Chapter 7
Niki, five months later
Isit in my car just outside the track’s gates.
My phone vibrates for the umpteenth time, reminding me that I’ve sat here for two hours, when I should be standing with my sister as the drivers test the car for the first time this season during Shakedown.
I could remain in the safety of my pristine car, away from all the germs I’ll be confronted by when I walk into the group watching the cars. There will be engineers, mechanics, press, and numerous other staff.
But your sister will be there as well.
Even that’s not enough to make me drive. I need an assistant who understands mental health, who protects me and organises spaces for me. But that would involve trusting someone enough to tell them how fucked up my head is.
I cover my hands in sanitiser, squeezing my eyes shut to force away flashbacks of the smell of the hospital as medical staff fought to keep me alive.
I can’t wait any longer. I either have to leave or drive through the gates. I shove my hand in my pocket and run my fingers across the beaded bracelet from the only person I’ve allowed close the past year: Bella the rugby coach, or at least that was her lie.
I’ve Googled the hell out of her, but she was impossible to find because she wasn’t anything she said she was. If it wasn’t for the beaded bracelet and knickers I’d kept after she ran off, I’d wonder if I’d dreamt the entire night.
But whoever she was, she helped me come home to my family. I suck water from the bottle I ran through the steriliser three times before I left home—something else an assistant could do to stop me being late for every meeting and event.
I run my hand over the bracelet one last time before driving through the gates of the racetrack we’ve hired for today. My heart races and my belly tightens as I park and walk to where my sister and the rest of the team wait.
“You’re late,” Senna says as Connor, her boyfriend, laps the track.
He’s Coulter Racing Team’s lead driver and everything I used to be.
I study how he takes the corners. The tension in my shoulders eases as I make notes on my phone about his performance.
He’s braking early before the chicane. Is that because of the car or him?
“You wouldn’t have been late if you’d had an assistant,” Senna adds after I don’t reply. I’ve stood here for five minutes and made a screen full of notes.
Senna has updated me on the progress engineers and mechanics have made on the cars over the winter.
We’re looking good. We might be a contender rather than sitting midway down the leaderboard like we often were when I drove because of crappy investments.
And Connor is handling the car well, although I’d test the throttle more, especially on the straights.
“You shouldn’t have been late for Shakedown,” she says softer now. “Where were you?”
I avoid her question like I’ve avoided all her concerns and questions since I returned home five months ago. “You didn’t need me. I’m the reserve driver this year. Tawny and Connor were here to drive and test the changes,” I grumble.
Connor flies down the straight, which is named after the famous driver who inspired my teenage years. Jealousy rips through me. I’m itching to get back out there, but I can’t. I’m not the Niki who jumps in a car others have poked, prodded, and got their germs on.
Jacs, Coulter’s chief mechanic, and Tawny, her sister, join us.
“This day is significant. Last year, we had an abysmal session running the car around the track for the first time to ensure it was okay,” Senna continues, anxiously rubbing the tattoo that covers the scar on her hand from an accident during her teens.
“You don’t need to explain Shakedown. I missed one when I was away, and I’m here now.” I turn to Tawny. “How did it feel in the car? Did any changes surprise you?”
Tawny shrugs. “It was twitchier than I was expecting.”
“Ask Connor if he says the same,” I say to Senna, who relays it into her radio.
She nods.
“Testing in Bahrain in two weeks will be different from a wet, cold England,” I muse. “But you should get that looked at.”
Jacs nods before side-eyeing me. “Where were you today?”
“I was distracted watching videos of other reserve drivers,” I lie. The truth will lead to more questions.
“Senna told me you didn’t pick any of the assistants you interviewed yesterday, even though you need one, seeing as you’re always late,” Jacs says.
“Why didn’t you pick one?” Senna asks.
I roll my eyes. Her face pinches like our dad’s does when he’s angry.
“Because they just wanted to get in my pants. I want someone who can be the assistant I need and not someone who wants to fuck me.”
Tawny and Jacs chuckle.
Senna huffs. “It can’t be that hard to find. You’re a shitbag. I’m sure there are loads of people who’d rather vomit on themselves than fuck you.”
“One of the people I interviewed airdropped a naked semi onto my phone during the interview, and another one asked if my cock was as big as the rumours suggest before I kicked her out. Before you and Connor got together, he and I owned every city we raced. I’m a feckless playboy. ” Or I was before this existence.
Her lips quirk. “I’ve missed you. Even though you’re pushing me to despair, I’m glad you’re home.”
I wink at her, but my stomach remains in knots. “Me too.”
