12. Wes
My thoughts should be focused on rehydrating or the Rivazza corner at Imola or the call I have scheduled with Martine’s aerodynamicist. Instead, I’m hyper-focused on the fact that my usual playlists are distractingly stale.
“We shaved off four seconds from the last run,” he says, not even sounding a little bit winded.
His warm umber skin has the barest sheen of sweat, whereas I, despite being in excellent cardio condition, feel as if I can’t get enough air into my lungs and have sweat dripping from my elbows.
Annoyingly, gold medal-winning Olympians are built different.
I nod despite not caring how much faster I am today when the playlists are so uninspiring.
“What’s up?” Camden asks. “Are you still fixating on Miami?”
That weekend was a mixed bag for me. I came in third during the sprint race, but then performed poorly in qualifying.
For reasons my engineers still can’t explain to me, something was off with the car’s rear wing and it interfered with the downforce.
I started the race 13th on the grid, and though I drove aggressively, I ended in eighth.
I suppose I shouldn’t complain since I finished in the points and a wheel-to-wheel tussle between the two leaders in the Drivers’ Championship ended with both of them in the wall.
But fucking Freddie finished in 5th place after having a strong sprint, so now people can’t shut up about how I’m being eclipsed.
As much as that rankles, Jaclyn has helped me transform the frustration into acceptance that I did all I could and ultimately had a successful weekend.
“It’s not Miami,” I say. “I hate all my playlists.”
Camden snorts. “That’s because you haven’t updated them since 2009.”
“Hey!” I shout. But he may have a point. Camden laughs, slowing from a jog to a walk. “Your contact list is stuffed with singers, bands, and DJs, but your personal music taste hasn’t evolved.”
“What do you expect me to do, ask Tilly Monroe to curate a playlist?” I ask, shaking my head.
I’m lucky to call the most famous pop star in the world a friend.
We met years ago, when she was still a wide-eyed country-pop ingénue impressed by the glamour of a Monaco yacht party.
Though she hasn’t graced the garage in a long time, we’re still in touch and meet up any time our busy schedules have us crossing paths.
“She’d probably write you a personal pump-up song,” Camden says. “That woman has a work ethic like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” I quip. “But I see your point. I’m stuck and need to expand my musical horizons.”
“I’ll send some recs.” Considering the man listens to Baroque composers when he works out, I seriously doubt he’ll be much help.
I’m glad classical music works for him, but it transports me straight to my parents’ house, a concerned look on my mother’s face when I come to the dinner table with grease under my fingernails from rebuilding an engine in the garage.
I don’t even remember when I first fell in love with cars.
It’s just always been a part of me. But my parents tell a story about how we visited my aunt and uncle when I was a toddler.
There was an F1 race on in the background and I parked myself in front of the TV, completely transfixed.
So my Ivy League professor parents did what they do best: research.
After learning about karting, they reached out to a league in the area and I never looked back.
I seemed to inherently understand how to apply advanced laws of physics to driving—and a battery of intelligence tests all agreed I was a child genius.
My parents were thrilled. They could easily envision a future in academia for me, but all I wanted to do was race.
By the time I was entering high school, the fact that I wanted to use my “extraordinary aptitude for mechanics,” as my mother always put it, to drive really fucking fast rather than apply it to more scholarly pursuits flummoxed them.
But despite that, they saw how passionate I was and knew I had talent.
So they agreed to let me join a junior academy in the UK and build a racing career.
“Camden, I say this with respect, but—”
“I’m not going to subject you to my playlists,” he says. “You’re not sophisticated enough to grasp the motivational marvel that is Vivaldi.”
I bark out a laugh. As we come around the corner that brings us back to the state-of-the-art gym, Camden slaps me on the back. “Now. Let’s get to conditioning.”
I stifle the groan that crawls up my throat and focus on what’s important: the back-to-back races in Italy, Monaco, and Spain.
While flying with two other drivers to Imola, I make the grave mistake of asking them for music recommendations.
Within two hours, the entire paddock knows I’m looking for suggestions and my phone is blowing up with links to some of the most irritating songs I’ve ever heard in my life—including a polka rendition of “Proud to be an American,” sent by none other than Albrecht Klein.
While this is objectively hilarious, it does not do a damn thing to help solve my issue of hating seemingly all music.
When we wrap this week’s social media filming, I crave silence.
Andrew decided it’d be great fun to turn my request for new music into a game where he played snippets of songs and whoever said the title first scored points.
The game was engineered so that I’d lose, and though I don’t mind being the butt of a joke, I’m still pissed that I lost. But at least Lu won and not Freddie.
I make my way to my room in the motorhome, excited for some peace and quiet. But as I pass a conference room, I suddenly stop in my tracks.
There’s a heavy beat. Aggressive, distorted guitar riffs. A haunting voice singing a soaring melody.
It makes me want to drive.
I barge into the room, expecting to find one of the engineers or a member of the pit crew. But it’s Elizabeth Jacobs.
We haven’t spoken since the sponsor dinner in Miami. In fact, I’ve tried very hard not to think about that night or the overwhelming sense of relief that set in when she so expertly outmaneuvered me.
Despite my sunny attitude and outgoing reputation, I don’t have a huge circle of friends.
