Chapter 34
MINNIE
HOLLAND
My amazing holiday with Jack feels like way more than three weeks ago as étienne brings over a tray laden with drinks.
Kurt’s ogling the stunning dancers in black and red skin-tight race suits on stage, their hair in matching black braids down their backs.
For a Grand Prix that plays Ibiza club music from start to finish, this afterparty's no different.
‘They don’t serve genuine champagne, only foreign shit,’ étienne moans in French, depositing his tray on the little table I’ve commandeered.
‘Then you’ll have to venture out of your comfort zone,’ I say with forced enthusiasm.
These parties used to be fun but I’m quickly falling out of love with them.
It’s been a long day on top of a long weekend on top of a long season, and heavy dance music in a fetid club filled with too many people all pushing and shoving isn’t how I’d like to wind down.
I’d rather be snuggling with Jack in his hotel room, watching trashy TV and chatting shit.
Speak of the devil, I spot him and Georgie making their way through the crowd – slowly, because he won by a landslide today. I turn back to étienne so it doesn’t look like I’m waiting, who’s so busy frowning into his glass that he wouldn’t notice anyway.
‘Congrats on today, pal,’ Jack shouts over a thumping remix of ‘Dirty Cash’. étienne looks up and does a stuttered double take. ‘You had an unlucky race and deserved a spot on that podium.’
étienne extends his hand. ‘And to you. It was a great win, mate.’
‘Lemme buy you a drink. I’m sure they have some champagne in the back.’
étienne lights up like a child who’s been given a trip to Disneyland. ‘Yes! Thank you!’
As étienne turns to Kurt, Jack winks at me before vanishing into the crowd. Alarmingly, Georgie stays.
I’ve never spoken to her alone before and panic rises like a tsunami.
Everything I’ve heard paints her as a she-bear, fiercely protective and resolutely loyal.
Jack puts her on a pedestal – therapist, assistant, personal trainer, masseuse, nutritionist, cook, surrogate mother, and best friend.
He’s probably told her everything about me.
I mean, hopefully not everything. I’m so glad it’s dark in here, my face is probably deep maroon.
‘Hi,’ I offer feebly.
Her smile’s polite but not quite warm. ‘Hi, Minnie.’
She has the most beautiful afro curls I’ve ever seen, big and full and not like she has to sleep in a curling rod to force some volume into her hair. Huge dark eyelashes too, the kind you’d take a picture of to your technician.
‘Great race, hm?’ I add.
‘For sure.’
I get the feeling she’s sizing me up and I don’t know how to stop it.
‘I want you to know I’m on your team,’ Georgie says out of nowhere.
My mind goes blank. Team? What team? Has Jack signed us up to a charity event? ‘Yes?’
‘He smiles more, he’s more engaged, he’s fallen back in love with driving again. I’m on your team. You’re really good for him.’
I nod. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t unpack all this information now. Should I thank her?
‘Is this the part where you tell me if I hurt him, you’ll beat me up?’ I say in a rush of confidence. She definitely could. She’s built but lean, like she could bench and outrun me, probably at the same time.
Georgie’s smile reaches her eyes. ‘No, you’re safe. You’re not the one I worry about.’
What does that mean?
‘Just mind him, alright? He’s not like other guys. He’s softer than you think,’ she says.
She looks like she wants to say more but Jack’s returned with a waiter carrying even more drinks. I can’t get too drunk because I want to overanalyse this conversation tomorrow. Mind him? What does she mean?
I’m still turning it over several glasses deep when we start dancing.
My main conclusion is she likes us together, which I interpret as a vote of confidence, not least because she’s hellishly intimidating.
The only person who knows about us sees us as an ‘us’, and I surprisingly don’t feel like running for the hills.
More than that, I feel bolstered. And this isn’t just the alcohol talking. Well, not completely.
Maybe there could be a next level to our relationship after all.
I mean, we’ve been exclusive for almost two months.
There hasn’t been a race weekend we’ve slept apart.
We even went on holiday together! I’m no seasoned girlfriend but this feels pretty relationshipy to me.
The thought of a label’s cringe but if the only thing that changes is we name it, where’s the issue?
I like this, whatever ‘this’ is, and I’d like more of it, whatever that might look like.
Obviously nothing public, but… an official date, maybe? Some intention?
