Chapter Eight
Victoria
By the end of the flight, I’m bleary-eyed and exhausted.
The sunset spills through the plane’s window as we land, illuminating the cabin in startling shades of yellow, orange, and pink.
Those gorgeous colors are shortly overtaken by the flashing lights of cameras, which prompts me to wince and slam the window cover down.
I’m far too tired to even look at a paparazzo.
The one perk of being an intern nobody is that none of them will look my way, either.
I’m never flying with the team again. I don’t care if I have to cram myself into economy seats for the rest of the year—this luxury travel is just a pretty front for a shitty time.
Almost everybody slept through the bulk of the flight, so there’s lots of stumbling and grumbling going around.
Declan nearly topples me in the aisle when he grabs his bag from the overhead compartment.
He gives me a meaningful glance that drips with displeasure.
“I don’t care if you talk shit, but do it on your own time, and do it quietly,” he hisses.
“And I think it might be best if you stay away from our drivers.”
I nod hurriedly. “I couldn’t agree more.”
A sleek black Gaston van greets us on the tarmac, along with some three dozen paparazzi from all over the world, all of whom start shouting questions as soon as Asher stumbles off. He ignores the crowd, shoulders past them, and climbs directly into the van.
Elio has no such disdain for the media. I stand to the side of the plane’s staircase and watch, half-fascinated and half-repulsed, as he lifts his hand, showing off his shiny Rolex, and flashes the cameras a bright smile.
Any hint of drunkenness has left him; he looks awake and ready to play the part of the media darling.
An American reporter shouts out, “Can you tell us what you’re wearing?”
Elio jumps on the opportunity, thoroughly detailing every item of designer clothing he’s decked out in, from the Gucci glasses on his head to the Bvlgari rings to his Chanel sneakers. This is why he chose to forgo comfort for the flight.
Declan trudges up beside me, folding his arms as he stares at Elio.
“The kid can drive, but he’s a fuckin’ sellout,” he mutters with a long-suffering sigh.
“One of my drivers is a talented fuckup, and the other is a walking brand deal. Damnit, I miss the old days, when the only thing that mattered was the car. This Gen-Z bullshit is exhausting.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmur. I’m no fonder of my generation than he is.
“You better get in the van. As soon as we wrap up, we’re heading to the hotel. I expect you to be at the track at 6am sharp, so you should get your beauty rest. I won’t tolerate any more tardiness from you.”
Anger singes through my veins. I’m exhausted, overworked, completely unappreciated, and was recently called out by a world-famous athlete after his assistant tattled on me.
I almost snap at Declan that I was late because my dying mother landed in the hospital but manage to hold myself back. He wouldn’t care.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, and go to the van.
The only remaining seat that hasn’t yet been taken by a person or a bag is in the back row, right next to Asher. He has sunglasses on despite the darkness outside and is slumped low, arms folded across his broad chest. I imagine he’s glaring at nothing behind his reflective Ray-Bans.
While I have minimal desire to deal with his bad attitude, I happen to need to pick his brain, and now’s as good a time as any. I don’t expect being around him would be any easier even if I weren’t in a shitty mood.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snaps when I drop down beside him.
“Waiting for Elio to finish his bullshit media circus so we can all get some rest,” I respond calmly. “In the interim, I have questions for you.”
“Here’s a blanket answer; fuck off.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t recall asking for anyone’s help, let alone yours.”
“You might not have asked, but you’re in sore need of help if you want to stay in F1.”
Asher scoffs, pulling up his sunglasses to let me feel the full force of his glare. “Who the hell says I want to stay in F1? This sport has turned into a joke.”
“I’ve watched tapes from your first two years on the circuit. And a few from your time in F2. You will not convince me that the boy you were then has no desire to continue in this sport. Your love for F1 was patently obvious.”
“That boy grew the fuck up,” Asher hisses. “And the man he became would deeply appreciate some peace and fucking quiet. I haven’t slept in three days.”
“You slept through the entire flight.”
“I sat still with my eyes closed, listening to you and pretty boy talking shit on me for the first few hours. Then, I got to listen to his brainless assistant gab away in his ear for the rest of it. I am not in a good mood.”
“I wasn’t talking shit on you.”
“You called me a jerk.”
“Because I was trying to change the topic of the conversation, and because it’s true. In any case, I’m yet to witness you in any mood other than a bad one, so that’s irrelevant.” I lean forward. “Let me help you.”
Asher releases a long sigh. “You just don’t fucking give up, do you? Get it through your head; I have no interest in whatever you’re planning on doing. It won’t change the way F1 has devolved.”
“Even if this is your last season, don’t you want to go out with a bang? And I’m not talking about the crashes you’re prone to.”
“Being a bitch isn’t helping your case.”
This man has the remarkable ability to make someone want to commit mass murder. “Asher, let me help you.”
“Help me,” he says degradingly. “Even if I said yes, what do you think you could achieve? You’re what, twenty? And one of two women on this team?”
“If you say one more thing about my age or sex, I’m going to give you a black eye,” I snap. “Cut the misogynistic, asshole act. At least give me a chance before writing me off.”
“Sweetheart, sex is the last thing on my mind around you.”
My cheeks heat in embarrassment. He’s acting like I’m coming onto him when the only organ of his I have any interest in is his brain. I need to deconstruct how it works so I can quantify it.
“Good, because I’d rather chew a lightbulb than sleep with you.”
