Chapter Seven
Victoria
Asher doesn’t just run a few laps after storming into the sim chamber like a hurricane; he goes through ten. I watch each of them, not even bothering to make recordings on my tablet, because I’m enthralled by him.
A row of mirrors peering into the high-tech sim suite affords me an enviable view of him, sitting in front of the wheel, wearing a scowl and a tight grey T-shirt that shows off a stunning view of his swollen biceps.
By lap three, his breaths have turned to pants, as if he’s actually racing. By lap five, sweat has started beading on his forehead, and on the tenth and final lap, I realize I’ve been ogling him when I should’ve been doing my job.
“Well, the good thing is that you were right,” Declan replies quietly as Asher finishes out and unstraps himself. “Mostly, anyway. He’s averaging an eighth of a second slower than Elio, and they had the same exact setup—aside from the cars. Elio’s has had several more upgrades than Asher’s.”
I finally manage to tear my gaze away from Asher and instead glue it to the screens showing his laps, and his times on each portion of the course.
My heart drops into my stomach when I see what Declan and Thomas are missing. The other two are focused on Asher’s overall times, but my focus falls to the turns Thomas identified. Three, five, and eleven.
Asher was significantly faster than Elio for all of them, in every single lap. He wasn’t trying to win overall; he was trying to beat Elio.
He still has a competitive streak. I may be able to use that to both our advantages.
I may not like him, but I’m assigned to him, and I dislike that there’s no one on this team trying to help Asher.
Even Declan is far more intent on making sure Elio’s taken care of—and he should be giving both of them the same attention.
I get his reasoning; Elio has greater potential to score the team points, so he should get more resources.
But I don’t imagine that’s helping motivate Asher to score any points.
And, at the end of the day, I’m an intern for car #2. Which means that, as much of an asshole as Asher is, my job is to help him.
As soon as he steps out of the sim suite, I bombard him with a litany of questions. “Why didn’t you use X-mode at all? Also, your booster mode was on for seven laps consecutively, which—”
“Woah.” Asher holds up a hand and rakes an irritatingly dismissive gaze over me, shutting me up. His eyes slide over to Declan. “Why would I explain myself to you when you’ll only use the information to benefit Elio?”
My heart drops to my stomach. He was listening earlier when Declan said Asher’s data would only benefit Elio.
How long was he here? What else did he hear?
As I watch Asher leave, I realize grimly that it doesn’t actually matter. He heard all he had to in order to write us off.
The only things that came out of today were a few important realizations.
First, predicting race outcomes based on driver actions is going to have a lot more variables than I assumed, because humans are notoriously emotional and, therefore, unpredictable.
There’s no way of knowing when someone’s matcha order will impact their race.
Second of all, even though he does not deserve it, I’m going to help Asher get better. Not for him, but because he’s the hill I’m either living or dying on—my only chance to stay in F1—and I’m not going to blow it.
I spend the evening combing through the schema documentation for the archived data Oliver gave me.
It’s tedious, detail-oriented, time-consuming work, but I manage to understand the basics—which will allow me to write a parser that’ll read the old, serialized format and translate it into something my algorithm can ingest. Even though Oliver just heaped a lot more work on me, I still owe him two dozen cookies, so I work at my tiny kitchen table near the stove, standing up to check the oven every three minutes.
The following morning, I pack my suitcase, swing by HQ to deliver my cookies to the resident extortionist, then frantically hurry to the airport so I don’t miss the plane.
The private terminal is nothing like the chaos I braced myself for in a typical airport.
No lines, no security theatrics, and no having to remove my shoes and still get patted down by a bored TSA agent.
Just a quiet lounge with leather chairs and a woman at a front desk who checks my name off a list and points me toward a set of glass doors.
That’s it. I almost anticipate getting tackled on my way out, but thankfully, I escape onto the tarmac without incident.
One thing that can be said even for mid teams in F1 is that they ride in style.
They have a designated team jet, which is small, sleek, white, and practically screams money.
It sits on the tarmac with its engines already humming, a set of narrow stairs folded down from the fuselage.
