Chapter 7
JACK
My performance coach, Georgie, chuckles into her pint glass. ‘Try and look like you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.’
‘What?’ My head snaps up. ‘Don’t talk shite. I’m happy to be out with you.’
‘No you’re not, but don’t worry, I don’t take it personally anymore.’
‘I’m just tired. Pulling off a,’ I straighten my collar, ‘“near perfect performance”, as the gaffer put it, can really take it out of you, you know?’
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. ‘Stop being a cocky shit. It’s good for you to be seen at afterparties—’
‘But Tenzing’s afterparty? They’ve scored zero points so far this season.’
‘I know, but the FIA like drivers showing face, and they like you supporting the smaller teams even more.’
‘Did you become a publicist when I wasn’t looking?’
She ignores me. ‘What else would you be doing right now?’
‘Er… flying home, watching Breaking Bad, eating salty plane food—’
‘For the millionth time, there are other shows, Jack.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
She shakes her head.
When she doesn’t banter back, I say quietly, ‘I’m not lonely, George.’ It doesn’t come out as lightly as I want it to. The decibel doesn’t help.
I don’t know what made me say it. It’s not like I want a deep chat standing between a margarita ice fountain and vodka luge, collecting celebratory back slaps from strangers like I used to collect Pokémon cards.
We’re not deep chat people, unless you count: ‘Jack, tell me again why kale goes against your morals’.
I just feel like she worries about me, and she doesn’t need to. It’s been two and a half years, for Christ’s sake.
Georgie baulks. ‘I’m not—That’s… not what I was insinuating.’
‘You were.’
She folds her arms. ‘Wasn’t.’
‘Ah, but I know you so well.’
She leans forward to whisper in my ear, ‘I know you better,’ and marches off with both our beers.
‘Oi!’
She grins over her shoulder, heading towards Kurt’s performance coach. What a mother hen.
Despite the bar being a tight squeeze, I notice a familiar luscious blonde at the far end.
The bar’s lit in Tenzing’s trademark ice blue and it reflects off her, making her curly hair glow.
The straps of her dress are as thin as dental floss, and I imagine snapping them with my teeth and watching the material cascade down her body.
She’s talking to one of the Tenzing drivers. An interesting choice since he’s an entitled knob, not to mention a pathetic driver. Maybe she’s into guys who cause chaos. Shrapnel could do it for her.
I’m about to leave her to it – probably for the best anyway – when I notice he’s sloping towards her, and she’s leaning away. I’m no one’s knight in shining armour but my feet are marching towards them of their own accord.
‘Beauty and brains, eh?’ he’s saying as I stop around the corner.
What. A. Line.
‘Sure,’ Minnie replies, like she’s also unimpressed.
‘Some race today, huh?’ he tries again. I’ll give him points for persistence. That’s more than he won on track.
‘Not for you,’ she cuts back.
I suppress a snort. Girl’s got sass. I like it.
He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, unsure how to spin it in a way that’ll flatter him. It’s unspinnable, mate. You took out a Leone and a safety car.
‘Well, the track was…’ He peters out. The track wasn’t the issue. The track demands extreme precision in shifting, braking and steering, but it’s doable for someone with, you know, skill.
‘Where are you from?’ he pivots. ‘Your accent is so—’
Time for him to go. I ready to step into view when she stops me by saying to him, ‘Sorry, did you want something?’
My jaw falls open. This woman.
A group of girls are edging close to me, talking loudly about my race. They must think my ears don’t work because they keep looking over their shoulders to make sure I’m listening. I know what they want, but I pretend to be on the phone instead.
When I can finally tune back into Minnie’s conversation, Casanova’s walking away, his expression as confused as his ice sculpture behind the bar. Georgie will die when I tell her.
‘That. Was. Cold,’ I say.
If Minnie’s surprised to see me, she doesn’t let on. She looks indifferent, but I can see she’s itching to smile. ‘Have you come to hit on me too?’
Woah. I was not expecting that.
I hold my hands up. ‘I wouldn’t dare. I’m not half brave enough.’
Her I-eat-drivers-for-breakfast act falters. ‘I wasn’t that bad… was I?’
‘You were brutal, Roberts.’
‘I wasn’t brutal.’ She seems to replay it in her mind. ‘I was polite!’
‘Sure you were.’
‘Did you come with anyone?’ she deflects.
I rest my elbow against the bar. ‘The inference being I’m a loser with no friends?’
She strikes my shoulder and it goes tingly. ‘No!’
