29. Elizabeth
The silence that descends on the Martine garage when the front of Freddie’s car clips Wes’s tire is thicker and more tense than any I’ve ever experienced.
No one speaks. No one even moves. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the screens and the smoking carcasses of the cars that were leading the race only moments ago.
It feels surreal that they were just speeding down the track and now are crumpled pieces of carbon fiber and machinery.
It feels impossible that rather than jumping into action to manage a crisis, I’m shaking with fear.
But of course it’s possible. Wes was in a high-speed car crash. And there’s nothing I can do to fix that.
When Freddie’s voice comes over the radio with an “I’m okay,” there are audible sighs of relief from several people in the garage. I wait for him to say more—to apologize, to ask how Wes is, anything. But he doesn’t.
The cameras pan to Wes’s destroyed car. He’s still sitting in it, unmoving.
“Is he okay?” someone asks, just as Paul says, “Wes, are you okay?” over the radio.
Anticipation climbs as the silence stretches. Is it possible he was knocked unconscious? And if he was, what happens?
The footage on the screen replays Freddie climbing out of his car.
But then Wes’s voice crackles through the radio.
“Yeah. But goddammit.” I nearly collapse with relief at the sound of his voice.
It’s more than apropos that as we hear those words, we watch as Freddie backs away from his wrecked car, surveying the damage he wrought.
But there’s still no footage of Wes.
“Come on,” I say, impatience clawing at my insides and up my throat, making me clench my fists and bite my lip.
I need to see him on the screen. I need to know that he is all right.
“Elizabeth,” David says, suddenly in front of me. “With me, please.”
It takes me a long moment to understand what he means. Because he can’t possibly be saying that he wants me to work right now.
How could anyone be expected to do their job when the person who carries this team just crashed into a barrier at 200 miles per hour?
But of course that’s what I’m being asked to do.
This is a crisis. And crises are my job.
I bite back a groan of frustration as I take my headset off, forcing myself to move past my fear so I can focus. “Statements?” I ask, and David nods.
In the motorhome, the PR and social teams are already typing furiously on laptops and phones. “Where are we?” David asks, and Tate hands him a tablet with a short statement. He reads through it quickly, frowning. “Too stiff. Lead with empathy.”
“The graphics templates are ready,” a designer says, and then Andrew pipes in with, “Can I get your eye on this race update for socials?” David glances at it, nods, and Andrew is off.
I’m about to ask David why the hell I’m here if he doesn’t need me, but my eyes snag a television screen showing live footage of Wes. He’s crouching down in the grass, his helmeted head in his hands.
“He’s okay,” I whisper, blinking the tears that sting the corners of my eyes away on instinct. But there’s no denying how happy I am to see him out of the car—to see him safe and whole. I can’t even begin to imagine how he’s feeling or what he must be thinking.
I open my music app, copy a link to a playlist titled “Everything is awful but at least I’m pretty,” and send it to Wes.
“What a bloody nightmare,” David says from beside me, rubbing his temples.
“Seriously,” I say, my eyes still glued to Wes. “Did you need me to help with something?”
“Strategy,” he says immediately. “There’s only a few days until the race in Hungary, but this is the kind of shit show that will overshadow the next grand prix.”
I order my brain to focus on David and not the driver on the screen. It is, undoubtedly, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. “Right. I doubt we can spin it.”
David shakes his head. “Definitely not.”
“I’m guessing officially blaming Freddie is out of the question.” Which is really too bad. I’d relish the opportunity to run his reputation so far into the ground he never sees the sky again.
“I assume it will be deemed a racing incident with no foul play,” David says quietly. “It would be very odd indeed for the team to single out a driver publicly. It’s not like this is the first time teammates have crashed into each other, and it won’t be the last. These things happen.”
“But Freddie went rogue.”
“This is a sport that rewards grit and gambling. If Freddie had pulled it off, I doubt Albrecht would have made him give the place back.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say something I regret in front of the comms team. “Remind me what’s in the PR pipeline this week.”
