Chapter Forty-Three
Victoria
“What did you do to him?”
I’m packing up for the day when Amanda accosts me. Her arms are folded across her chest, her stare is accusing, and I feel about two inches tall under her scrutiny.
Oh fuck, did she hear me and Asher in the maintenance closet the other day? God, I hope not. I’d never live down the embarrassment.
I had flaming cheeks for the rest of that workday, and have been blushing every time I’ve seen Asher since.
His hand around my throat, his rough voice calling me deliciously degrading names, his cock slicing in and out of me…
“Who?” I ask, a bit too nervously.
“Elio,” she says “And Asher, for that matter. They’re going out to dinner, together.”
Oh. Oh! That strikes me as fantastic news, but Amanda looks concerned more than anything. “Is that… a bad thing?”
“It’s the most non-Asher thing I’ve ever heard.” Her accusing stare doesn’t budge. “Did you make a deal with the devil to give him a personality makeover?”
“Not that I’m aware,” I say uncertainly.
Has Asher really been that bad over the years?
Actually, the answer there is an obvious one: probably.
He was a total jerk to me for weeks, but that was a short stretch of time.
If the team’s had to deal with him for being so mean for years…
I can see how his efforts to turn a new leaf might be seen as startling.
“Did aliens abduct him and give him a lobotomy?”
My lips twitch. “I haven’t seen any light beams or flying saucers.”
“Then what the hell has gotten into him?” Amanda demands. “This can’t be… real, Victoria. He’s… he’s—”
“Trying to change?” I supply.
“He must be faking it!” Amanda snaps. Her expression crumples into a frown, and her gaze takes on a knowing edge. Oh, shit.
“Unless…” she muses, placing her hands on her hips. “Unless he has something, or someone to change for.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I say breezily.
“Uh-huh.” Amanda’s tone calls me a liar even louder than her stare does. “So. How long?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually, there are two lengths I’m curious about,” she muses. “The length of your relationship, and the length of his cock. I imagine one is much larger than the other.”
I sigh, flicking my gaze toward the ceiling. “You’re not even the first person to ask me that,” I mutter at the bright lights.
“So you admit you know!” Amanda screeches victoriously.
I glance around the room to make sure no one’s hearing her admittedly accurate conspiracies.
Almost everyone’s left, save for Oliver, who’s…
is he eating from another pink bakery box?
So much for taking his doctor’s orders. At least he’s not bargaining with me to bake him dozens upon dozens of cookies.
“Can you keep your voice down?” I ask tersely. “I don’t know anything. My response to all of your questions is no comment.”
“You’re a really bad liar,” she observes, her voice even louder. “Come on, tell me.” It lowers to a whisper. “I’ve been dying to know. I’d never tap that, but I’ve wondered. He gives off major big dick energy. Like, huge. So?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“We’re not in court. Tell me, or I’ll start screaming the question.”
I do the only thing I can think of to extract myself from this immensely awkward situation: I walk away.
I want to catch Ilya before he leaves, anyway.
Amanda follows after me, still talking. “It’s gotta be more than eight.
Nine? Ten? Twelve?” she winces. “No, you wouldn’t be walking straight if it was twelve. You wouldn’t be walking, period—”
I turn around and slap a hand over her mouth. “Please shut up,” I beg. “For the love of everything, please.”
She slowly lowers my hand. “Give me a number, and I will. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Will you leave me alone if I do?” I ask dejectedly.
She considers it for a beat. “For now, probably. So?”
I bite my bottom lip. “I didn’t count. But walking straight takes effort.” A lot of effort.
“I fucking knew it!” she whisper-squeals. “Oh my god, that’s so exciting! I knew it ever since the club. You two were inevitable. I just figured it’d take you way longer to get here. So, more than eight inches?”
“I’ll see you on the flight tomorrow,” I say impassively, and make my way towards Ilya’s office. Thankfully, this time she doesn’t follow me.
I only pray that she’ll actually keep her mouth shut. Amanda’s a huge gossip, but she doesn’t strike me as malicious. If she were to slip up, I don’t think it’d be intentional.
But Asher and I are being obvious, despite my best efforts.
Which means that letting the public know about our…
whatever our relationship is needs to happen soon.
Like, in the next few weeks, before we’re found out.
But first, I need to ask exactly what we are.
We’re exclusive, yes. We go on dates. He gives me mind-melting orgasms.
But does that make us boyfriend and girlfriend?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts as I slow to a stop in front of Ilya’s office. The door is ajar, and I hear papers shuffling inside. I knock quietly on it. “Doctor, may I have a moment?”
While Ilya isn’t a stickler to honorifics, he is a PhD, and I want to butter him up ahead of my ask.
“Come in,” he calls out. I crack the door open wider, clutching the strap of my bag. “I only have a few minutes before an investor dinner. What is it?”
