Chapter Thirty-Six
Asher
One thing I didn’t quite account for is how much dating Victoria would benefit our team work.
With Victoria on my side, it will be.
It’s not a bad rank, but there’s no improvement from my last race, which pisses me off. Now, I only have two races to jump at least three places.
Considering the way competition on the midfield has ramped up, I need to prioritize breaking top 10 in the qualifiers. And I need to figure out how to do that with my shitty car.
Fuck.
“We have a press conference lined up with—"
“No.” I cut Ilya off when he accosts me in the garage, right after the race. “Not today.” I look around, trying to glimpse where Victoria went. Spending time with her right now sounds much better than dealing with the fucking press.
“Yes,” Ilya snaps. “Today. Ten minutes.”
“Why?” I growl. Where the hell is Victoria? And since when did she become the person I want to see when I’m stressed?
“Have you forgotten our deal? Or that I’m still pissed off over the fact that you decided to start a fight with Elio in public?
” Ilya steps forward, crowding my space.
Anger winds me tight, and I feel a rumble of warning bubble up my chest, but I trap it.
I can’t risk frustrating him more when I need an upgrade package from him.
And I do need it—badly. Even if I hold midfield for the rest of the season, my prior years’ performance will be considered when I get offers. I need a podium if I want to be taken seriously, and I can’t get to a podium with the fucking car I’m stuck with.
“Fine,” I hiss.
“And there’s a charity gala on Wednesday you’ll be attending.” Ilya’s glare is hard and unyielding. He won’t budge on this. If I want a better car, I have to be his show-horse.
“Do I have a plus-one?” Why the hell am I asking? There’s only one person I’d bring, and if I do bring her, it’d send a message to the public that she doesn’t want to send yet.
Personally, I’d be fine screaming that we’re together from the rooftops. I’ve never been serious about a woman before, so I thought that the depth of my certainty that Victoria and I will get and stay together would frighten me… but it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Like a complete inevitability.
Now, I just have to get her on board with my line of thinking.
“No, but she’ll be there.”
I should be far more worried about Ilya knowing who I’m referring to without me having to clarify, but I’m more focused on the idea that Victoria will be attending with someone else. Someone who isn’t me.
Unacceptable.
“With who?”
“As a representative of new blood on the team. And as someone whom Sterling, who will also be there, has taken a liking to.” Ilya’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment or ask the question that would put me in deep water. “Get yourself cleaned up and be nice to the press.”
I do one of the things he asked—wrangle my appearance into something that could pass for semi-human.
As for the conference, I give three-word answers max.
I already know that the press doesn’t like me; I will never be wanted by the media like Elio.
I’ve come to terms with that and see no reason to make great efforts to change it.
Ilya obviously isn’t happy with my performance—something he communicates with a glare as we’re leaving—but I don’t particularly care.
I don’t even bother stopping by my room when I return to the hotel. Instead, I go straight to Victoria’s. I have no way of knowing that she’ll be here—she could still be doing cleanup with the crew. Somehow, though, I can sense her. I feel her behind the polished door even before she opens it.
“Hey.” Her eyes light up when she sees me, sparkling with something that I hope is affection.
“Where were you after the race?” I snap.
Her brows furrow, and the sparkle in her eyes dim. Shit.
“Cleaning up with the rest of the crew,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I missed your press conference.”
An awkward silence ensues. I should fill it by apologizing for snapping at her, but instead, what comes out is, “Do you want to go to a gala with me?”
Her eyes brighten again. Just as fast, they dim. “I… can’t.”
“Not officially.” I hide an eye roll. If I’m going to make an effort with the media, even a reluctant one, people are going to find out about us soon enough.
Victoria’s smart enough to know this. “I know you’re going to represent the team.
I’ll be there too. Do you want to…” I search for the right word.
Appetizers will be served at the gala, and the catering at black tie events is usually decent, so we probably won’t be hungry afterwards. “Get dessert after?”
That sounds way more explicit than I intended, and judging by the flush in Victoria’s cheeks, she agrees.