This isn’t me completely overcoming my commitment phobia, though.
I’m not 100% certain I won’t one day get the crushing urge to jump ship before he can.
Georgie’s not entirely right in thinking Jack’s the one to worry about.
But I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt him like my dad hurt my mum.
And so far he’s made me feel safe. As long as that doesn’t change, we might have a good thing.
It probably helps me that there’s an expiry date. If word gets out, if staying private grows tiresome, if lying to everyone becomes too much – it’s over. We can never have a future unless one of us leaves F1. But I’m not thinking about that now. For now, a little acknowledgement is all I need.
A WAG, me? What a bizarre thought. F1 WAGs aren’t like football WAGs.
These women are far from plumped-up silicone dolls; they’re natural embodiments of perfection.
Gustaf, Matteo, Eilo – by all accounts not beautiful men, but their partners?
Gustaf’s is the current Miss Brazil; Matteo’s is a Portuguese model; Eilo’s is a fashion influencer who looks like the baby of Chris Hemsworth and Raquel Welch.
I wonder what she sees in a pale, scrawny, thick-necked, pubes-for-a-beard, multi-millionaire racing driver.
I don’t struggle with self-confidence but these women could make Beyoncé check herself.
And they seemingly have nothing better to do than tow after their men from one continent to the next.
That’s not me. I don’t tow.
Jack’s the World Champion, plus he’s the sexiest man on the grid – objectively speaking. By extension, his girlfriend should be the most stunning, most glamorous, most accomplished—
‘Hey pretty girl,’ says a husky voice in my ear, ‘what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?’
I smother the instinct to wrap my arms around his neck. He’s even sexier when he’s talking to me illicitly, hair all mussed like he’s run his hands through it, an easy grin like he’s on top of the world. He really is a good dancer, moving to the beat like it’s breathing to him.
‘I’m a terrible dancer,’ I confess, rolling my hips in a shallow sway. Nothing adventurous. A tried and tested move.
‘You’re not terrible at anything.’ His fingers curl around my waist and he pulls me flush against him. I can feel him straining against his jeans.
I purse my lips to keep from grinning. ‘Remember Italy.’
‘It was nothing.’
But it could so easily have been.
I want to kiss him so much it’s a physical need. I imagine running my tongue along his lower lip, feeling his heartrate shoot up as I drag my nails down the back of his neck.
‘No one can see us. It’s packed,’ he murmurs.
My resolve’s crumbling with disturbing velocity. I blame that last glass of champagne. ‘You’re playing with fire, Jack Bowden.’
‘I really want to kiss you right now.’
‘You can’t.’ I don’t even sound certain to myself.
‘And I want to peel this tiny dress off.’
I bite my lip.
‘And I want to spend hours pulling you apart piece by piece,’ his voice is rough, ‘and take just as long putting you back together.’
My stomach bottoms out. Why is he making this harder than it already is? He’s screwed too if word gets out. ‘Jack—’
He leans so close his heat radiates onto the side of my face. ‘Meet me outside the bathroom in a couple of minutes.’ Before I can argue, he fades into the crowd.
Did that just happen? My every nerve being on fire would suggest so. It’d be easier to take this back to his hotel, but there’s something so delicious about staying. Taunting, forbidden fruit. The promise of release. I never bend the rules. Would it be so bad to bend them once?
With my heart in my mouth, I make my way through the hordes of sweaty dancers to the bathroom.
He’s not waiting outside. I’m about to go searching when my arm’s tugged towards a little storage area.
It’s not the most private, but I don’t have time to question it before I’m backed against the wall and Jack’s lips are on mine. He tastes of beer and I lap it up.
Greedy hands find my legs and hoist me in the air. I melt around him, covering every part of his body I can. We fit so neatly together. His hardness is right where I want it if only there weren’t three layers of fabric separating us. I grind my hips and he tenses.
‘Now now, no need to play dirty.’ His eyes are the darkest I’ve seen them.
I flutter my eyelashes. ‘Who, me?’ I do it again.
His kiss is savage, all tongue and desperation. He clutches my rear towards him so he’s locked tight against my centre. It would be nothing to tilt my hips. I’m pretty sure I could get off just doing that.
He skims his thumb across my swollen lower lip. ‘You’re too much for me, Miss Roberts.’
