Chapter Twenty-One
Asher
She’s the first person on this team to believe in me. It’s incensing, humbling, and ridiculously fucking arousing.
I almost search out her hotel room so I can hopefully catch her unaware in nothing but a tank top and tiny shorts again, but manage to contain myself.
Last time I did that, my self-control was a product of my surprise and general enmity.
Now, she’s chipping away at my default anger.
Underneath it is… fuck knows. I don’t know if I would call it warmth, but certainly something softer than what I feel for the rest of the population.
We meet in the hotel lobby’s bar, amidst soaring marble ceilings, gold-veined columns, and geometric tilework in deep blues and whites that climb the walls like something out of a palace.
The floors are polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the warm glow of a massive chandelier that hangs in the atrium like a constellation made of crystal.
The air is cool and faintly perfumed, and floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the Manama skyline glittering against the dark water of the gulf beyond.
I’m used to traveling in luxury, but once in a while, even I get surprised. And with the intern here, I feel like I’m seeing everything in a new light.
The hotel bar sits just off the lobby, sunk a few steps below the main floor. The dark wood furnishings bask in the low amber lighting, and the leather seating areas are arranged to give the illusion of privacy. Thankfully, the bar is open until 3am, so we’ve got plenty of time.
The intern’s already seated at one of the tables along the back wall, right beneath a landscape painting.
My mood sours when I realize it’s a print of one of my father’s paintings.
I’ve done my damn best to keep him from my thoughts—just like he’s done to me for the majority of my life—but it’s difficult when his art is in high demand all around the world.
No matter how far I travel, I’m bound to bump into a reminder of him once or twice.
Victoria looks up from her tablet when I drop into the seat across from her. “Wipe that scowl off your face,” she says mildly. “If you plan to be an asshole, do it in your room.”
It takes effort, but I manage to relax my features and push thoughts of my fucked-up family into the back of my mind. Since when do I listen to her outside of the track?
Elio may be right for once in his miserable life. I might be in trouble.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, setting her tablet down. “So, the race.”
Right, that’s why I’m here. Not to ogle her or reminisce on my shitty childhood. “Yeah. The race.”
“My algorithm’s predictive modeling is limited.
Once it’s done and optimized, it’ll be able to tell you what your next two or even ten laps should look like.
Right now, it can only give suggestions based on what it’s seeing other drivers do at that moment and their behaviors during the race—and even then, the suggestions will be subjective. ”
“What do you mean, subjective?”
“It knows the track, so it’ll be able to recommend your next move based on its understanding of your strengths and weaknesses.
But it’ll give batch recommendations—it’ll be ultimately up to me to tell you what to do based on what I’m seeing happen on the track and how I perceive other driver’s behavior and general strategies. ”
I blink. “So… it’s ultimately up to an intern’s discretion?”
“It’ll always be up to human discretion, but there’s a big margin of error since it’s not finished yet.
Let me put it this way; right now, it has maybe a 40% effectiveness rate, mostly because it’s going to give me three to four suggestions at any given time.
I have to then predict what the rest of the race will look like, choose the best directive, and issue it.
So, if I’m on top of my game, me plus the program will have an 80-85% effectiveness. If I don’t… that drops significantly.”
“So yes,” I say drily. “It is ultimately up to an intern’s discretion.” I watch her for a few beats. “I told Ilya that if you aren’t in my ear tomorrow, I’m not driving. Are you up to the task?”
She swallows. For the first time, I see real fear in her eyes, true doubt. It makes a tide of protectiveness rise up inside of me, which quickly ebbs into a general feeling of what the fuck?
I’m not known for being protective. Possessive over things I consider to be mine, yes, but not possessive or protective over people. They’re too unreliable, too likely to fuck me over.
“Yes,” she says, but the word sounds more like a question.
I try to seal my lips tightly to prevent any platitudes from spilling out. I try, but I fail.
“Even if my odds of doing well are 40% overall, that’s better than the 0% I had going for me before.
” Shut up, idiot. But I can’t. When I see her eyes light up with hope, my stupid mouth keeps running, and it’s only as I say the words that I realize how much I mean them.