I shake my head as Connor takes the last corner. Two years ago, I was in the car, speeding through corners, taming its power, and making it do what I wanted, and now I’m a mess of a man.
“So why were you late, really?” Jacs asks.
“The car is looking good,” I say, pointing at the screens even though Connor is parking outside the garage. My fake smile hurts my face already
“Are you sleeping with someone?” Jacs presses.
“No. Are you?”
“Yeah, quite a few people actually.” She smirks.
“Jacs,” Tawny replies. “You don’t have to be so smug. I thought you swore off dating.”
“Someone in our family has to get out there. You don’t.”
As Connor walks into the garage, the press crowds him. He strides in like a hero. I miss the rush I got from that. All eyes on me. Strangers congratulating me and laughing with me. And the attention. I loved it.
My least favourite journalist, Ollie Ginold, makes a beeline for me. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. “Niki Coulter, it’s great to see you’re back. Where were you last year?”
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “Travelling, Ollie. I wanted to see the world, and I knew Senna would be the best team boss.” I’ve practised for my first conversation with the press multiple times in front of the mirror.
“So you didn’t run away because of the accident.”
“No. Nothing to do with that.” My mouth dries up.
Senna furrows her brow at the reporter. “Any questions related to today’s Shakedown?”
“Do you miss driving, Niki?” Ollie asks. “Or are you glad not to be driving today because you nearly died?”
Senna sucks in a breath. “That’s enough.”
“It’s okay,” I say, my palm hovering above her shoulder because I’m struggling to touch her. “I still love driving. Sometimes I race against my friends and Senna at a local airfield. I’m the reserve driver for Coulter this year.”
“I was surprised by how late you appeared today, especially because I saw you parked up outside the gates. My photographer saw you still sitting there an hour later. It must be hard, coming to a racing track, seeing as the last time you were at one, you nearly died.”
“You and your photographer must have seen someone else,” I mumble. Senna, Jacs, and Tawny stare at me.
There are too many people around.
Connor swaggers towards us.
“Someone else in an Aston Martin Vantage with the number plate Coults 75? Sure.” Ollie rolls his eyes.
“Are we done?” I ask, my throat closing. One of the engineers sneezes, and I jolt. Connor tries to whisper something in my ear, but he’s sweaty, and I can’t be sure it’s because of the drive. I rear away. My heartbeat thunders.
Ollie dogs me. “Do you still have scars from your accident?”
My trembling hand nearly knocks my cap off when I tap it to ensure it covers my head.
“Yes, I still have scars.” I used to be the guy people would write about because of my success and confidence. “Goodbye, Ollie.”
“You have plenty of emotional scars, too,” he says under his breath.
He’s right, but I can’t discuss it. My family and Connor would try to fix me, and I can’t be even more pathetic in front of them than I am now.
“One of your former medical team told me you hid serious mental health issues, and that’s why you disappeared not long after leaving the hospital. What would you say to them in response?”
I fumble through my bag for my water bottle, desperate to wash away the dryness clogging my throat. I can’t let anyone else near it in case they accidentally sip out of it. It slips out of my sweaty grip twice, but I grab it.
“My old medical team can’t tell you about my medical problems. That’s against doctor patient confidentiality.”
Ollie sneers. “So you’re not denying that’s what’s going on?”
“Get out,” I rasp as Senna gawks at me, open-mouthed.
“Readers deserve to know what broke their favourite star and why he can’t race anymore.”
The bottle falls out of my hand and clangs to the floor, drawing everyone’s attention. The nozzle touches concrete and a billion germs. I cough, and Senna grabs the bottle, wipes the nozzle on her blouse, and holds it out to me.
Why didn’t I bring a spare? My assistant would have a spare. They’d have stopped me from dealing with Ollie. I shake as I continue coughing, gingerly taking the bottle from Senna.
What if I’m ill? I can’t be a reserve driver if I can’t even attend Shakedown without this happening. I need to get somewhere safe, but I can’t leave my family again.
I rush from the room, choking as I hide around the corner. I attempt to drink without my lips touching the nozzle. I hold my cap to my head. Water cascades down my face as I nearly waterboard myself, but my coughing subsides.
Why did I slip with what I said? Fucking anxiety. I need to control my life better, and I need help with that. There’s an itch to run away again, but I must move forwards if I want to return to the man I was before. I can’t do that alone, though.
Panting, I stay hidden until Senna’s voice carries on the wind. “Niki?”
When she sees me, she gasps and rubs the tattoo on her hand.
“I’m okay,” I croak, which is a perfect example of how I’m not okay. “I need an assistant. Will you help me?”