“Sure,” she says. “As long as we keep it low-key.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
She clears her throat. “I’m, uh… I’m working on my algorithm.” A sardonic smile flits across her lips. “Like always. Do you want to come in?”
If anyone else asked me to sit with them while they work on insanely boring technical stuff, I’d laugh in their face. With Victoria, I’ll take any opportunity I can get.
Including accosting her when she’s trying to drink a smoothie in peace and disrupting her work-time.
“Sure, but it’s not a date, so I’m not fucking you.”
Why the hell can’t I be decent for once?
Instead of getting offended or embarrassed, a serene smile crosses Victoria’s lips. “You promised me dates, pretty-boy. Sitting next to me while I code won’t make the cut. I expect flowers, and chocolate—dark chocolate, not the disgusting bullshit we get in America. I also—”
I can’t help myself. I lean forward and press my lips to hers, cutting off her useless rant. Maybe she thinks I’m incapable of doing things right—I am literally famous for my fuckups—but for her, I’ll approximate perfection.
She melts into my kiss, even though it’s a soft brush of my lips against hers. All of her delicious sass slithers away, receding in one fell swoop. She leans forward, twisting her hands into my shirt, and tries to deepen our kiss.
I pull back. Her expression is adorably grumpy as her eyes slowly open. “What—”
“Can’t distract you too much. You’ve got some work to do, right?” I slip into her room and shut the door behind me. “I’ll order room service.”
I’m still not over the jetlag from going to Jeddah when I’m hit with a new round of it coming back to the US.
I only have one day between arrival and the gala—which I know will consist of a bunch of immensely stuffy people all eating expensive food and drinking expensive champagne while pretending they give a fuck about baby turtles, or whatever it is they’re donating to.
They’ll only be there for the networking and tax write-off.
I’m only there for Victoria.
This will be our third date—not the gala, but whatever we do afterwards. Which means I’ll be in the clear to invite her over to my place, and…
No, don’t think about it. If I think about being hours away from exploring Victoria’s every curve with my hand and mapping her body with my mouth, I’ll tent the front of my slacks. They’re tailored, so the evidence of my arousal will be obvious to anyone who sees me.
I manage to keep my hard-on deflated through the drive to the venue—the best hotel in the city. It looks the part, too; a limestone facade with gold lighting it up from below. The entrance is columned and a circular driveway is already clogged with black cars and valets in matching uniforms.
The ballroom where the gala’s being hosted has a vaulted ceiling, marble floors, and the sort of obscene opulence that screams wealth.
Crystal chandeliers throw light across the walls, and enormous flower arrangements sit on every surface.
Staff in black glide between well-dressed guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
All of my self-control flies out of the window when I see her. She’s the first thing I see when I walk into the gala.
Victoria stands in a makeshift pavilion near the entrance of the room. Objectively, I know there are other people here. Other women here, some of them pretty.
But they couldn’t hold a candle to her.
Elegant silk drapes tastefully over her slim form in a waterfall of pale green.
It would be a conservative dress, if not for the slit snaking up one of her legs, showing a bold flash of her upper thigh.
Her dark hair is pinned half-up in an elaborate twist, and the bottom half cascades down her shoulders, teasing the V-neck of her gown.
She turns her back to me, and I catch a glimpse of the back of the ensemble—which is held together by a collection of thin strings.
If the dress were two inches lower, it’d show the curve of her ass.
Desire and anger wage a war for supremacy within me. I’m half a moment away from turning into a caveman and dragging Victoria out of here… when I catch a familiar pair of grey eyes staring at me from over her shoulder.
Hunter Aster. The man I saw her with at a restaurant what feels like a lifetime ago. A well-known sociopath in the business world, and apparently, her brother.
His gaze is sharp, analytical, and predatory, almost like a hawk’s. His stare leaves little doubt that he knows who I am and suspects that there’s something going on between me and his sister. Something tells me that, if he doesn’t approve of me, I might have a problem on my hands.
He does not look like he approves of me.
I don’t know if I should go over there and interrupt them, or—
“Asher.” William whoever-the-fuck, the investor I happened to be having dinner with when I first saw Victoria and Hunter, smiles at me. He managed to sneak up on me while my attention was firmly glued to the dilemma in the pavilion.