“I believe in you. And for the love of god, you better believe in yourself—otherwise we’ll both embarrass ourselves. ”
I glance at the clock behind the bar. It’s getting late, and we both have a very early morning. “So, go work on your numbers thingy. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She stares at me with wide eyes, looking very young and very afraid. Then, her fear melts away, and calm confidence replaces it as she rises to her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to be too mean to me during race day—or else my directives won’t be all that optimal.”
“Who says I’ll listen to them?” I taunt.
She halts and cocks her head to the side, examining me. Faint surprise flits through her expression. “Your face does.” She blinks slowly. “You will listen to me.”
I’d do a whole lot more than listen to her if I thought that’s what she wanted.
I’m too antsy to sleep well, so in the morning, I’m a special brand of asshole to everyone.
Well, almost everyone. Like a beaten dog, I am on my best fucking behavior around Victoria—and not just because she’s about to help me either do well or spectacularly fail.
It’s because there is no denying the fact that I like her.
Just before I go to the grid and buckle in, I catch her eyes.
She’s now been given a permanent seat at the pit wall; at least, for this race.
Ethan sits in a folding chair beside her, glaring at her hard enough to piss me the fuck off.
I’ll be having words with him after the race, even if I end up in P22.
She meets my eyes. Looks me over. Gives me a thumbs up and a tentative, wobbly smile. I can feel her nerves even from across the lane.
I give her a firm nod in return, fit my helmet over my head, and get buckled into my car.
The formation lap preceding the race flies by—I’m too lost in my thoughts to really experience it, even as I go through the standard motions of swerving the car, hitting brakes and accelerating, trying to get everything warmed up.
I take the lap to try and slow my breathing, to calm my racing heart, and push every thought in my mind unrelated to this car and this race flit out of my head.
All that exists is the track, the cars, me, and the intern whose directives I’ll actually listen to.
I think Ilya might be going over the car’s vitals with me, but I can’t quite tell. My mind’s bogged down.
All the cars line up back on the grid, and the first of the five red lights signaling the start of the race flicks on. Breathe. The second. Breathe. The third. Breathe.
Except I can’t fucking breathe. I’m not filled with the usual, restless undercurrent of anger I’ve become accustomed to—I’m filled with anxiety, because I actually want to do well.
By the time the fifth light comes on, I’m close to hyperventilating. What if I’m not as good as I think I am? What if my contract doesn’t get renewed? What if—
“Deep breaths.” Victoria’s voice floats through my helmet and sinks into my head, overtaking the screaming doubt with a tranquil calm. “Everything’s set. You’re ready. You know what you’re doing.”
She’s giving me a pep talk—and all of this is available to broadcasters. I should be furious that she’s stepping so far out of line, but instead, I’m incredibly goddamn grateful. Because my next breath is calm and steady. I feel prepared.
The lights go out. All of the cars surge forward—slowly at first, but they rapidly gain speed as we pull out onto the track. The force slams me back into the seat as over twenty cars launch off the grid and funnel towards the first corner.
Immediately, Junior Cub’s first driver tries for an attack. Dante Moreno, placed just after me in qualifying—it’s no wonder he’d try to knock me off early.
“Defend,” Victoria says silkily.
I swerve to the side, feeling my stomach slosh with the rapid movement at such a high speed, blocking him from overtaking. As ever, there isn’t a dull moment on the track—not even on the first lap.
I manage to incrementally gain speed, until I have Thorsten’s second car in my sight, just before we hit the fourth turn. The driver, Finn Ulrich, has never gotten along very well with me—we’ve battled in many races, though not for quite some time.
I really did fuck up these last few years. I missed so many opportunities, both to fail and succeed, because I didn’t want to try.
“Attack available on next straight,” Victoria murmurs. “Overtake. Wait for my call on X-mode.”
X-mode flattens the rear wing and steeply angles the front wings—it’ll give me a damn good shot at overtaking. The only reason I wouldn’t be able to use it is if I’m not within a second of Ulrich.
As soon as I pull my car out of the turn, I hit the overtake button.
The speed flattens me to the seat even more and crushes the air from my lungs, but that’s nothing compared to the stomach-dropping sensation when Victoria green-lights X-mode.
Ulrich’s car becomes nothing but a blip on the goddamn radar as I fly by, resisting the urge to flip the bird as I go.