Chapter 8 #2
“You want to leave this”—I gesture at our glamorous, picture-perfect surroundings—“to go to a dive bar? Didn’t you say the bathrooms there are so gross, you’re lucky if you walk out of there without picking up a disease?
” Even more concerning, Roz’s tolerance for disgusting bathrooms is already sky-high; she shares a porta-potty with nine mechanics on race weekends and I’ve never heard a single complaint.
“Just felt like a beer, that’s all.” She shrugs, too nonchalant.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, fine.” She huffs. “I saw on Grayson’s Snap that he’s there with some of the guys. I thought we could go run into them.”
“Which guys?”
“Cameron, Pat. Sasha Devin from Triton is there too.” Roz squints at her phone, then tosses it aside. “Oh, who cares? Everyone’s out. Let’s just go.”
A knot forms in my stomach. I’ve successfully managed to avoid any one-on-one interaction with Cameron since our car-building debacle two weeks ago and would very much prefer to keep the streak going. “Can’t we hang out here? This is way nicer than stalking boys at the pub.”
“Not stalking. Conveniently running into them. Besides, might be nice for you to go out, take your mind off things. Better than moping around all day over some daft thing Dietrich Lange said.”
I want to point out I’m not moping, just licking my wounds. But Roz is like our old golden retriever when she got her mouth on a new squeaker toy.
“Pretty please?” She bats her eyes.
“Fine,” I groan. If the whole bro gang is out, there’s still a chance I can continue avoiding Cameron by blending into the crowd. “But I’m demanding full access to your uncle’s pool for the rest of the summer.”
“Done!” She giggles. “Now, shall we go pick something to wear? I want to show boob, but in a classy way.”
My doubts about The Hound and the Bacon aren’t assuaged as we pull up to the dingy black-and-faded-gold entrance.
Through a dusty bay window that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the Chicago Bulls’ last championship, I spot the guys piled into a corner booth.
Cameron manages to look both persnickety and immaculate, even while shoveling french fries into his mouth.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I turn to Roz, who’s doing her best to get out of the Uber in her red minidress without flashing anyone. “We could go see a movie and try that new Asian fusion restaurant.”
Roz ignores me and adjusts the front of her strappy dress so it reveals the tops of her boobs, a skill I can only be envious of, given my own nonexistent cleavage.
“Right, so here’s the plan. We’ll walk in there, pretend we don’t see them at first, be all cool, yeah?
Then you’re going to go up to them like, ‘Well, hello, lads! Fancy running into you here!’ ”
I groan. This keeps getting worse. “Why do I have to approach them? He’s your crush.”
“That’s the point. I can’t be seen going up; that’s too creepy.”
“But it’s okay for me to be a creep?”
“You can pretend you’ve got some driver thing to chat with them about. Like, ‘Grayson, how’s the new pull-up routine,’ y’know, that sort of thing—”
“That is so not how it works.”
“The point is, you chat him up, all friendly-like, then he invites you to join, and you call me over, and I’m like, ‘Oh, hey! Sure, why not?’ ”
I run through all the conceivable topics I could attempt to start a conversation with Grayson about. The list isn’t very long. “Why can’t you just ask him out like a normal human being?”
“Because.” Roz rolls her eyes. “Boys like to hunt, so you have to give them the chase.”
“Isn’t that kind of 1990s? What happened to smashing the patriarchy?”
“Yeah, well, I also want his patriarchy to smash me, so can you please help a sister out?”
Roz yanks the entrance door open, and I’m hit in the face by the smell of stale beer and fish and chips. The pub is overrun with soccer fans avidly watching the game broadcasted on every screen in the place. I make my way toward the guys’ table. Might as well get the torture over with.
“Not straightaway,” Roz hisses out of the corner of her mouth. “Act natural—sit somewhere less obvious first.”
“Why didn’t you say so beforehand?” I hiss back. I spot an empty chair close by and plop myself down as casually as I can. It’s sticky, as is the wobbly table that accompanies it.
Roz places our order at the bar, then takes the chair opposite me.
She immediately starts running her hand through her pink-tipped platinum-blond hair while glancing over at Grayson every six seconds.
None of the guys seem to register our presence; their eyes are glued to the game.
It appears to be a nail-biter, judging by the way the crowd is shouting and waving their fists every few minutes.
“Okay,” Roz says after a waiter brings the lemonade cocktails she ordered. “You can go and talk to them now.”
I’m not sure what the point of all that was.
I love Roz, but sometimes I wonder if we’d be friends if we weren’t the only women on the team.
