Page 14 of Faster

Chapter Eight

He’d crashed out at the first turn in Bahrain.

He’d started in the middle of the pack, farther back than usual.

He’d had a shit qualifying. What did he expect when he’d gone to bed with a bottle of tequila the night before?

This wasn’t the seventies—he couldn’t show up to the paddock smelling like a distillery—and this wasn’t how top-caliber drivers operated anymore.

But he couldn’t help it. Deep down, he knew he was being a baby about his father hiring his ex-girlfriend. But the knowledge that she was better—she’d placed second in the race—ate at him.

Anyhow, the other rookie driver who’d started behind him had tried to make a move in the first turn and made contact with Brent’s car, and they’d both spun and hit the wall.

The other driver had flipped his car over, but he was okay.

One of the things that made Brent glad it wasn’t the seventies anymore was that the rookie would have died for sure back then.

Last week, he was merely sore and embarrassed by a DNF (did not finish) in his first race.

Brent probably wouldn’t have gotten hit if he’d been focused on driving instead of being petty, so he’d vowed to show up for training fresh and ready to go this week. His sulking had still left him trailing behind in fitness, but he could catch up. He knew he could catch up.

The Scuderia Lupo drivers had placed first and third, and he could imagine how Ethan was taking his former best friend doing better than him on the first outing.

He hadn’t shown up to watch her on the podium.

He’d been sitting on his dad’s jet, waiting for everyone else to board.

But he’d seen it on TV. First race, first podium.

It had taken Brent two years and significant media speculation that his dad should replace him before he’d gotten his first podium. And he’d only placed third.

He hated himself for being jealous of Micaela. She was an awesome girl—that’s why he’d dated her. It was also why he’d sabotaged their relationship—didn’t take a shrink to figure that out. He’d known all along she would eventually outshine him, and he couldn’t deal with that.

Because he was a spoiled brat. Why did he hear those last two words in Paola’s voice?

Maybe because she was always on his ass. She was next to his car right now, fending off the press, because he could no longer be trusted to talk to them without an intermediary.

Lately, she was his shadow—a very fine-looking shadow.

He smiled at her as he put on his balaclava and tightened his gloves.

If she knew he thought she was hot, she’d yell at him.

Her hands would end up pulling at the end of her thick, dark hair in its perfect ponytail, and her nearly black eyes would throw off sparks of rage.

She’d slap him across the face if she knew how often he thought about wrapping that same ponytail around his hand and feeding her his dick.

Before meeting Paola, he hadn’t had intrusive thoughts about getting a blow job since he was about sixteen.

And he’d always been able to control them.

It was shocking how frequently thoughts about his dick and Paola showed up without his bidding.

He didn’t have the willpower to push them away.

But he needed to get control over his own mind. Because he loved racing. He reminded himself of that feeling of crashing out last week as he lowered himself into the cockpit. His engineer leaned in and gave him last-minute tire instructions.

Micaela would be favored this week because she had qualified ahead of him again—this time in P1.

But this week, he was in P4. Only the two Scuderia Lupo drivers separated him from his teammate.

He tried not to think about beating her.

He hadn’t even been able to go race distance in a car this season. He tried to focus on a clean race.

But then, as the crews were leaving the grid, he saw Paola walk past him, a little switch in her step that made her hips sway.

He thought about the way she’d given him a rare smile when he’d showed up to the paddock on media day in a pressed team kit and a decent attitude.

The way she’d given him another when he did a stupid TikTok dance for the admin.

Would she smile at him if he got up on the podium?

Would she even care? Or did she only think about him when it directly pertained to her job?

He pushed those questions out of his mind as the formation lap started.

He had to get his head in the game, and getting involved with someone else connected to racing was a sure way not to do that.

Watching races was Paola’s least favorite part of her job.

It was ironic, given that thousands of people would trade places with her, but she hated the feeling of impotence that came along with the drivers and engineers doing their thing.

She crafted the story of the team—both for the team and for the press.

But a crash or a sound bite from the radio could tear down everything she’d built over the days leading to the race.

In other words, after media day, her whole week went downhill.

She put her headphones on so she could listen to the radio communication between the pit wall and the drivers.

