Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Belmonte boxing,” Bowie reports. “You’re race leader.”
“Where’s Reece?”
Bloody hell. If he’d started closer, I’d’ve swapped places with him. My teammate’s got better pace than me because his car isn’t trying to kiss the barrier in every corner.
“Belmonte is back on track at P10 on mediums. Reece has DRS and team orders.”
Sure enough, Reece makes his move stick, roaring up the finish line straight and diving past Lynch Sutton into P2 as they swing through turn 1.
Team orders means he’ll cover my back, but I hope he remembers what I said about taking his chance.
Meanwhile, somewhere behind all of us, El Conejo’s probably plotting his recovery drive.
I know him. He’s hunting us down like we’re the rabbits and he wants rabbit borracho for dinner.
“Focus forward,” Bowie reminds me. “Manage the rear.”
Easier said than done. The car feels like it’s skating on marbles, requiring perfect inputs to keep it pointing in the right direction. I can’t afford any mistakes or one moment of lost concentration.
“Gap to Reece one point two,” Bowie updates. “Wyn just passed Sutton into third.”
“Gap?”
“One point four behind Reece. And Belmonte’s grabbing fastest laps. He’s up to P8.”
“How many laps remain?”
“Ten. You can do this, Petra.”
“Right. Call them.”
“Will do.”
The car is testing every skill I’ve got. The rear end gets trickier as the tires wear, making each correction more crucial than the last.
“Lap 8. Reece holding station,” Bowie updates. “Belmonte’s taken P7. And has DRS for, yeah, he’s got P6 from McBride and set another fastest lap.”
Every lap. Of course he is. Using those fresh medium tires to full effect, dashing through the field. This is why they call him El Conejo.
“Rear temps climbing,” Bowie warns. “Easy through 15.”
“What’s the lap?”
“Six to go, Petra.”
The car snaps sideways, but I catch it. Barely. Behind me, Reece keeps up honest pressure. He’s not attacking, but he’s ready to pounce if I make a mistake. He’s a good teammate and a better rival.
“Belmonte’s past Lynch.” Bowie’s voice stays steady. “P4 now. The gap is four point two seconds.”
“Fuck me,” I mutter. Four seconds with fresher mediums and a properly functioning car. While I’m wrestling this beast through every corner, trying to—
The rear steps out again. Hard correction.
Focus, Petra.
“Four laps.” Bowie knows better than to overload me with information now. “Keep it clean.”
Right. Clean. As if that’s easy with a car that wants to fling its arse around like a crash-happy rally car and El Conejo charging through the field and everything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours and—
“Focus, Pet. Your line through 15 was perfect. Do that again.”
“Stop reading my mind, Bowie. It’s freaky.”
He laughs.
Three laps to go and my arms burn from constant corrections. Every corner’s a new negotiation with physics and grip levels that keep changing.
“Nico swapped with Wyn for P3.” Bowie’s voice is even.
Makes sense. Team orders. Championship points matter more than pride, and WolfBett’s positioning Nico for a fifth Drivers’ Championship.
Two laps. The rear end’s properly loose now, tires blistered to hell. But we’re close. So bloody close.
“Gap to Reece stable at two point one.” Translation: You’ve got this.
Final lap. Just keep it pointing forward.
“Bring it home, TenP.”
The finish line appears like a mirage. The win has never felt more earned as I pass the waving chequered flag.
“Well done.” Bowie actually sounds impressed. “That was proper car control, Petra.”
I’m too busy breathing to respond. Too busy realizing we just proved everything they said we couldn’t do. “Bloody hell! We did it! Thank you for all the damned hard work last night. This is your win today.”
Bowie responds, “A group effort.”
Parc fermé explodes with celebration when I pull in.
I climb from the cockpit to stand atop the car and do a groovy little victory dance that ends with finger guns, then I jump down and leap into waiting arms. Mechanics, engineers, Dad—everyone’s reaching for a piece of the victory.
The rear end might’ve been trying to kill me for fifty-six laps, but we bloody well did it.
Reece appears through the chaos, hand raised for a high five. “Bloody brilliant job managing that beast!” He’s grinning like a fool as he takes off his helmet. “Though you might want to get the suspension fixed before Mexico.”
“Ha! No shit.” I pull off my gloves, helmet, and HANS device. My balaclava follows and I pull my ponytail out from where I always tuck it into the back of my suit. I wave at the fans, then secure my hair up off my neck.