“Marcus’s Q&A with a business trade publication, but that won’t have broad readership.”
“What about the drivers?” I ask. “Any requests we could fulfill?”
David shrugs. “Always. But I don’t want to sit either of them down with a journalist right now.”
“What about a distraction? Do we have dirt on anyone from other teams?”
David gives me a very pointed look. “That’s ruthless.”
I silently return his very pointed look.
“So the very conveniently timed Bosch story was your doing, then?”
“I’m surprised it took you this long to figure that out.”
He shakes his head, but is grinning. “Any other ideas?”
I have several, but I doubt he’ll like them. “Instead of avoiding it, we could lean into it. Andrew could create some dramatic videos for social. Fueling the story rather than fighting it might take the bite out.”
“It could also create an incredibly toxic environment,” David points out.
“True,” I admit. “But everyone already knows Freddie can’t stand Wes. And even though Wes is the resident nice guy, he’s still a competitor. No one will expect him to just forgive and forget.”
“Right,” David says slowly. “It’s an interesting idea. But what about something heartwarming? Walking shelter dogs or volunteering with kids.”
“Hard to pull it off as authentic,” I say. “And with Freddie’s attitude, I wouldn’t advise it.”
The last thing this team needs is social blowback from a sloppy attempt at spin.
Even if David could book a last-minute interview where Wes and Freddie play with puppies, people have been watching the two of them chafe against each other for months.
No one would believe they’re friends after such a disastrous crash.
So I need to give David an idea that will not only work, but that he believes will work.
My eyes land on Andrew, who is typing furiously on his phone. Social. That’s the play.
“Here’s the plan,” I say. “Wes will get a group of drivers together for a game of padel and will post a video that shows Freddie playing with them. It’s easy, it’s contained, and it’s something people will buy as authentic even if they also side-eye it as a PR stunt. Two things can be true, after all.”
David nods. “Yes. That’s perfect.”
Before we can discuss the details, Tate is back with her second draft. “This works,” I say and when David nods his own approval, she rushes to the graphic designer.
My phone buzzes, and I brace for whatever fresh hell is about to be unleashed.
Stas never contacted me last week, much to my chagrin, and Alice has been on a warpath since receiving the video of Stas, Wes, and Liu Zhenghao.
Since I can no longer stop the Bugatti story, I’ve been trying to reach Stas.
But the private investigator who passed him my previous message can’t locate him now.
Apparently, Stas has truly gone to ground.
This would be a hell of a time for him to finally get in touch.
But when I look at my phone, I’m completely shocked—and entirely elated—to find a message from Wes.
WES GRANT
are you still in the paddock
I’m in the motorhome.
WES GRANT
did you know ‘paddock’ is a term associated with horses
Yes. Is that today’s animal fact?
WES GRANT
no. it’s that a pistol shrimp snaps its claw so fast that it can create a sonic boom
A casual superpower.
WES GRANT
could you come with me for my press round
What the hell? He still has to do press? I march over to David and demand to know what Wes is talking about, and he confirms that if Wes has been cleared by medical, then he’s obligated to do post-race press.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, feeling almost as shocked by this as when I learned that a race starts again even after a car has gone up in flames. “It’s like the governing body of this sport actively wants the drivers to have terrible mental health.”
David huffs out a laugh. “You’re definitely not alone in that thinking. But it’s a good idea for you to accompany Wes. In fact, I’ll head over and meet Freddie.”
I don’t have to be told twice. I set off with purpose, but it turns out I don’t have to go far.
Wes is right outside the motorhome, leaning against a wall in a way that Michaelangelo would’ve killed to capture in marble.
His hair is tousled, there’s dark stubble lining his jaw, and his racing suit is unzipped and folded at his waist, exposing the tight, black fireproof layer that stretches across the panes of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. If I hadn’t seen him crash with my own eyes, I would never believe this man had just been in a high-speed collision not even an hour earlier.
“Well, if it isn’t Wes Grant.”
“Jacobs,” he says, relief filling his voice. He closes the space between us and wraps his arms around me, leaning down to rest his head on my shoulder.
