4. Wes
I head off the stage with the rest of the drivers, thanking each of them individually for pitching in.
Everyone I’ve talked to the past few days seems completely shell-shocked by the arrests, but their reactions are always accompanied by an undercurrent of pity—as if they think my time in this sport is over now that my best friend has gone and gotten himself in trouble.
But I’m more than Stas Dubinsky’s sidekick.
And I’m a hell of a lot more than Martine Racing's charm offensive. I can’t wait to prove them all wrong.
The PR handlers usher me and Hyunjoon to the luxe, multi-story motorhome that serves as our team’s headquarters during race weekends.
It’s situated in the paddock, the exclusive area only accessible to drivers, team personnel, media, and fans who have shelled out tens of thousands of dollars for a weekend pass.
In addition to the motorhomes, the paddock features hospitality areas filled with food and drinks from Michelin-starred chefs, and swanky suites for entertaining VIPs.
Our day is packed. We’re filming social media videos before we attend a strategy meeting with Albrecht and our race engineers.
After that, we’re changing into suits that have been provided by a high-end designer that sponsors the team and making our way to a business dinner that will likely last well into the night.
Though I’d love nothing more than to skip that part and go straight to the hotel to get some rest, I know better.
Networking is an important part of the job—and one that can be incredibly lucrative when contracts are being negotiated.
Hyunjoon and I lounge as the social team sets up the game they want us to play, and I take the opportunity to dive into a new study on aerodynamics led by a professor at MIT.
I’m only halfway through the abstract when a shadow falls over me.
I’m not surprised to see Elizabeth Jacobs standing there.
But I am surprised by how furious she looks.
“Hiya, Lizzy,” I say. “What can I do ya for?”
“So you’re always a disrespectful dick.”
I give her my signature grin. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but I think ‘disrespectful dick’ is a first.”
Elizabeth’s eyes bore into mine as she looms over me. If I were a smarter man, I’d cower. But there’s something about the tight leash she keeps on her fury that fascinates me.
“If you’d like to make it a last, then I will advise you to do two things,” she says. “Do not call me anything other than Elizabeth. And do not go rogue like that in front of the press ever again.”
Unbelievable. “Honey, I did you a favor in there.”
She leans down, pressing her hands on the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. The posture brings her closer than she’s ever been to me, and I’m suddenly surrounded by the scent of crisp apples and vanilla smoke.
I rarely experience autumn now that I travel the world to race.
During the peak months, I’m usually in the tropical humidity of Singapore before heading to the dry heat of Texas and Mexico.
If I’m lucky, I can catch the tail end of the season.
But more often than not, the trees are bare by the time I have a week to spend in New England.
I want to lean forward and bury my face in her shirt. But considering the look in Elizabeth Jacobs’s eyes is downright murderous, I abandon that plan.
“Do. Not. Pull. A Stunt. Like That. Ever. Again.”
“Or what?” I ask, pushing my luck. What I did was smart. The reporters will write some splashy headlines and leave us the hell alone for the rest of the weekend. “What will you do, Elizabeth? Spank me?”
A storm rolls through her dark eyes. I thought they were a rich, espresso brown, but I was wrong. They’re actually a very deep blue.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she says, her voice lower now and as biting as a winter wind. I resist the urge to shiver.
She pushes away from the chair and scoffs in disgust.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
She isn’t enjoying this. This isn’t charged posturing or heated repartee. And it’s definitely not the cheeky teasing I meant it to be.
I’m usually so good at reading the room, the vibe, women. But not this one.
I really am a disrespectful dick. I need to fix this. Immediately.
“Elizabeth,” I say, my voice serious. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” she says. “You treat your entire life like you’re in some underdog sports movie where everyone will always be cheering for you because you’re so charismatic.
But you’re not dumb. You know this nightmare scenario is the opportunity you desperately need.
If you don’t want to fuck it up, then you need to listen to me.
You need to take me seriously. And you need to do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”
I gulp. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy,” she says, her voice vicious with victory. “Now put that winning smile people love so much on your face and do every single thing the social team asks of you.”
The click of her heels echoes as she walks to the bar and orders her fifth coffee of the day.
Hyunjoon lets out a low whistle. “I can’t believe I just witnessed your charm fail so spectacularly.”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling fully, before laughing. Because what the hell else am I supposed to do?
“She’s kind of terrifying,” Hyunjoon says.
Though I agree with him, I am also extremely aware of the buzz electrifying my skin, the blood rushing through my veins.
I don’t know why I’m turned on right now, but there’s no denying it.
I need to think about something else. I can’t have a hard-on when we’re filming social media videos. The internet will have a field day.
Then again, if they’re focused on my cock, maybe they won’t be coming up with conspiracy theories about how I might be involved with criminal bullshit.
The mind, it boggles.
“When does Sora get here?” I ask, changing the subject.
They’ve been together for over a year but have kept things quiet since it isn’t normal for K-pop stars like Sora to be in public relationships.
But these two are head over heels and they’ve decided they’re sick of sneaking around.