“William.” I turn to face him, forcing a smile that should pass as semi-friendly. If you want an upgrade package, play nice. “How is your wife?”
“Good, good,” he replies warmly. “She’s in London with our daughter—they managed to secure an invitation for dinner with your father. Meredith is simply beside herself…”
My father. Even though I’m in a completely different industry from him, I can’t seem to escape his ghost—or his shadow. No matter what I do, there will always be a pretentious, stuck-up investor who sees me as the son of a famous painter, not as a premier Formula One driver.
Just as I’m about to utter a rebuke, I catch a glimpse of Elio across the room, who’s chatting up Sterling. His biggest sponsor.
I need to play the game. If I recall correctly, William’s never been closed off to direct sponsorships, but he doesn’t quite favor Elio enough to sponsor him—and I’ve never made myself a favorable option, either.
No matter how much it makes me want to put a fist through the wall, now’s as good a time as any to change that.
“Speaking of my father, have I ever had a chance to talk to you about my driving career’s tie to the precise chaos of any artform?”
“No.” William looks deeply intrigued. “I’d love to hear about it. Let’s get a drink at the bar…”
Twenty minutes and a double whisky later, William’s decidedly warmed up to me, and has even started calling me son. My reflex is to tell him to go fuck himself, that I’m nobody’s “son”, but I let it slide. I need him far more than he needs me.
I imagine gaining a sponsor might endear me to Ilya, maybe even enough to make him forgive the Elio incident.
Speaking of Elio, that asshole begins winding his way through the crowd and towards me.
William squeezes my shoulders. My jaw tightens. “I’ll have my people get in touch with your manager. I’d love to talk again soon regarding Gaston business, and your career.”
Speaking of my manager, I should probably unblock him and stop ghosting him.
I’m now firmly back in touch with Gio, but I’ve been dodging him for half a year.
Now’s the time to change that, especially if I’m about to pick up a major sponsor.
William might not look or sound like much, but he’s the owner of a huge chain of cleaning products that are featured in every imaginable store, from grocery to Costco.
I have other smaller sponsors, of course, but none that could stack up to him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Elio growls instead of giving me a reasonable greeting. “This is my event.”
“Really?” I twirl my empty glass in my hands. “Here, I thought everyone showed up for the tax write-off. And the baby turtles.”
“You know what I mean,” Elio hisses. “You’re not supposed to be here. I do these events—you sulk at home like a fucking loser.”
“Not anymore.” I meet his defiant stare with a bored one of my own. “You can try to push me out, I suppose. Try to make a scene, or whine to Ilya. But wait.” I smile. “Ilya’s the one who sent me here.”
Anger flashes through Elio’s eyes when he realizes that I'm going to start getting similar opportunities to him. And now that I’ve woken the fuck up and made some decisions, I’ll actually start taking them.
Elio’s only ever seen me at my worst, or occasionally when I’m mediocre. Now that I’m trying to bring my A-game, he’ll have the option of either getting on board or suffering. He only got the position of first driver because I wouldn’t pull my head out of my ass and make a real effort.
His contract’s also up for renewal this season. If he doesn’t step up, I’ll leave him in the dust—and all of his shiny sponsorships won’t save him then. At best, he’ll become second driver somewhere else.
I’m no longer going to actively piss him off, but I offered my olive branch and he turned it down. Ball’s in his court now.
“Why now?” he mutters furiously. “It’s been years. Why are you changing now?” When I was so close to being done with you, he doesn’t add.
My eyes stray back to the pavilion. Victoria’s still there and still with her brother. Sterling’s there, as well—the three of them seem deeply engrossed in conversation. Elio follows my line of sight, and a sardonic, angry chuckle leaves his lips. “Over a woman. Pathetic.”
“Careful, Elio,” I drawl. “Keep it up, and your attitude will give mine a run for its money.”
I clink my empty glass against his, stand, and find someone else relevant to chat up. Getting into it with Elio only lit the fire under my ass to do what’s in my blood: be #1.