“You’re okay,” I whisper. “You’re here, and you’re okay.”
“I am,” he says, tightening his grip on me. “Fuck, that was awful.”
I nod. “Yeah. It was.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m holding him. That I’m rubbing his back. That I’m comforting him. That it feels natural. That it feels right.
“I have to go talk about it now,” he groans.
“If you want to say terrible things about Freddie, I won’t stop you.”
I feel him laugh against me before I hear it. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to stop me, Jacobs.”
“I already told you, bad press keeps me in a job.”
Wes gives me another squeeze before releasing his hold on me. “I could really go into the active tornado that is the press pen and talk shit about Freddie?”
I shrug. “You probably shouldn’t since I just told David that you’ll be taking Freddie and some other drivers to play padel together and then will post a video of all of you being chummy. But if you want to loudly blame Freddie, we can pivot.”
Wes’s mouth hooks up into a grin. “You’re really something else, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I say. “You ready?”
He takes a deep breath. “No. But I want to get this over with.”
In the press area, I watch in awe as Wes answers every question with humility and tact—and doesn’t say a single bad word about his asshole teammate.
Two hours later, I’m hitting send on my report for this weekend when there’s a knock on the conference room door.
“I’m packing up, I promise,” I say, closing my laptop. A woman on the cleaning crew already checked in once and asked when I’d be done. I can’t blame her for being impatient with me.
But then there’s a low laugh that makes my blood simmer and a smile tug at my lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you rush to do anything,” Wes says, leaning against the doorframe. “What an enlightening experience.”
“What do you want, Grant,” I force myself to ask flatly, making him laugh again.
“I’ve had a terrible day, Jacobs,” he says. “Can you cut me some slack this one time?”
I sling my bag on my shoulder and make my way toward him. “Probably not.”
“That sounds about right,” he says. But there’s a teasing tone in his voice and a glint of amusement in his eyes. “What are you doing tonight?”
The smart answer would be to find Chalondra at an after-party to learn what insider gossip she’s soaked up this weekend and then to once again check in with my army of contacts to find out if anyone knows where in the world Stas Dubinsky is.
But I don’t want to be smart about this anymore. Not after tonight. So I look at Wes and say, “No plans.”
“Really?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “I figured you’d rattle off a to-do list as long as my…” he trails off and gives me a little smirk. “Arm.”
I make it a point to look entirely unimpressed, but I’m working hard to hold back a smile. “And I figured you’d be relaxing in your luxury RV by now.”
“About that,” he says, the teasing humor suddenly gone, his volume dropping to sotto voce. “The idea of being there alone is pretty unbearable.”
If he had said that sentence any other way, I would have scoffed. But when he sounds like that, it’s hard not to melt. Still, I say, “How many times has that line worked for you?”
Wes smiles boyishly as he breathes a laugh. “Does it matter?”
And no. It really doesn’t.
“What do you need, Wes?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing before his gaze meets mine. “Company.”
“Is that all?”
“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” he says quietly. “But I don’t expect anything. I’m not in the mood for sex. That might be the first time I’ve ever said that.”
I grin up at him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“That’s a relief,” he says. “Can’t have people thinking I’m losing my edge.”
“To recap: you need company and don’t want to sleep alone.”
Wes nods. “Yes. For clarity’s sake, I’ll add this: I’d like you to stay with me.”
I don’t stay the night. Ever.
But this is a man who has been there for me without judgment. He’s taken my needs in stride and has respected them. And now he’s coming to me and trusting me with what he needs.
And that, I realize, is a type of submission. It’s not the kind I’m used to. I never allow myself to get close enough to anyone to develop that kind of emotional intimacy. But it’s submission all the same.
I’ve known for weeks that I have feelings for Wes. It’s time for me to be brave. To face the truth I’ve been too afraid to confess. To be vulnerable.
“Okay, Grant,” I say. “Let’s have a slumber party.”
When he smiles—close-lipped, a little shy, a bit overwhelmed—I return it.