Chapter 23
MINNIE
The pipes’ burbling ends abruptly. I can just about hear the hand towel being pulled off its rack, and I pull the covers even more tightly around me, facing firmly in the other direction. As the ensuite door opens, my heart’s beating like I’m in a spin class.
If he asks me to leave, I’ll leave, but I don’t think he will. It’s two in the morning, and although Monaco’s not riddled with crime, I don’t feel like traversing the streets alone or getting a cab looking sexed up. Also, I’ve taken my contacts out now so might as well get comfy.
The bed sinks behind me and there’s a fresh warmth under the covers.
‘Sorry for getting cross,’ Jack murmurs.
I try to breathe heavier. I’m definitely getting a UTI for this but my pride’s worth more.
‘I know you’re not asleep.’
Take the hint.
He seems to because it goes quiet. It’s really quiet, actually. I can’t hear the city at all. The soundproofing must be amazing.
‘A while back, it was my birthday,’ Jack starts.
I don’t particularly feel like putting my listening ears on after his outburst, but it looks like I have no choice.
‘Quite a shit birthday, to be honest. I had a long day at work; I was forced to do crap I really didn’t want to do.
The next day I collapsed. Went to hospital.
Got a pretty bleak diagnosis. The doctor said I had years – like, two or three – to live. ’
WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?
He’s telling me this now?
Naked in bed?
After everything that’s happened?
‘I panicked, and for a while I was crazy angry, but mostly I was scared. I needed money fast to make sure my family was taken care of,’ he continues, sans the gravitas one uses when they’re talking about their terminal illness. ‘My sister’s husband’s a DEA agent, and—’
Wha— Is he serious right now? ‘Are you explaining the pilot of Breaking Bad?’ I turn over to find him grinning.
‘Very quick! I hadn’t even mentioned meth yet.’
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
His smile widens. ‘Made you talk.’
Turns out I can’t stay mad at this nutcase. ‘You’re a nightmare.’
He sobers up. ‘Sorry for earlier.’
‘You raised your voice at me.’
‘I didn’t raise my voice.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘I…’ He wants to argue but thinks better of it. ‘I’m sorry. For all of it. Can we hug it out?’
‘No.’
The duvet shifts with his shrugging shoulders. ‘I’m a good hugger.’
‘I’m not a physical touch person,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself.
An optimistic part of me hopes he’ll see it as banter, but he quietens like he’s reading all the way into it – everything I’ve said, even more I haven’t. Why does he care? It’s not like this knowledge will be useful to him after tonight.
‘I didn’t mean it like…’ I peter off. What’s the use of damage control? It’s the truth.
He still isn’t saying anything. It’s eating me alive.
I don’t know if it’s the darkness or this sleepover being a one-time event or the fact that he continues to be silent, but I feel… like I want to explain myself. The idea of him thinking I’m some poor little undersexed lamb isn’t sitting well.
‘I have intimacy issues,’ I whisper, staring up at the ceiling.
He’s so quiet it’s like I’m talking to myself.
I can barely hear him breathe. ‘I’ve never orgasmed with another person in the room.
’ There’s a sharp inhale. ‘Not even from foreplay, so what you did in Italy was insanely impressive. I honestly didn’t think my body could do it.
‘And it’s not that the guys I’ve slept with don’t want to finish me off.
I don’t let them. No one’s been perceptive enough to notice, I guess.
And it’s not that I don’t enjoy sex – I do, really I do – I just…
’ I play with the duvet, ‘get so in my head. Sometimes I even dissociate. It’s easier to focus on making sure the guy’s having a good time. ’
‘But they leave you hanging,’ Jack utters, like he can’t fathom the idea.
‘I prefer it that way. I’d worry that I look cringe or sound cringe, or I’m doing something wrong, then it would drag out, then I’d stress that he’s thinking it’s taking too long, by this point coming would be impossible, and it’d be a giant waste of time for everyone.’
‘You have such weird views about what men think.’
I almost spell it out for him but stop myself. It’s a small hop, skip and jump to daddy issues. He’s capable of getting there himself.
‘I don’t like being like this. I wish I was more open and affectionate, and sex was easy for me.
I think… I think I could come during sex,’ I muse.
‘One day. And get used to affection and touch and all that, maybe even grow to like it. I just need…’ Someone willing to be patient with me, but that’s obviously not him. ‘Never mind.’
‘What?’
‘It’s ok.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this? It’s not a crime, you know; you just need to communicate,’ he says, like it’s the plainest thing in the world.
‘I’ve never told anyone before. If I haven’t told previous partners, why would I tell a one-night stand?’ It’s also mortally embarrassing, but I keep that one to myself.
Jack’s stumped. He opens his mouth to argue and closes it again. My reasoning’s pretty airtight.
‘Also, our one-night stand needs to be kept a secret,’ I add.
‘I know, I know, journalists can’t have sexual ties to drivers.’
‘It’s not that.’ I mean, he’s not wrong – Brian already thinks I’m a nepo baby, I don’t need him thinking I slept my way here too. ‘There’s a thing with my mum. She can’t find out.’
His brow creases. ‘What—’
‘Surely it’s not good for your image either. The teams are very touchy about their reputations these days.’
His cocky swagger’s back. ‘Roberts, I’m Pagari’s golden boy.
At the very least, I honour media commitments.
At the most, I won them two World Championships.
So long as I’m not jeopardising my third title or brewing meth in a caravan in the New Mexico desert,’ wow, this boy really loves Breaking Bad, ‘I have a pretty long rein.’
I sigh and he laughs.
‘It would cause havoc, wouldn’t it? It’s probably not explicitly forbidden in your contract but fraternising with journalists is far from ideal,’ I press.