Sure, I’m friendly with lots of people, but when you’ve spent most of your life competing with your peers for podiums, sponsorships, contracts, and titles, it’s difficult to forge real friendships.
But Stas is my best friend. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.
Still, I’m not used to being at someone else’s mercy.
And I had to be that night in Miami when I asked Elizabeth for the kind of favor that could have gone wrong very quickly.
Where I was a swirling storm of anxiety and desperation, she was a calm sea. She didn’t so much as blink when she asked if I’m in love with Stas, even though it shocked the hell out of me.
It’s no secret that I’m bisexual. Much like my interest in cars and engineering, it’s always been part of me.
At the start of my career, I was concerned that teams or sponsors would want me to hide or downplay my sexuality, but I’ve been lucky that it’s been a non-issue.
Sure, assholes in comment sections bring it up as if it’s something to be ashamed of, and every now and then, a grainy photo will pop up in a tabloid of me kissing a man in a club and set off a whole new round of people “finding out.” But it’s never impacted my racing.
There have been whispers about me and Stas for years, so it wasn’t a surprise that Elizabeth Jacobs, with all of her competence and intelligence and skill, is familiar with the rumors and thinly veiled blind items about the wilder nights I’ve had.
But no one has ever asked me point-blank if I love him.
It was a sucker punch of a question. But considering her job and what exactly I was asking, she needs to know if my feelings for Stas are clouding my judgment.
So I told her the truth—I’m not and have never been in love with Stas.
But after that, I wanted to tell her the rest of it.
The whole of it. I wanted to place it at her feet like an offering and pray that she accepted it.
But that was disorienting, too. I’ve been conditioned to believe that feeling out of control is unacceptable and must be rectified immediately.
Everything in me was screaming that I wrest back control of the situation, my emotions, my thoughts, myself.
The only way I could think to do it while simultaneously following my instinct to confide in her was to give her the information in the most shocking way possible.
So I twisted her valid question in a way I’m sure she hated and then handed her a very juicy confirmation to try and break through her unflappable exterior and get a real reaction out of her—all so I could feel a modicum of control.
I’ve never told anyone who wasn’t a woman Stas and I were propositioning that the two of us have engaged in outrageously hot threesomes. But I told Elizabeth Jacobs. And I didn’t stick around to see her reaction.
She really might eviscerate me. It would be easy for her to do it.
With one message, she could tip off a journalist who would tell the whole world that the delusional “Grantbinsky” shippers aren’t so delusional after all and I wouldn’t even have time to brace for impact.
My career would definitely feel the consequences of my off-track actions then.
But when she says, “Are you here to bother me or to ask me a question,” in her usual tone, never looking up from her screen or pausing her typing, I know that we’re good.
“Nice to see you, too, Jacobs.” She’s wearing all black, and her hair is pulled back, as usual. But she’s added a new addition today: glasses. The dark frames have an oversized cat-eye shape that accentuate the delicate curves of her face. They’re sexy as hell. “What are you listening to?”
“My feminine rage playlist.”
I let out a low whistle. “Are you feeling particularly feminine and ragey today?”
She stops typing and meets my eye over the top of her laptop screen. “Feminine rage is my constant state of being.”
Well, damn. Whatever this kink is—disapproving librarian, maybe?—I’m extremely into it.
Elizabeth studies me. “Why do you ask?”
I grin. “I’m in the market for some new music.”
“I might have heard something about that,” she says, straight-faced. “Albrecht mentioned it.”
“Albrecht sent me offensively patriotic polka,” I say, pleased when Elizabeth’s mouth twitches in amusement. “As it turns out, feminine rage might be more in line with what I’m looking for.”
The song changes. The beat is slower, the mood darker. This time, a woman is screaming the lyrics, guttural and low. It’s a song that demands you pay attention to it. It makes me feel like I could go out on a battlefield alone and defeat an entire army with my bare hands.
The song ends in a blaze of guitars and a sustained scream. Elizabeth tilts her head, regarding me thoughtfully. “I’ll send you the link.”
“You will?” I ask, shocked.
She nods.
And then she turns her attention back to her laptop.
I figure that’s my cue to leave.
“Wes?” I stop and turn immediately. Elizabeth’s gaze is softer than I’m used to. “I made those calls.”
I figured we’d never bring up the Bugatti again, so I suck in a surprised breath. “And?”
“It’s on ice.”
On ice. Paused—not killed. I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. “Thank you.”
I expect Elizabeth to turn back to her work, but her eyes stay locked on mine. It isn’t uncomfortable though—instead, it feels as if we’re, for once, on equal footing. As if we both want to remain here for a little bit longer before throwing ourselves off balance.
A high-pitched notification pierces the air. “Well. Duty calls.”
“See you around, Jacobs.”
“Bye, Grant.”
Hours later, when I’m stretching in my hotel room before heading to bed, my phone buzzes—and I almost laugh in disbelief when I see the name “Elizabeth Jacobs” on my screen.
I swipe the message open and grin when a playlist titled “The Most Feminine of Rages” created by elizabethwjacobs opens.
I never thought Elizabeth would ever voluntarily send me anything, let alone a playlist that she put together for her own personal enjoyment. It may be a small victory, but it feels shockingly close to the thrill of standing on a podium.