“There wouldn’t be any sleeping if you managed to sneak your way into my bed.”
Now my face is warm all over, and for a completely different reason.
A brief image flashes through my mind, there and gone in an instant, but the effect of it lingers for several moments and renders me speechless.
Asher is stunning when he’s scowling and fully dressed; I can hardly imagine what he might be like if his passion for hating and insulting me was turned into a different kind of passion.
Abort mission.
I clear my throat. “Since neither of us have any interest in that, it won’t be a problem.”
“Correct. I’d sooner let a great white shark blow me than—”
“Listen up!” Declan shouts from the front of the van.
I glance up to see that Elio’s boarded and wrangled himself a seat in the first row, with Amanda right next to him.
Declan stands before the pair, looking jetlagged and appropriately tired.
I’m starting to think the man subsists on coffee and ambition alone.
“It’s an hour to the hotel, which is a five-minute drive or a fifteen-minute walk to the track.
Those of you involved in setup will be at the track first thing in the morning.
Drivers, you’ll be there at 10am sharp for tests and strategy.
Initial briefing is at 11am. Any stupid questions? ”
Nobody makes a peep.
“Good. What you do tonight is your prerogative, but if you’re late, you’re sidelined.” Declan’s stare bores a hole into my head, and then Asher’s. It’s just my luck that I’ve been grouped in with the other team failure.
Declan sits, and the van takes off. I turn to Asher.
Since he won’t agree to let me help him, I’ll just have to throw questions at him and taunt him into answering.
“Are you always pissed off during race week? Or can your shitty attitude be attributed to limited intelligence?” In other words, do I need to calculate for you always being angry?
His eyebrows slam down. “I’m pissed because I’m perpetually surrounded by morons who don’t know the first thing about F1. Present company included.”
Dickdickdickdickdick. I clear my throat, managing to maintain my composure. “Why did you have boost mode on for the entirety of last week’s race?”
“Because it’s faster.”
My lips part as I stare at him. Jesus Christ, does he not understand F1 car mechanisms at all? When was the last time he actually paid attention to all the functions of his vehicle and race strategies that come with it? Or the changing regulations in F1?
How the hell did he get into F1 in the first place with this ridiculous lack of knowledge?
“That’s not how batteries work,” I say slowly, enunciating every syllable like I would with a toddler.
“Don’t mansplain my car to me.”
Then show the faintest bit of knowledge on how it works.
“Why didn’t you activate X-mode at all?” It’s a huge advantage in a race, allowing drivers to switch into a mode that angles their front and rear wings perfectly for rapid acceleration and overtakes.
The places and times when it can be used are limited, but immensely important.
“There were several moments when you were perfectly positioned to attack—”
“Because the engineers are supposed to do that, not me!” he growls. “They control the wings.”
“No, they don’t,” I say. My morale is already starting to fall along with the rest of the teams. It’s obvious that Asher doesn’t know shit about his car, and more, he doesn’t seem interested in learning.
I can’t analyze him to help build my algorithm if he’s this uninformed.
“You need to reread the current manuals,” I say quietly.
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t need to do.” His nostrils flare. “What you need to do is stop sticking your nose in my business and just let me race.”
Dear fucking god.
I realize that I’m not going to make any progress—not now. I might be able to try again tomorrow.
Hopefully.
I get just a few hours of shuteye before the sun’s up and my ass needs to be at the track. When I open the door to my hotel room, I’m met with a coffee cart. I don’t remember ordering anything—maybe it’s complimentary?
There are two pots of black coffee, one porcelain cup, and two empty takeout cups waiting to be filled.
Complimentary or accidental, I’m not one to turn down black coffee. I lift one of the takeout cups, only to pause when I see a note beneath it.
Really sorry that I blabbed to Elio. -Amanda
I squint at the note. The gesture is… touching. Maybe Elio’s PA really didn’t want to screw me over. She could just be a classic golden retriever following her master’s orders.
Regardless, I don’t have time to dwell. I pour myself a cup of coffee and haul ass to the track… where I’m promptly sidelined in every way a person can be sidelined.
Declan kicks me over to Thomas, who kicks me over to the lowest tier of technical support; the people setting up TVs and monitors.
I’m no better than the errand-boys at this stage.
I run around the team’s paddock for the next four hours, acting the part of the errand girl.
I fish wires out of boxes, make sure the gyms are fully equipped for the drivers, and distribute strategy manuals around the briefing room.
When the first brief comes around, I don’t even try to join.
I watch from the hallway as most of the other staff filter inside, including Asher—who only notices me long enough to cast his customary glare in my direction—and Ilya, who doesn’t seem aware of my existence.
The doors shut behind everyone. I curb my urge to eavesdrop, and return to the garage.
I’m already sweaty from running around. Add that to sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and I feel like I’m a hairbreadth away from snapping at someone.
Since the area’s mostly deserted, I find a spot to perch on, pull out my tablet, and start doing work that might actually have an impact on this team. If I can figure out my parser soon enough… and fix the million other bugs that’ll pop up as soon as my algorithm has the data it needs.
An hour passes, then another. Finally, everyone trickles out of the briefing room. Thomas is the first person to acknowledge me, and only long enough to remind me that I’m not being paid to sit around on my ass.
“I’m barely being paid in the first place,” I respond taciturnly.
“You’re an intern. Get shit done and your paycheck will improve.” He jerks his chin at me. “The mechanics could use some help finding all their tools—get on it.”