So this hard launch is going to be an extremely big deal.
“She gets in tonight,” he says. “My parents are meeting her at the airport since we’ll be at the sponsor dinner.”
Something tugs in my chest as I watch his expression. His eyes have gone a bit dreamy and he can’t wipe the smile from his face. Though I’ve never had that kind of relationship, I’m glad he does—and that he’s recognized it for what it is.
“That’s great, man,” I say, meaning it. “I know this has all been pretty insane, with the news and the media and…well. Elizabeth Jacobs.”
“She’s nice to me,” Hyunjoon says. “That’s what happens when you don’t piss her off.”
I narrow my eyes. “As I was saying, I know it’s been a lot. And I know this is only media day, but you’ve been doing a great job. I’m really glad you’re my teammate.”
“Awe, Wes,” Hyunjoon says. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
I grin. “Save the jokes for the videos.”
That gets the attention of Andrew, the head of our social media team. “There was a joke? Can you repeat it on camera?”
With that, we start filming.
There are two minutes left in Saturday’s final qualifying session, and I am flying around the circuit.
Considering everything that’s happened this week, we need to race well.
We need to show people that Martine will survive without Elio and Stas.
And I have to perform so that there’s no hesitation from the team when it comes time to sign a new contract.
But as much as we can all hope for that, it doesn’t always mean the car will cooperate.
Or the weather. Or the other drivers. Shit happens on the track, and that’s precisely what makes this sport so exciting.
But the car has been amazing so far this weekend and it’s holding up in qualifying, which determines the starting order for the race on Sunday.
Both Hyunjoon and I sailed through the first two sessions, so we’re now among the top 10 drivers battling it out for the highest possible starting position tomorrow.
Though your qualifying position doesn’t guarantee anything on race day, the higher up the grid you are, the better your chances.
The second I cross the finish line, my race engineer, Paul, is in my ear. “That’s P3, Wes.”
Normally I‘d be stoked to hear I’m in the top three. But that lap felt amazing, so it’s disappointing that I’ll need to get more out of the car if I want to clinch pole position and start the race in first place tomorrow.
I clear my mind and let my instincts guide me. As I finish the first sector of the track on a flying lap, Paul says, “That was a personal best.”
“Fuck yes it was,” I murmur. But then I feel the back end of the car slip as a strong gust of wind blows across the track. I grit my teeth and grip the steering wheel harder, correcting the alignment.
“Several drivers were affected. You’ve still got pace,” Paul tells me, his calm voice answering my unasked question.
I slow through the long S-curve, then hit the throttle during the short straight and brake as late as possible into the hairpin. “Please tell me we got it,” I say as I cross the finish line.
There’s a long silence before Paul responds. “You’re P2.”
I exhale my disappointment. It’s a fantastic result—but I wanted pole so badly. I really thought we had it. “What’s the gap between me and pole?”
“One-tenth of a second,” Paul says. “Bloody close.”
“Okay,” I breathe, feeling slightly better. “Where’s Hyunjoon?”
“P5.”
“Hot damn!” I shout, genuinely thrilled to hear that he did so well in his first F1 qualifying round. It’s not only a testament to the team’s work on the car this season, but to how talented Hyunjoon is as a driver.
Once I’ve parked, I hoist myself out of the seat and jump over the halo.
The moment my feet touch the ground, I’m surrounded by the crew, congratulating me on my front-row starting position.
After removing my helmet and balaclava, I find Hyunjoon and wrap an arm around him. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Thanks, Wes,” the rookie says. “We’re both getting on that podium tomorrow.”
“Hell yes, we are,” I say, clapping him on the back. “Now go over there and kiss your girl.”
A smile lights up his face before he turns to where his parents and girlfriend are waiting to celebrate with him.
I know better than to look at my side of the garage—it’ll just be my performance coach, Camden, making small talk with whichever guests the team invited.
My garage used to be chock-full of celebrities and friends, but since I moved to Martine, I’ve stopped extending invites.
I have to focus. And I can’t do that if I’m playing party-boy host every weekend.
“That’s how it’s done, Wes,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see Albrecht Klein, a proud look on his face. I’m tall for a driver, but Albrecht still has a couple inches on me. Sometimes I wonder how he fit into the cars when he was racing.
“If that wind hadn’t blown out the rear of the car…”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says, his German accent softening. “You executed perfectly with the conditions you were given. P2 is an amazing result. You’ve done everyone proud today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course,” he says. “Now go charm the press pool.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
Albrecht chuckles, and I take a moment to unzip my blue race suit, pulling my arms out of the sleeves so that the top folds at the waist, exposing my white, fireproof shirt.
My public relations handler, Tate, hands me a towel so I can wipe off my sweat.
As we make our way over to the line of reporters waiting to interview the top three drivers, I look over my shoulder and find myself locked in a dark blue gaze that’s as chilly as any ice bath I’ve ever taken.
Right now though, that sounds pretty nice. So I smile.
And before I can find out whether or not Elizabeth Jacobs smiled back, I turn and look straight ahead.