10. Wes
There’s nothing like your home race.
Though Miami is a far cry from my hometown, it’s the first U.S.
-based grand prix on the calendar. And since I’m the only American driver, fans tend to treat each U.S.
race as my home race. There’s a crowd gathered outside the paddock on Thursday, and I take the time to greet them before tackling this especially packed media day.
After giving two corporate sponsors and a beauty influencer a taste of what it’s like to zoom around the track at top speed in a high-performance vehicle, I spy Elizabeth standing next to David, Albrecht, Baz, and a man I don’t recognize—but considering who he’s with, I assume he’s a journalist.
I’m very aware that the news cycle the last couple weeks hasn’t been great for Martine, despite the good race results we’ve pulled in.
There have been a surprising number of articles about the audit and team finances, not to mention the headlines about me being questioned by a British intelligence agency.
I’ve been doing my part to change the narrative.
I’m posting every day, sharing photos from the gym, clips of practicing drills with Lu, and even a photo I snapped of me and Freddie sitting in business class. He’s scowling in it, but hey—I tried.
“Anyone else for hot laps?” I shout, but Tate shakes her head. My gaze returns to Elizabeth. She’s wearing a black sleeveless dress that hugs her body, white sneakers, sunglasses, and her hair in a high ponytail. I suddenly have an urge to sneak up behind her and tug on the end.
I wonder what it’d be like to tug until her back is arching. If she’d like my hand between her shoulders, pressing her down as I—
I blink hard and slam that drawer shut in my mind. “Jacobs!” I shout, appreciating how her ponytail flies when her head whips my way. “Let’s do a hot lap!”
“A what?” she yells, and more than a few people chuckle. She frowns, but then Tate is at her side, handing her a helmet. Elizabeth says something that makes Tate laugh before heading my way. I grin triumphantly.
“What the hell do you want from me?” Elizabeth asks when we can have a conversation at regular volume.
“Get in,” I say, opening the passenger door for her.
She eyes the supercar critically. “That looks like a death trap.”
I shrug. “Maybe with anyone else. But you’re in good hands with me.” She arches an eyebrow and I can’t help but laugh. “I am a professional.”
“That’s what they keep saying,” she quips. “But I don’t think I want to be in a vehicle that requires I wear a helmet.”
“I promise it’s fun.”
“For you,” she says pointedly.
“Elizabeth Jacobs,” I say. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You’re going to zoom around an F1 track with an F1 driver in…okay, this isn’t an F1 car. But it’s very expensive and very powerful. It’s as close as you’ll get to knowing what it feels like to be in an F1 car.”
She still has her dark sunglasses on, so I can’t see her full reaction. “Aren’t you a little bit curious?” I ask, leaning toward her.
“Annoyingly, I am,” she admits and my heart kicks up. “Ugh, fine. But I’m doing this against my better judgement.”
I give her my best smolder. “That’s what I love to hear.”
“Never mind,” she says, turning on the ball of her foot. I reach out and grab her wrist before she can stomp away. From the way she goes completely rigid, I’m certain the look she’s giving me from behind her glasses would incinerate me on the spot. I drop her wrist. “Please?”
“Why do you want me to do this so badly?”
“Because I think you’d have fun,” I say. “After the last couple weeks, you deserve some of that.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. It’s impossible to say if she’s considering getting in the car, thinking about what to have for dinner, or plotting my murder. But I know which one I hope it is. “Come on, Jacobs. Let’s go racing.”
I expect her to tell me to fuck off. But incredibly, she nods and then settles into the passenger seat.
I close the door, then jog around to the driver’s side.
By the time I’m in the seat, she’s taken her sunglasses off and is scowling at the helmet.
I’m about to ask if she needs help, but then she reaches up and undoes her ponytail—and I’m completely captivated.
I’ve never seen her with her hair down. Now, all I want is to reach over and touch the dark chocolate strands.
I need to know if they’re as soft as they look.
But then Elizabeth puts the helmet on, and I remember that we’re sitting in a car. That we’re about to do a hot lap. That I need to focus on driving, not on the passenger.
“Ready?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be.” Maybe it’s the helmet, but I swear her voice isn’t as frosty as usual.
I start the engine, and when I get the signal, I slam on the accelerator. Elizabeth gasps as we peel out, the car picking up speed fast down the first straight. I break late into the first corner, and the harsh curse that hisses out of her mouth makes me laugh.
I continue around the track, gaining speed, flying through chicanes, leaning into turns, and relishing every single second. When we cross the finish line, I ease off the gas and bring the car to a stop before looking over at the woman in the passenger seat. “So. What’d you think?”
The reactions I’ve seen after hot laps range from tears and motion sickness to thrilled smiles and whoops of joy. But I’ve never seen anyone sit still.