He sighs in defeat. ‘Not ideal, no.’
‘I could make you reveal insider secrets.’
He lifts his jaw. ‘Good luck. I’m very stealthy.’
I roll onto my stomach and prod his chest. ‘You’d be surprised what I can get out of you.’
His teeth glint in the streetlights filtering through the window. ‘Give me your worst, Roberts.’
‘Tell me what you think of the other drivers.’
He smiles down at his hands. ‘They’re all very talented and have Championship futures.’
I give him another poke and he pokes back. ‘Stop with the PR crap. Come on.’
‘Only if you cuddle me,’ he says. ‘Compromise.’
I can probably manage that. ‘Fine.’
He opens his arms but makes no move to fold me in, leaving it all up to me.
Dickhead. I feel a spike of discomfort as I settle against his naked chest and fix my arms at his sides.
It’s not a horrible chest, it’s actually very smooth and toned.
He smells good for someone who’s driven a racing car and had sex since he’s last showered.
There’s a hint of expensive cologne and something underneath that’s all…
Jack. I didn’t mind being here when his fingers were touching me, why should now be any different?
His arms close around me in the most natural way. I wish I could be more like that. I wish I wasn’t covered in a cold sweat that has absolutely nothing to do with his AC. He’s going to think I’m a slippery minger.
‘My god, woman, you’re freezing!’ he exclaims, clutching me tighter and rubbing my arms.
‘Eilo?’ I suggest, desperately trying to distract him.
‘Eilo…’ His voice rumbles against my cheek. ‘He’s too young to have developed fear.’
‘I thought you said when you let fear in, your career’s over.’
‘No, I said when you let fear cloud your judgement and control you, your career’s over.
You need it. With the right mental conditioning, it’s a useful tool.
Without it, you’re scary and a danger to other drivers.
He’ll get it, though. Either one bad accident or a couple of seasons will make sure of that. ’
I shuffle to get more comfortable. ‘Scary like Micah?’
‘Micah’s not scary like that. He’s got fear – he’s no rookie – but he’s an angry bastard. He’ll push you into tough spots, try and run you off the track, defend unfairly. He’s always been a hard racer, but the last year… he’s a psychopath, especially with me. And I don’t blame him.’
Woah, we’re going there. Drivers aren’t allowed to speak honestly about their team dynamics to anyone.
It’s impossible not to notice the friction between Jack and Micah.
Jack steers well clear of him, and when that’s not possible, Micah drives a millimetre under the legal limit, like there isn’t a team behind him that would hang his balls out to dry if he jeopardised Jack’s Championship.
Between that and not fulfilling his team obligations off track, it’s a wonder Pagari keep him on their books.
He’s an incredible driver, sure, but so are hundreds of others.
‘Everyone’s threatened by their teammate,’ I argue.
‘It’s more than that.’ Jack draws idle patterns on my back.
It feels quite nice. ‘Two years ago, at Silverstone, I had a bad pit stop on lap thirty-eight which put Micah in the lead. He drove beautifully that day. I couldn’t make up the ground I’d lost – I tried and got close but I couldn’t overtake.
He was looking to bag his first win with Pagari.
It would’ve been a clean win. Well earned.
’ Jack’s chest dips as he sucks in a breath.
‘Then, with two laps to go, team orders forced him to let me pass.’
I vaguely remember this happening. Team orders are hideous, and the fallout always burns deeper than the commentary makes it sound. My dad could probably still reel off the dates and lap numbers of the three times team orders were used against him.
‘They didn’t have to do it,’ he goes on.
‘I was comfortably leading the Championship, and either way Pagari would have got a one-two.’ He runs a hand through his hair, leaving his other arm on me.
‘The fact that it was Silverstone made it ten times worse too. His family were all there. His cousins, his nephews – I heard his aunts even came over from Nigeria.’
Holy. Shit.
‘He’s always been a bit of a dick – I’ve known him for like sixteen years – but ever since the British Grand Prix, he looks like he wants to set me on fire.’
‘I don’t imagine the fact that you’re always winning in the same car helps much. It’s not easy playing second fiddle.’
‘He’s not as fast as me,’ Jack concedes, ‘and he knows that, but he thinks he’s smarter than me.’
‘Is he?’
A slow smile spreads across his beautiful face.
‘Nah. He’s decided this is the year he’s going to beat me, and he’s figured the only way to do that is mind games.
Everything he does has an agenda. Everything.
Just watch him. On the off-chance he deigns to come to tomorrow’s press conference, listen to the subtext of what he’s saying.
‘Before Imola, he locked himself in the only toilet in our garage. I waited until we were three minutes from the national anthem, gave up and pissed outside. He’s been doing tons of shit like that lately, trying to get in my head.’
‘Does it ever work?’
Jack tilts my chin with his index finger so I look him in the eye. ‘Did he win in Imola?’
I pin my lips together, definitely not feeling renewed warmth down below. ‘No, he did not.’
He resumes stroking patterns. ‘I’d argue I won twice that weekend,’ he says quietly.
I’m so glad it’s dark because my cheeks are on fire. I move my hands to his chest, my chin balanced on top. ‘You’re a shameless flirt, Jack Bowden.’
His proud grin’s my cue to roll over before we repeat earlier. I don’t have a second fake orgasm in me.
‘Where are you going?’ He sounds plaintive.
‘We have to be up in three hours, or do you not care that you have a title to defend?’ I plug my long-dead phone into the cable poking out from behind his bed.
He rubs his eyes. ‘You’re right. I got distracted. Too busy sharing trade secrets.’
I snigger and tuck myself in. ‘Night, Jack.’
‘Night, Roberts. Sleep tight.’