“I was wondering about the upgrade package for Asher.” I step in and motion to the armchair before the desk. “May I?”
Ilya considers me for a moment before acquiescing with a nod. “Please.”
He waits until I seat myself and set my bag down. “I assume you and Asher have discussed the deal he struck with me?”
“He has,” I nod. “And, as you can see, he’s making excellent progress towards meeting your terms.”
Ilya acknowledges this with a slight incline of his head, dropping into his office chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “He is. But let’s not forget, he has two races to make it into top 10, or his upgrade package may be delayed… indefinitely.”
Believe me, I fucking know. He and I are both working overtime to make sure he achieves his goal.
“I know. He’s in the simulator constantly, practicing and improving so that he’ll break top 10. I wholeheartedly believe in him.”
“I don’t care for your beliefs, Victoria. I care for results.” Ilya’s tone is hard. He won’t bend on this point, and I don’t expect him to.
“Of course. I’m here to ask if I can see the mockup of the upgrade package you’re planning to deliver, so I can start analyzing how the new car will impact his race strategy. Where it’ll be a benefit, and anything he’ll have to adjust to.” My tone has a slight challenge beneath it.
Ilya tilts his head to the side. “What makes you think we have mockups ready?”
“Common sense,” I reply. “That is, if you’re the strategist I’ve come to believe you are.”
Ilya’s eyes glitter with warning. “Be careful, Miss Linden,” he says softly. “I’m fond of you because of your work, but you only get so much leeway.”
“Consider this meeting me calling on any leeway I get.” I reach into my bag and draw out a swath of papers tucked neatly into a folder. “In the case that your belief in Asher has not been strong enough to merit mockups, I’d like to submit some of my own for your consideration.”
Ilya gives the file an amused look, then meets my eyes as he opens it slowly, as if he’s doing me a favor.
In reality, I’ve spent half of my nights doing him a massive fucking favor.
I’ve been sketching, modeling, and testing potential upgrades on Asher’s car, using my algorithm and the many years I spent in a mechanic shop with an F1 fan as guides.
“You’re a race engineering support intern, not—” Ilya’s words die on his lips as he glances down at the first page.
His mouth shuts, teeth clacking together.
He reads over the first page. Then the second, third, and fourth.
Each page has an in-depth description of recommended changes and their reasoning, accompanied by sketches that can inform mechanics working on the car and be submitted to the FIA—the governing body of F1—for consideration and approval.
After several minutes, Ilya looks up. “How long have you been working on this?”
I don’t see how that’s relevant, but… “A week, give or take.”
“This would’ve taken our team months,” he murmurs. “How did you do this in a week?”
I spent the best times of my childhood in a sweaty shop with a man who taught me the ins and outs of every part that makes up a car. A man who was a gigantic F1 fan, and an engineer himself. But, to put it in terms the PhD sitting across from me can understand… “I studied engineering at MIT.”
“Your thesis is data and physics geared. I assumed that was your educational focus, not this.” He taps the papers.
“My undergrad was mechanical engineering, with leeway for me to design my own concentration. I went for performance systems, instrumentation, and practical application of physics. My graduate degree built on it.” I lean forward, and show the sort of impertinence that could get me fired when I tap my designs.
“That is optimized for everything—and I mean everything. It’s informed by hundreds of thousands of data sets that both I and my program have combed through.
You will not get a better plan in time.” I stand up.
“Shall I move forward with training my program on the assumption that this will end up being Asher’s car for the rest of the season? ”
“You haven’t already?” Ilya arches an eyebrow.
Of course I have. Ilya would be dumb not to at least consider my sketches, and he is far from stupid. “Not without approval.”
“If Asher continues to meet my terms, and if he breaks top ten either in Miami or Montreal…” Ilya glances down at the designs. “These would be an excellent fit for his car.”
I tamp down my rush of excitement, reminding myself it’s premature. It will still be ridiculously difficult to get Asher in the top 10, but based on what we’ve been testing recently, it’s theoretically doable under the right conditions.
Miami experiences sweltering heatwaves and terrible weather patterns during setup week. It’s either blazing hot or storming every day, which makes being on the track hazardous and depressing.
I don’t get to spend any time in the city or do anything fun; whenever I’m not in the paddock or garage for setup, I’m in my hotel room, hiding from the terrible weather and working.
Asher and I barely see each other for several days, though he does visit my room late one night and fucks me so hard I nearly pass out.
The tricky part about the insanely unpredictable weather in Florida is having to plan strategies around every eventuality. From tyre to battery to racing maneuvers, things become a lot more convoluted when Mother Nature doesn’t play nice.
Free practices on Friday go very well—Asher executes everything he’s been practicing in the simulator flawlessly, and Elio sees a notable improvement, as well.
Saturday qualifying ends with Asher in P11 and Elio at P15. I count that as a resounding success.
Sunday is when everything goes to hell in a handbasket.