It’s concerning at first. Her chest is moving rapidly, and she’s breathing hard. Could she be hyperventilating? Is she having a panic attack?
But my own chest is moving rapidly. I’m breathing hard. And I’m sitting still.
Her heart is pounding, just like mine. Because there’s nothing like this rush.
“It was okay,” Elizabeth says, her voice detached and dry. Emotionless.
Too emotionless.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” I say, laughing. “You had a blast. Admit it.”
She shrugs. “It was fine.”
“It was fine?” I repeat. “That’s what you’re going to say when people ask you how your hot lap with Wes Grant was?”
“No,” she says slowly. “I’ll tell them it was exactly how they think it’d be.”
“And how’s that?”
Elizabeth turns and her eyes meet mine. “Terrifying. Reckless.”
Shit. I’ve once again read her wrong. She’s not relishing the rush, she’s terrified. I scared the hell out of her. I open my mouth to apologize, but then she says, “Breathless. Thrilling.”
Well. Hot damn.
“Elizabeth Jacobs,” I say. “Are you saying you had fun?”
“What I’m saying is that I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
“Let’s go!” I shout, turning the engine over again. “This time, I’m drifting.”
When I hit the accelerator, Elizabeth smiles.
There are some moments that feel pre-destined.
Sitting in an F1 car for the first time. Taking in the glittering sight of Monaco. Winning my first grand prix.
So when my phone rings the very second I step out of the shower, I know in my bones that it’s the call I’ve been waiting for.
“Hi, Stas.”
“Hello, Wes.”
We’re both silent then. There are so many things I want to say. So many questions I want to ask. I don’t even know where to start.
“How’s Hyunjoon?” he asks, surprising me.
“Banged up and in need of a lot of rest and physical therapy. But he’ll bounce back.”
“Good,” he says. “Your new teammate is an asshole.”
I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, he is. He might even be worse than you.”
“No one is worse than me,” Stas says. Despite everything, I’ve missed him.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I say. I mean it to be a joke, but it comes out with unexpected gravity.
Okay. So maybe I’m angry.
Stas sighs. “I owe you a big conversation. Many explanations.”
“Hell yeah, you do.”
“But I called to ask for a favor.”
My stomach drops. “Stas, what the hell? Am I part of this? Did you make me part of this without me even knowing?”
“No,” he says, his voice firm. “I worked very hard to keep you out of it. And I won’t give you any details now because I want to continue keeping you out of it.”
“But Elio—”
“Stay away from him,” Stas says, his voice as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “Listen to me, Wes. That story you told the press about the Bugatti.”
Every cell in my body goes on high alert. “What about it?”
“There’s a journalist looking into it. I need her to drop it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know how it sounds,” Stas says quietly. “But please know that I’m trying to make this right. If this story comes out too early, it will ruin everything.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Talk to the woman,” Stas says. “Elizabeth Jacobs.”
I freeze. How the hell does he even know her name? And where is he? No one seems to know—I’ve asked everyone in his inner circle and they all swear they’re as clueless as I am. “Why?”
“She can kill the story.”
“Stas, what’s going on? Why do I need to do this?”
“Because it is the safest way,” he says. “Please, Wes. Convince her to talk to the journalist. She’ll know who it is.”
I exhale heavily, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t like this.”
“I wouldn’t ask if there was a better way,” Stas says. “I swear.”
I wonder if that’s true—if I can trust Stas. For all I know, he’s playing me. After all, I had no idea he was wrapped up with fucking criminals, and we’ve been friends for more than a decade. Hell, I don’t even know if I can trust myself.
“Wes. Please,” Stas says, his voice a plea now. I’ve never heard him sound like that before.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m trying to make sure it stays that way.”
My mind races as I try to make sense of everything. I don’t want to be involved in this. But I also don’t want to be responsible for something going wrong. I don’t want Stas in trouble because I refused to have a conversation with someone. “Look. I’m not promising anything. But I’ll talk to her.”
“I understand,” Stas says. “Thank you.”
“But this is it, Stas,” I say. “I’m not…I can’t be…”
“I know, Wes.”
I blow out a heavy breath. “Okay.”
“I will go now,” Stas says. “Good luck this weekend.”
“Thanks,” I say, laughing at the change in topic. “Will you be watching?”
“Of course,” he says, sounding offended I even asked. “Give them hell, Wes.”
“You too, Stas.”
He lets out a dark chuckle. “I’m trying. I will talk to you…I don’t know when.”
My heart lurches. I hadn’t considered that this might be the last time I ever talk to Stas Dubinsky.
“Take care of yourself,” I say. “We need you back on the grid. I can’t deal with Freddie much longer.”
He laughs—a real one this time. “I will do my best. Bye, Wes.”
“Bye, Stas. Good luck.”
With that, I end what might be my very last conversation with my very complicated, probably criminal best friend.