I sigh, resigned, and pick my way through the crowd.
I come to a stop next to the wide corner booth containing Grayson and company.
Cameron sits at the other end, brow furrowed at the TV and a plate of very delectable-looking battered chicken tenders in front of him.
“Hi, guys,” I say at the exact moment a loud, synchronized cry bursts forth from everyone watching the game.
“C’mon ref, red flag!” Grayson yells, banging his pint glass on the table.
“What is he, blind?” Pat shakes his head.
So much for a smooth greeting. I want to call it a day and slink back to my seat, but Roz’s eyes are drilling holes into my back.
I try again, louder this time. “HI, GUYS!”
They freeze and stare at me. I’m so loud, the table of guys in matching Arsenal jerseys next to us stare too.
Grayson gives me a perfunctory nod by way of greeting before his eyes dart back to the nearest TV. “Are they going to do bugger all?” he says to no one in particular, then tilts his head back and drains his glass. “Sorry, what were you saying, Justine?”
He’s looking at me with an expectant what do you want?
look on his face. No friendly chitchat, no “howdy, fancy running into you here,” no way to casually insert myself and join their table.
Beads of sweat form at my temple. This has the potential to end in complete social humiliation, an apt continuation of my Formula 3 experience so far.
“How was your last gym session?” I blurt, blanking on anything other than the nonsensical topic Roz foisted on me before we walked in here.
“Uh, good?” Grayson stares at me like I’m a total weirdo.
Which, to be fair, I am completely being right now.
“How are you doing after the last race?” Sasha Devin speaks up.
He’s an F3 driver for Triton whom I’ve seen hanging out with the Orbital guys.
Like Pat, he’s the son of a billionaire—his family owns an oilfield or something like that—but unlike Pat, he’s known to be one of the better drivers, currently runner-up behind Cameron in the championship tables.
“I’m all right,” I say carefully, trying to determine if he’s intentionally being insulting by bringing up my less-than-desirable results at Spielberg or if it’s incidental small talk.
“Shame about the spin.” His lips draw up in a sneer. Definitely the former.
“What happened?” Grayson asks, looking way more intrigued by this than me planting myself in front of him trying to start a conversation.
“She had a bit of a shunt.” Sasha laughs. It’s the kind of laugh where his mouth moves but his eyes don’t. The opposite of smizing, what Mom is always trying to get me to do with my face at photo shoots.
“Ooh, this sounds good.” Caleb pops a thick-cut fry in his mouth and gives Sasha a look that makes me feel lower than low. It’s the kind of unspoken communication that makes it very clear they have thoughts about you, and those thoughts are in no way complimentary.
Whoever said teenage girls are the meanest creatures on earth has met zero aspiring F1 drivers. I glance over at Roz to check if she’s seeing this, but she’s holding a menu in front of her face, rigidly scrutinizing the same spot.
“How many times have we already talked about Spielberg?” Cameron lets out an exaggerated yawn, stretching both arms above his head.
“Just rehashing Justine’s Austrian highlights, mate.” Sasha snickers.
“Well, I’m bored,” Cameron says. Our eyes meet, and I get the sense he’s redirecting the conversation for my benefit. Why, I’m not sure, but I’m grateful all the same.
“Yeah, quit drowning out the postgame analysis,” Pat, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the TV this entire time, says in between bites of onion rings.
Sasha shrugs, sneer still in place, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything more and the guys focus their attention back on the game.
Except Cameron, who holds out his plate of deep-fried deliciousness to me. “Fancy a bite?”
“Okay,” I say, still confused as to why exactly he decided to intervene.
He elbows Pat and scoots farther into the booth, leaving more than enough space for me.
“I saw you eyeing these earlier,” he says, as if that explains his moment of shocking generosity.
I take a bite of the crispy, crunchy chicken. “This is amazing.”
“You haven’t had proper chicken strips if you think this fare is passable.”
Of course he’s a food snob who’s judgy about my palate. Before I can ask him what he considers top-of-the-line, Roz makes her long-awaited appearance.
“Hello, boys.” She crams herself in, pressing me into Cameron. His arms are jarringly toned through the buttery material of his sweater. “Sorry about Tottenham’s season,” she purrs at Grayson, leaning over the table so her décolletage is on display.
It works. Every guy at the table turns his gaze away from the TV and leans in toward her. I feel like I should take notes. Maybe if I’d shown up like a punky sex kitten instead of a crazy person with skinned knees, Dietrich would have been more forgiving about me being late.