She ignored the private communiqués about telemetry and tire degradation, keeping her ears tuned for smart-ass remarks from Brent.

She didn’t have to worry about that from Micaela.

She was golden in the press, never putting a foot wrong.

Micaela was only a couple of years younger than Paola, but she felt like a proud parent whenever the new driver gave the perfect answer to the increasingly stupid queries from commentators.

They kept trying to provoke her to say something about the situation with Brent, but she was too much of a professional for that.

Paola, on the other hand, was on the verge of losing her cool with Brent.

This morning, a commentator had walked right into the team motor home and approached Brent while he was eating breakfast. And the idiot had actually snarled at the man, as though he had forgotten that he was a part of a society.

“Brent.” Paola was proud that she’d kept herself from hissing at him. “What was that about?”

He’d shrugged. “I haven’t had my coffee.

” And then he’d smiled at her as though moving his facial muscles out of their perpetual scowl would get him out of trouble with her.

The thing was, in another time, it might have worked.

Paola had a crush on Brent when she’d joined the team.

But everyone had a crush on Brent Sullivan.

He looked like a surfer boy who’d just hung his board on the wall of the team motor home to hop in a race car instead and see if he could make it go fast.

And when he was in good form, he could. But he also had this air of not really caring about anyone or anything.

Paola suspected it was a facade, though lately she’d come to realize that he might not just be empty inside.

It made sense that he would be hurt by his father—the one who had never denied him anything—going behind his back and betraying him.

But he had to see the opportunity this was for the team. He was a brat, but he wasn’t stupid.

“You can’t act like that in front of the press, Brent.” Paola tried to be gentle in her reminder, but she really wanted to smack him. His hazel eyes twinkled at her in response. He wasn’t taking her seriously at all.

He popped a grape into his mouth and bit down on it.

She shouldn’t look at his mouth. He was trying to flirt with her to get her off his back.

He’d done it before, and it had worked when she was the deputy press officer.

But she was in charge now, and she couldn’t be charmed out of making him fall in line.

“What are you going to do to punish me, Paola?” He leaned closer to her, and she should have shoved him away and filed a complaint with HR. But he was the boss’s son. Liam might be losing his patience with Brent, but he wasn’t going to let him get fired for being too fresh.

Like it or not, part of her job was to flirt and cajole. That mostly happened with the old-school guys who would die in their commentary chairs, and it never went anywhere. She had to be nicer to them because she was a girl. But there were boundaries—they couldn’t touch her.

And trying to manipulate Brent into acting right was different in that—deep down—she wouldn’t mind if he touched her. She thought about it—a lot.

“Can you at least not growl at them when they ask you about—”

“Don’t say her name. All I ever hear is that girl’s name.” Paola’s back went up when people called Micaela a “girl.” It was this minor sign of disrespect that she would not stand for. Her job was to make the whole team look good, but she felt the need to protect Micaela a little bit extra.

“She’s a woman.” Paola put her hand up. “But I understand. This is all going to blow over in a few weeks. They’ll realize that she’s just a racing driver, and the focus won’t fall so heavily on her.”

He looked across the cafeteria, and Paola knew he was looking at his teammate. There was something hurt in his gaze. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it’s that he knew he’d screwed up. And it was the one thing his father’s money couldn’t fix.

Paola felt a pang of jealousy. No one had ever regretted her leaving them.

All of her breakups had been neat, clean, and mostly mutual.

She had a habit of coming into a man’s life, fixing everything, and then moving on.

Her exes had all gone on to bigger and better things than what they’d been doing when they’d met.

She’d always been kind of proud that her relationships were so grown up. But, just once, she’d like to break someone’s heart. She’d like to know she’d meant enough to a man that the thought of her pained him.

Brent’s usual careless demeanor slipped back into place. The flirtatious grin was less compelling to her now because it wasn’t genuine. It was a defense tactic. “Okay, Ms. Rodriguez, I promise I’ll behave.” He put two fingers up when he said that.

“You were never a Boy Scout,” Paola reminded him that she knew everything about his past.

He winked at her, and she tried her hardest not to react. “Nope.”

But he kept his promise. He didn’t wreck his car, drove a nearly perfect race, and made it to the podium. He didn’t even pitch a bitch fit that Micaela was a step higher as the winner.