The barman passes me a beer with a wink. God dammit he makes me look so cool. I smile in thanks and point to Minnie’s empty margarita glass. He nods and starts hunting for tequila.
‘I’m here with my performance coach,’ I say before she can make a big deal out of the free drink.
‘Oh yes, paying someone to be with you is much classier.’
I’m laughing when a perfectly manicured hand slides onto my bicep. ‘Congratulations on today,’ says a woman I’ve never seen before. Probably a model. They usually are.
I thank her and return my attention to Minnie, who’s looking more and more awkward by the second.
The intruder doesn’t want to leave but doesn’t know how to stay, so we’re all suspended in limbo.
I’d have slipped her a crisp ￡50 note if I knew Minnie would react like this.
She looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole, and it’s taking everything I have not to cry with laughter.
At last, right before Minnie implodes, we’re left alone.
‘You ok there?’ I give her a playful nudge, and regret it when she wobbles like she might fall over.
‘That was beyond awful.’ She takes her fresh frozen margarita off the bar and gulps it down.
‘I thought it was funny.’
‘Of course you did.’ She glances up at the heavens, but I can see her smile returning. ‘Yes, congrats, Bowden.’
‘Thank you, thank you. How did you find my race? Boring?’
‘You know what? I’m just going to ignore you because you can’t be reasoned with.’ She pretends to focus on the barman flipping a cocktail shaker.
I lean close to her ear and that gorgeous scent washes over me. ‘I know a way to make you stop ignoring me.’
Her throat works. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Mhm.’
With a hand on her lower back, I guide her away from the bar towards a darkened corner, far from the speakers and thrusting.
Lads’ eyes follow us as we move through the crowd.
I bet she’s a favourite when she walks through the paddock.
The thought makes me hold her tighter, and I immediately slacken my hand.
I don’t like feeling possessive. It’s not me.
I focus on how warm her body is beneath the black satin, and I imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers across her naked back. To press my lips—
‘What’s this mysterious ploy then?’ she asks.
I put my beer on the table. ‘You know everything about me, and I didn’t know anything about you, and that wasn’t really fair, now, was it?’
Her forehead wrinkles. ‘I don’t think—’
‘So I did some Googling.’
‘Oh god,’ she breathes, and it shoots straight to my dick.
I clear my throat. ‘You’re not the only one who can have a binder, you know.’
‘What did you learn?’
A whole lot of things. I tongue my cheek. ‘You have lovely straight teeth.’
A pause. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘I didn’t know you could get colours in train tracks.’
She covers her eyes with both hands. ‘It was a trend! I was faddy.’
‘I also really dug the glasses. They screamed “I read faerie smut when I’m alone”.’
‘How the hell do you know what faerie smut is?’
My smile widens. ‘I know lots of things.’
‘Be careful what you say, I still wear glasses. They just have significantly thinner frames,’ she mumbles.
‘I wasn’t kidding, you looked great in them.’ I didn’t know I had a thing for glasses but apparently I do.
Googling her wasn’t a conscious decision, but before I knew it, I was two hours and eighteen articles in. All her socials are private so I had to do things the old-fashioned way. It seems I love torturing myself.
The DJ starts mashing up Dua Lipa with Chris Brown’s ‘Post to Be’, and Minnie freezes.
‘What is it?’ I ask innocently, like the guiltless bystander I am.
She points up. ‘It’s Chris Brown!’
‘I think you’ll find it’s Omarion.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s still a Chris Brown song.’
‘No DJ would play Chris Brown. He’s problematic, don’t you know?’ I swig my beer to keep from smiling.
‘You requested this.’
I recoil. ‘I would never!’
‘You’re a terrible liar, Jack Bowden.’
‘Offt, she full-named me.’
‘The scales have completely tipped in your favour; you know way more about me than I know about you,’ she says. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
I swirl my beer. ‘I really want an ice sculpture of myself. Maybe in that same pose Ross’ is doing over there, where he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe.’
She tries not to laugh and fails. ‘And here was me thinking you were going to admit to having a wife and three beautiful but slightly feral children.’
I snort and yield a step. ‘Absolutely not. I’d rather hand Micah the Championship.’
She takes in my reaction evenly. ‘Commitment-phobe?’
‘What gave it away?’
‘Takes one to know one.’ She taps her glass against mine. ‘Did your parents have a horrendous divorce too?’
I try to smile, but I’m not sure it’s convincing. ‘Something like that.’