Chapter Six
Asher
Iprefer to avoid headquarters whenever possible, because every time I come in, I end up seething mad. Unfortunately, I don’t get a say in the matter when Ilya tells me to either show up or give up my seat to a reserve driver.
Whether or not this is my last season, I refuse to shoulder that embarrassment, so I drag my ass into HQ the day before we’re set to pack and leave for Shanghai.
It’s just my luck that the first person of note I stumble upon is Tommy-Toby, who happens to be standing with Victoria in the sim control center.
The room is dim, cool, and bathed in the blue-white glow of a dozen monitors.
Victoria and Tommy-Toby both stand at the wall of glass that looks into the sim suite, where Elio’s strapped into the rig—a bare-bones replica of a race car cockpit, bolted onto a platform that tilts and shifts to mimic real driving.
Curved screens wrap around him, projecting a virtual track that moves with every turn of the wheel he’s gripping.
As usual, Elio’s making a fucking fool of himself with shitty race maneuvers being performed with far too much of a flourish, as if he knows he’s being watched. I hide behind the door like a delinquent, listening in and peeking out to get a glimpse of the pair.
Victoria looks far too tempting with her hair wound into a knot, her round ass encased in a pair of tight jeans, and her tits straining against the fabric of a sweater.
And Tommy-Toby-soon-to-be-dead fuck is spending way too much time staring at her body while she chatters away about some bullshit, staring at a tablet she’s clutching.
I’m about to ruin both of their days when Declan joins them and gazes over Victoria’s shoulder. Tommy-Toby-moronic fuck immediately straightens and stops staring at what isn’t his to admire, turning his attention back to the sim suite.
“Thomas, good to see you. Victoria, you’re tracking Elio’s performance for your forecasting thing?” Declan asks.
I guess the kid is named Thomas. I think I’ll just go with Fuckface.
“Yes.” Victoria lowers her tablet. “I’m getting a lot of great information. I’ll also need to see how driver 2 does in the sim chamber.”
“Is his name that contagious?” Declan sounds vaguely amused.
“Of course not.” Why does she sound flustered? And why the hell is that so satisfying?
She clears her throat. “I need to see Asher in the sim suite next.”
“We called him in for that purpose. He should be here in half an hour. After you have what you need from him, run it up the flagpole. It should be useful for Elio’s car.”
Wait—what the fuck did he just say? That my simulation runs would somehow benefit Elio?
I’ve never had a thing for numbers, but that math is not mathing.
Victoria must have a similar sentiment, because she asks, “What?”
“He doesn’t put any effort into racing anymore,” Declan shrugs.
“Hasn’t since he got here, frankly. There’s no point in pushing for upgrades on his car since he won’t use them, so it’s smarter to allocate resources over to Elio.
He might not be the best driver, but at least he tries and works with what he has. ”
My jaw tightens. Objectively, what Declan’s saying makes sense. I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. But to find out that I’ve been called in for a bullshit simulation for Elio’s sake? I’m fucking fuming.
I’m getting a taste of my own medicine, and it’s bitter and acrid, like the ashes from a chemical fire.
“Oh.” Victoria clears her throat again. Is that a tell of hers when she’s uncomfortable?
Again, why do you care, asshole?
“I heard you bribed Oliver with baked goods,” Declan comments, switching topics.
“He bitched to me about having to dig through archives to get you data for your little project. Also raved about your chocolate-chip cookies. For future reference, just about everyone here will be nicer to you if you bring them sugar.”
“It’s not a little project.” Her voice is terse. “It’s a forecasting model that—”
“Nobody cares.” Declan sighs. “Not until you can prove they should care. People would care about chocolate chip cookies, though. Oliver said they were better than the ones at our coffee shop.”
They continue talking about innocuous, meaningless bullshit while I afford myself the time to calm down, so that I don’t make a complete fool of myself when I join them.
My efforts prove to be entirely in vain when Elio steps out of the sim suite, pulling off his headset and unclipping himself from his harness with the practiced ease of an idiot who actually enjoys being there.
He has his usual, ridiculous Colgate smile plastered on his face.
“How was that?” he asks, tipping Victoria an over-the-top wink. He glances in my direction, and I swiftly duck behind the door. Being caught standing here like a stalker is not on my to-do list today.
“It was great.” Victoria’s voice is still tense. “I got a lot of good info, thank you.”
“No problem. Always happy to help out a member of the team. I hear you’re in the market to conduct interviews; I’d happily make myself your willing victim. Schedule a time with my PA.”
He’s really laying it on thick, and now there are two people who deserve dismemberment for coming onto Victoria. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but it is. She’s already proven to be utterly useless; why are people praising her for it?
“Speaking of interviews, there’s this party tonight—” I choose that moment to intervene and stride into the room, cutting off Elio’s offer before he can make it.
All four of them turn to look at me. Declan appears confused that I’m here early, Victoria’s expression of surprise swiftly melts into irritation, Elio looks outright pissed, and Thomas looks like he couldn’t give less of a shit if there was a gun to his head.
I jerk my chin at Declan. “I was summoned.”
He recovers quickly. “Get your ass in the sim suite.”
I pause, tapping my chin like I’m considering it, then shake my head. “Nah, I think I’m good. I know everything I need to know already.”
“Do you? Because you drive like you don’t know your ass from your elbow,” Declan says drily. “We need at least a couple laps from you.”
“For what?” I challenge. I doubt he’ll admit that he only wants me in the sim suite to help Elio out. “You have the data you need from my racing.”
“We have some data,” Declan corrects. “We need more. It’s for a special project we’re working on.”
“Oh, the one the intern’s on?” I rake a doubtful gaze over Victoria. “From what Ilya said in the debrief, it’s not going very well, is it?”
Her jaw clenches. “I’m working on it.”
I scoff. “Right. Care to explain why you can’t just go over my previous races?”
“I need up to date data from the current car,” she says.
“My car hasn’t been upgraded in years,” I challenge. Come on, admit that even you—an intern specifically assigned to me—are actually rooting for Elio. I want her to say it to my face.
Declan lets out a long, irritated breath. “Either get your ass in the chamber or—”
“I’ll just assume you’d be a couple tenths of a second behind Elio.” Victoria shrugs. “You know. Like you usually are.” She turns to examine the nearest screen to her, gazing at a model of the race track. My blood starts to heat, and my nostrils flare with anger.
Elio scratches his chin, attempting to hold back a smile. Prick.
“That’s not accurate,” I growl.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Isn’t it? in the last six races, you’ve been between one and three tenths of a second behind him. It’s reasonable, then, to assume that—”
“Elio, get the fuck out of here,” I snap. “This is a grownup conversation.”
“Right.” He nods amiably. “I always try to give my elders their space.” He glances at Victoria. “Talk to my PA about getting that interview set up, yeah?” He leisurely walks out of the room like he has all the time in the world.
I should get a sainthood for not punching him in the face on his way out.
“What turns did he do best on?” I demand.
Thomas is the one to answer. “T3, T5, and T11.” He joins Victoria in staring at the map. “Eleven’s the trickiest, for sure. Pretty impressive that he managed to—”
“Set me up,” I snap. I might absolutely hate the new direction F1’s heading in, but I’ll be damned if I get upstaged by someone who never should’ve made it past F2 in front of these three.
It has nothing to do with impressing anyone, certainly not an intern, and everything to do with making a point.