The Honeys and Bunnies’ voices carry clear across the circuit: “Kiss her! Kiss him!”
I laugh and shake my head. They’re relentless.
Movement catches my eye as I open the bottle of water staged for me.
Nico climbs from his car, already grinning.
Our eyes meet across the mayhem, and the sexy wink he throws my way should be illegal.
Heat floods my chest. The fans’ chanting of “Kiss her! Kiss him!” grows louder, but with cameras everywhere, acting on that impulse will wait.
The cool-down room isn’t a haven from scrutiny. Graham’s cameraman follows our every move as we grab more water and don our caps. The tension crackles between Nico and me, electric and obvious.
“That rear end looked proper nasty,” Reece comments, dropping into one of the chairs and eyeing us both. “Though not as nasty as whatever’s happening here. Bit too close for my comfort, you two.”
“Like wrestling a greased pig.” I deliberately ignore his second comment. “Through every corner.”
“Impressive control.” Nico’s double meaning isn’t lost on me. “Though that puncture’s timing sucked.” He shakes his head, eyes never leaving mine.
“Yeah, but fastest laps on those mediums?” Reece whistles. “That charge through the field was something else.”
“Speaking of charges.” I’m trying to focus on anything but the way Nico’s race suit clings to his body. “Nice management of your brother out there.”
Reece shrugs, but his smile is smug as fuck. “Clean racing looks good on everyone.” A pause. “Other things, apparently, look good too.”
The podium call comes then, sparing me from strangling my teammate. The chanting hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s grown louder and more insistent. Pink streaks and rabbit ears fill the stands below. I collect my trophy and Asuka collects one for our team.
“Kiss her! Kiss him!” echoes off the grandstands. Good God, they’re merciless.
Reece takes his second-place hardware with characteristic grace, grinning at the crowd’s demands.
Then Nico takes his third place statue. The electricity between us is impossible to ignore, even as the British national anthem plays.
When it ends and Bizet’s Carmen begins, Reece and Asuka pop their champagne bottles.
“Kiss her! Kiss him!”
Well then.
Might as well give the fans what they want.
I grab Nico’s collar, loving the flash of heat in his eyes before our lips meet. The kiss is anything but proper. Reece and Asuka’s champagne shower just adds to the perfect chaos.
The crowd loses its ever-loving mind.
It’s nineteen hundred hours and I’m exhausted after battling my bitch of a car for two hours, but the special fan meet-and-greet awaits. I promised the Honey Bunnies access and enthusiasm, and that’s what I’ll give them, even if it kills me.
The hotel’s courtyard has been transformed into something between organized chaos and celebration.
Claudia’s set up a large open tent. It’s a proper mini fan zone with barriers, photo stations, food and drinks, and enough space for the crowd that’s been gathering since word spread about the appreciation event.
The Honey Bunnies pack the cordoned area, all decked out with rabbit ears, pink hair, and custom shirts.
Camera crews are positioned at strategic points around the perimeter. Dixon Atteberry’s coordinating with a small team near the hotel entrance, his GEM credentials visible as he directs what’s probably additional content for Graham’s media empire.
Annoyed, I turn to Claudia. “I said I didn’t want media included.”
She follows my gaze to Dixon’s crew, then back to me with an expression I know means she’s going to say something I won’t like.
“The courtyard’s technically public space, Petra.
Hotel management can’t restrict accredited media from the perimeter areas.
” She shakes her head. “We negotiated the barriers and controlled access, but we can’t eliminate coverage entirely. ”
I drop my head back and stare at the white awning overhead. “Fucking. Fine.” I look at her. “If they so much at put a toe across the barriers, I’ll cut them off at their ankles. Clear?”
“Crystal. I’ll reinforce it with security.”
“Do that.”
“Smile, Petra. The media don’t matter here, right?
” Claudia’s unfazed by my bitchiness. She’s seen plenty of it before, and she knows I’m more tired than usual after that race.
“Five minutes to get you positioned, then we open the barriers. The mechanics wanted me to tell you specifically that seeing the fan support during the overnight repairs meant everything to them.”
I nod. “They’re the heroes tonight.” I adjust my attitude and the fresh team shirt I’ve changed into. These fans deserve my gratitude and my smile. “How long do we have?”
“Forty minutes for you, then Nico takes over when he arrives.” She glances up from her scheduling. “Victoria’s coordinated with WolfBett. Marcus sees the PR value in this situation.”
“Hmm, situation.”
She laughs with me. I mean, what else is there to do?