5. Elizabeth #2
“No advice needed. He’s a client.”
Chalondra laughs. “Yeah, but I’ve known him for years. The thing Wes Grant likes most is a challenge.”
Once we’re back in the Martine garage, Chalondra waves goodbye and heads to the posh hospitality area.
In the short time we were on the track, the space has transformed: there are chairs set up for the pit crew and the back area is filled with guests wearing headsets.
Hyunjoon’s side is packed with his family and friends, and I give Sora a little wave.
She smartly elected not to do the grid walk.
Though it was definitely an experience, I wish I had followed her lead rather than letting Chalondra talk me into it.
Not that I would have ever told Wes, but my feet are killing me.
Accepting a headset from Sarah, the team’s head of hospitality, I pop it on and head over to an empty chair on Wes’s side of the garage.
There’s plenty of space, even with the celebrities invited by David and the representatives from a luxury travel brand.
Wes apparently didn’t invite anyone other than his performance coach.
No family. No friends. No partner. Though it’s none of my business, it strikes me as curious.
I take a seat and turn my attention to the television screen that shows the drivers taking their formation lap. Thanks to Chalondra, I know this is the lap drivers use to warm up their tires, not the actual start of the race.
Once the cars are all back at the starting line, the tension goes from palpable to taut.
On the screen, a series of red lights go out at random times, and the second the final one goes dark, engines vroom to life as each driver punches the accelerator.
When Wes and Hyunjoon both get through the crowd of cars unscathed, cheers resound in the garage.
It’s only then that I realize my lungs are burning from how long I’ve been holding my breath.
As the race continues, the headset makes me privy to everything the Martine engineers are telling the drivers, and vice versa.
Though I don’t understand half the things they’re saying, I am impressed by how calm everyone sounds.
Meanwhile, my heart is pounding as I watch cars zoom by so fast that if I blink, I miss it.
After half an hour has passed, Hyunjoon’s engineer says “box, box,” and the garage comes to life: the pit crew secures helmets and mans their stations, holding tires, pneumatic tools, and what looks to be some sort of lift.
When Hyunjoon pulls in, the crew jacks the car up, changes the tires, and sends Hyunjoon back on his way in just over two seconds.
I knew that pit stops were synonymous with speed, but seeing one in real time creates a whole new level of understanding. “Well, hell.”
“First race?” a white woman around my age asks. I don’t recognize her, but between the Nautilus on her wrist and the Kelly perched in her lap, I figure she’s someone I should get to know. As my boss likes to remind me, I should never let a job get in the way of finding my next client.
“Yes,” I say. “I just started with the team.”
“You’re the crisis specialist, right?” she asks, her British accent crisp though her voice is soft. I nod. “I don’t envy your job. This scandal feels ripped out of fiction.”
I know better than to say anything that might provide insight or details, so I opt for, “It’s one of the more dramatic things I’ve taken on, that’s for sure.”
“Here’s hoping it’s all a big misunderstanding,” she says. “I can’t imagine that Stas and Elio are actually part of some crime syndicate.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about wealthy, powerful men over the years, it’s that they always think they’re untouchable—and when they learn they aren’t, they assume they can buy their way out.
More often than not, they’re right. So while I do not believe that Elio and Stas are innocent, I also do not believe that either of them will see the inside of a prison.
Hell, they’ll probably be back in this sport within a year.
But my cynicism does not make for good small talk, so I say, “That’d be a relief. ”
We turn our attention back to the race. As the laps fly by, Wes tries again and again to pass the Orion driver in front of him, but each time, he’s blocked.
“The rears are starting to go,” Wes says. There’s a couple seconds of silence until his engineer says, “Be smart with tire management.”
Wes chuckles, and several people in the garage do, too. The times for each driver on the screen show that Wes is slowing down.
“Why is he going slower?” I idly wonder out loud.
“He’s trying to get out of the dirty air,” Andrew says from my other side. “He’ll hit the throttle in a straight and use the slipstream to get past Wedington.”
“Okay,” I say, rather than explain that none of that means a damn thing to me. The woman chuckles. “He’s slowing down as a tactic so that his car works better and faster when he needs it to. And to extend the life of his tires as much as possible.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful that she interpreted for me.
“No problem. You’ll get the hang of it, I promise.”
“How’d you become a fan?”
A blush stains her cheeks. “My dad was a driver in the ‘90s, so I grew up in all of this.”
A lightbulb suddenly clicks in my head. “Oh. Are you and Wes—”
“No,” she says quickly. “Absolutely not. Don’t get me wrong, he’s gorgeous. But not for me.”
“Why’s that?”
The woman gives me a long look. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. I know it makes me old-fashioned, but I’d never be comfortable with that kind of relationship.”