The air out here smells like jet fuel and hot asphalt, and the wind whips my hair across my face the second I step out.
I have the misfortune of being led onto the tarmac at the same time as Asher, because apparently, the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I realize that it’s not a sick sense of humor, it’s outright sadism when I see he’s wearing grey sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination, and a scowl that speaks to his offense at being here.
When he sees me, his scowl only deepens.
“If it isn’t the fuckup,” he says drily. “You haven’t been fired yet?”
“More surprising is that you haven’t been sidelined yet.” I keep my tone deliberately bored. “And, while we’re on the topic of fuckups, I’ve been going through your race data. Do you actually try to be a terrible driver, or is that a side-effect of your personality?”
“I’m not a bad driver; I have a bad car.”
“You might not have the best car in F1, but it certainly isn’t that bad,” I grouse. “In the final race of last season, you killed your battery in—”
“Tell it to someone who cares. Newsflash; I don’t.” He pauses, looking between me and the plane. “What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t your kind supposed to fly economy with the rest of the plebians?”
“You should know; after this season, you’ll be joining them,” I hiss. “And I’m here because Elio invited me. Unlike you, he doesn’t make being an asshole his entire personality.”
Asher’s jaw tics, and somehow, his anger only manages to make him more attractive.
“Whatever. Just stay away from me, yeah? I don’t have time for your bullshit.
” He boards the plane without casting me a backwards glance, leaving me to fume in my own anger.
Does he have to be such a complete asshole all the time?
And why can’t I stop running into him? Or looking at him and admiring him when he so obviously finds me repulsive?
I ignore the tightening in my throat and amble onto the plane, determined to catch up on the sleep I lost last night.
The cabin is smaller than I expected but dripping with subtle wealth. Warm lighting, polished wood paneling, and seats that look more like oversized armchairs than anything I could dream of on a commercial flight.
As soon as I step foot on board, Elio’s head pops up from the seats and he gives me a winning smile.
“Victoria, you made it,” he says warmly.
A growl comes from somewhere in the bowels of the plane.
At first, I think it’s the engine, but then I catch the scathing glower Asher casts me while he takes his seat in the very back.
“I saved you a seat.” Elio motions to the crème upholstered chair right next to his own. “Figured now’s as good a time as any to talk, right?”
I try to wipe the exhaustion from my face. Running on zero sleep or not, this isn’t an opportunity I’ll let go so easily. “Right.” I shove my duffle bag in an overhead compartment and make my way to Elio, slipping past him and dropping into the window-seat.
“So, what would you like to know?” Elio asks with another smile.
It’s surreal to be sitting here, on Gaston’s chartered jet, speaking directly to an F1 driver.
A year ago, I was certain that the closest I’d ever get to Formula One was buying tickets to the Las Vegas race; I never in a million years would’ve imagined that I’d have this privilege.
And, even after being hired, I never thought that I’d be sitting next to the first driver and have his undivided attention.
Even with Asher’s assholery hanging over me like a dark cloud, I take a beat to appreciate my privilege. Apparently, it’s a beat too long, because one of Elio’s eyebrows slowly slide up. “If you keep staring like that, I’ll start to think you’re sweet on me.”
Crap, he thinks I’m hitting on him. “Sorry,” I say with an embarrassed laugh. “Just… taking it all in. I never thought I’d be here.”
“Neither did I.” A flight attendant walks down the aisle, and Elio waves her over. “A glass of whisky neat, for me, and for my friend…” he glances over at me contemplatively. “Whichever red wine you think is best.”
I try to keep the sour expression from my face. Two things I hate: men ordering for me and drinking red wine. But, since I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with Elio the same way I did with Asher, I force a smile. “Sounds great.”
Two hours later, my glass of red wine stands untouched while Elio’s on his fourth drink, and I’ve made my way through most of the questions I have for him.
The most important thing I need to know is what his greatest points of dissatisfaction are—and he’s spent the last half hour monologuing about what an asshole Asher is, making him the focus of conversation.
Every time I try to divert, he drinks more and talks more.
His voice isn’t quiet, either; if Asher wasn’t sound asleep several rows back with his Air Pods in, I’d be worried.