly. “I was pegged to become a first driver, and here we are.”
“Pegged? Sounds like a typical Tuesday for you. Excited for the Thailand Grand Prix, Elio?” When a few muffled chuckles sound from the peanut gallery, I press forward. “First to finish isn’t a good character trait, buddy.”
There’s a snort in the back of the room. I think it might come from the intern, but I wouldn’t miss the flash of anger that crosses Elio’s expression for the world.
Speculative murmurs make a wave around the room. The intern reaches up to massage her temples with her fingers, shaking her head. Tommy-Toby-whatever-the-fuck his name is chuckles and leans close to her, whispering something in her ear.
I’ve never had such a visceral urge to tear someone’s head from their shoulders. Not even with Noah.
“But then… your performance took a dive. You bounced around teams before landing at Gaston… as second driver.” Jesus, the reporter’s still speaking.
“Correct.” I arch an eyebrow. “How long do you plan to recount publicly available information? I think everyone has better shit to do than listen to the sound of your voice.”
Ilya glares at me from down the table. I ignore him.
The reporter goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “And today, everyone caught that you think Gaston has given you a… bad car.” A few laughs sound, and my hands curl into fists. “Do you think Gaston is the problem, or could it be you?” the reporter finally asks.
“I’m not a philosopher or a therapist. You’ll have to ask one of those to answer your question,” I say flatly.
The reporter’s starting to get irritated. “Are you deliberately trying to fail out of this sport, or has your dismal performance simply been a symptom of—”
“I think we’ve had enough questions,” Ilya finally intervenes. “Thank you all for your time. We’ll see you all in Shanghai.”