As much as I’d love to stay right here, teasing us both to oblivion, reality slowly slips into focus. It’s too risky. He’s too well-known.
Ignoring the throbbing between my thighs, through a pained out-breath I force myself to say, ‘We should get back.’
He rubs his nose against mine and it’s so wholesome it makes my heart hurt. He sighs. ‘Yes ma’am.’
Jack rejoins the party first, and by the time I arrive at our table, his mood’s done a complete one-eighty. He’s muttering to Georgie, posture rigid, jaw clenched. I’m too far away to hear and their hushed conversation doesn’t quite beckon me over.
‘I suppose Micah does come to parties,’ étienne remarks in French, polishing off his glass. Ah, that explains it.
I thrust a finger at him. ‘You owe me one million euro!’ At our first afterparty together in Bahrain, he promised me one million euro if Micah ever came out. Looks like today’s my lucky day.
He pffts. ‘I wasn’t serious.’
‘I’d like it as a Maison Margiela gift card, or cash. Whichever’s easiest.’
In the corner of my eye, Jack’s hand movements are sharp.
He’s pointing, lecturing, throwing his arms in the air.
I’ve never seen him so wound up. I’m partly putting it down to alcohol; it can’t all be Micah.
He’s nowhere near us. He’s talking to a friend, minding his own business, drinking what looks like Coke through a straw.
‘You know, in the drivers’ parade today, he asked me if you were single,’ étienne says, mouth downturned like he’s just shared semi-interesting gossip and not a giant bombshell.
I instantly sober up. ‘Micah?’
‘I know.’
Jack failed to mention that. He definitely knows – the paddock grapevine’s relentless. Could it have anything to do with why he was so aggressive on the opening lap today? He almost clipped Micah’s front tyre, and he didn’t need to be that close.
Micah’s just playing another mind game. Nowhere during our Silverstone interview was I under the impression I was anything more than press to him.
I puked, for crying out loud. Jack can see right through him, can’t he?
Time to find out because Jack’s headed our way.
Correction: my way, since étienne’s slipped away to wingman Kurt.
‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Jack seethes.
Best to play dumb. ‘He’s alright. He’s not doing anything wrong.’
He huffs a black laugh. ‘He’s always doing something wrong.’
‘Let’s just leave him—’
‘He asked about you during the drivers’ parade.’ The way he says it sets me on edge, like he couldn’t imagine why.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Wondered if you were seeing anyone. I’ve half a mind to punch his lights out.’
‘What for? He might have an inkling that we’re together, but there’s—’
‘We’re not together.’ He’s only half concentrating on me and doesn’t register my head snap back.
Maybe he didn’t mean it. A heat of the moment throwaway comment. ‘Not together together,’ I clarify, ‘but—’
‘We’re just shagging, and my sex life has nothing to do with him. What the fuck’s he doing here anyway? Little prick just loves to stir the pot.’
Just. Shagging.
It’s a strike to my solar plexus.
We went on holiday together. I’d never been on holiday with a boy before – it was hella significant to me. Apparently not to him.
To everyone else in the world, a friends-with-benefits thing is sex and then leave – but not to Jack.
For months, he’s been unknowingly chipping away at me with his latent boyfriendness, like he can’t help himself.
Like he wants a relationship even though his subconscious has a block.
He massages my feet, he cooks me breakfast, he tans my back, he shares his deepest secrets, he helps me with my dad. I defended him to my mum.
Is that just shagging to you, Jack?
And if we’re ‘just shagging’, why behave like a jealous boyfriend? Why be so god-damn territorial? How can you ‘punch his lights out’ without being able to tell him why?
I can’t bring myself to voice any of this.
It doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to listen anyway, and we can’t discuss our relationship status – or lack of – in public.
But is it so inconceivable for Micah to genuinely have an interest in me?
I thought I was ‘perfect’. I thought I was ‘unreal’.
I know he’s playing mind games, but I’d like Jack to consider the possibility for a nanosecond.
My eyes tingle but I swallow it. Crying won’t do me any favours right now. I mutter something about being tired and wanting to let him cool off so I’ll sleep in my hotel tonight. To my disappointment, he doesn’t put up any semblance of a fight.
Looks like Georgie was right after all. Maybe I’m not the one in danger of breaking this.