Page 65 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
MEDITERRANEAN HIGHS
~ A UREN~
"GET BACK HERE AND COVER YOURSELF UP IN THAT SKIMPY ASS BIKINI!"
Luke's voice carries across the yacht's deck with the kind of exasperated fondness that only comes from dealing with someone who's completely lost their inhibitions after exactly one shot of tequila.
I'm squealing as I dodge his attempts to throw a towel over me, dancing away with the grace of someone who's had just enough alcohol to think they're invincible but not enough to actually impair motor function.
The bikini in question is admittedly tiny— a deep purple number with strategic strings that's more suggestion than actual coverage —but we're on a private yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. If there was ever a time for a skimpy bikini, this is it.
"Fuck you, and never!" I holler back, laughing like a crazed girl as I dart behind one of the deck chairs.
The Spanish sun beats down on us, turning the water into a blanket of diamonds that hurts to look at directly.
The sponsor's yacht gleams like a promise of everything money can buy—all teak decking and soft Egyptian cotton towels, a bar that's better stocked than most restaurants, and enough space that our entire team can spread out without feeling cramped.
Kieran watches the chaos from his position by the bar, a beer in hand and amusement written across his face.
"Did you give her tequila?" he asks Luke, though the answer is obviously yes.
Luke groans, still pursuing me with the towel like a mother hen with a particularly rebellious chick. "One fucking shot glass and she's wilding!"
"You of all people should know she handles alcohol horribly," Caspian sighs from his lounger, where he's been meticulously applying SPF 100 because apparently engineers don't believe in tanning, only in preventing skin damage with mathematical precision.
"Does not!" I protest, then immediately undermine my own argument by tripping over absolutely nothing and having to grab the railing to steady myself.
I recover with what I think is admirable grace, skidding across the deck to hide behind Dex, who's been documenting everything with his phone for what he claims are "team building memories" but what I suspect will become blackmail material.
"Defend me!" I demand, gripping his shoulders and using him as a human shield against Luke's towel assault.
Dex smirks, that calculating expression that means he's about to drop some embarrassing truth bomb. "You may not remember, but the last time you had three tequila shots, you were naked in the pool showing everyone your floating snow angels."
I gawk at him, processing this information with the slow comprehension of someone whose brain is operating on tequila time. Then I giggle, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as I lean in to whisper conspiratorially, "I can do it again."
"NO!"
The chorus comes from everyone simultaneously—Luke, Kieran, Caspian, even Terek who's just emerged from below deck. The unity of their horror makes me laugh even harder.
This was supposed to be a team-bonding day, not a photo op—at least that's what we told ourselves when Terek announced we'd been invited to use one of our sponsor's yachts for a "casual celebration" of our success in Barcelona.
Second place in my second race, with Lachlan taking first. The one-two finish for Titan Racing had sent our sponsors into ecstasy and our competitors into fury.
A drone buzzes past, the high-pitched whine cutting through our laughter. It hovers just out of reach, camera pointed directly at us, trying to get the perfect shot of the team that's currently dominating Formula One headlines.
Dex flips it the bird with both hands, his middle fingers raised in perfect symmetry. "Fuck off, you mechanical voyeur!"
Luke's already calling security, his phone pressed to his ear as he orders drone removal with the same casual tone someone might use to order pastries. "Yes, we have another one. No, we don't care if they claim it's for 'journalism.' Yes, you have permission to use whatever force necessary."
He pauses, listening, then adds, "Why are these drones making it a mission to get the best shots of us again? Oh right, we're famous for winning our second race. How could I forget?"
The sarcasm in his voice could strip paint, but there's pride underneath it. We are famous. We are winning. And despite the intrusions, we're actually having fun.
"Bring the champagne!" Lachlan calls out from where he's been manning the grill, because apparently even four-time world champions have to take turns with cooking duties.
Terek emerges fully from below deck, his usually stressed expression replaced with something that might actually be a genuine smile. "Just got off the phone with headquarters," he announces, holding up three fingers. "Three new sponsors."
The cheer that erupts is probably audible on the mainland. Kieran raises his beer, Caspian actually stands up from his precisely arranged lounger, and even Luke stops trying to cover me with a towel long enough to join in.
"To Titan Racing International!" Lachlan shouts, appearing with a bottle of champagne that he definitely didn't have cleared with the yacht's owner.
"To not crashing!" I add, which gets a laugh.
"To beating Mercedes next time!" Dex contributes.
"To properly applied sunscreen!" Caspian says, which gets him pelted with napkins.
"To family," Kieran says quietly, and that one makes everyone pause, smiles softening into something more meaningful.
We clink glasses and bottles and whatever we're holding, the sound carrying across the water.
The champagne is perfect—cold and crisp and probably worth more than most people's monthly salary.
I stick with it instead of more tequila, having learned my lesson about mixing different types of alcohol the hard way. Apparently.
The afternoon unfolds in a series of perfect moments strung together like pearls. We swim off the stern, the water so clear you can see straight to the bottom twenty feet down. The Mediterranean in late spring is cool but not cold, refreshing after the heat of the deck.
Lachlan dives with me, his hand skimming my ribs as we slip beneath the surface into a quiet blue world that feels like a secret.
Underwater, with the sunlight filtering down in cathedral rays and the sound of the world muffled to nothing, it's just us.
He grins at me, bubbles escaping as he tries not to laugh at my attempts to do underwater somersaults.
We surface together, gasping and laughing, and he pushes my wet hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. For a moment, we just tread water, looking at each other, and I think this might be what happiness actually feels like.
Back on deck, we're all pruned and sun-drunk, that particular exhaustion that comes from swimming and sunlight. Caspian, ever the responsible one, insists on applying sunscreen to my shoulders, muttering about UV damage and skin cancer statistics.
His hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who spends most of his time with machinery, working the lotion in slow circles that make my knees behave irresponsibly.
He's methodical about it—covering every inch of exposed skin with the kind of attention to detail that probably makes him excellent at his job but is definitely making me think inappropriate thoughts.
"If you don't stop making those noises," he murmurs low enough that only I can hear, "we're going to have a problem."
"I'm not making noises," I protest, then immediately undermine myself by humming when he hits a particularly tense spot between my shoulder blades.
"That," he says, his voice dropping to something that makes heat pool in my stomach, "is definitely a noise."
I end up sprawled across a sunbed between Kieran and Dex, the three of us trading increasingly ridiculous jabs about everything from racing lines to who has the worst tan lines.
Kieran's already getting pink across his shoulders despite the SPF 50 he claimed to apply, while Dex somehow has a perfect golden glow that makes no sense for someone who spends most of his time in commentary boxes.
"It's fake tan," Kieran accuses.
"It's Italian genetics," Dex counters.
"It's bullshit is what it is," I contribute, which gets me shoved playfully from both sides.
The banter is easy, comfortable in a way that speaks of familiarity I might not fully remember but that my body recognizes. These are my people. This is my pack, even if we're still figuring out exactly what that means.
Lachlan appears above us, blocking the sun with his body and casting us all in shadow. Before I can complain about the loss of warmth, he leans down and steals a kiss that tastes like champagne and grilled seafood and sunshine. It's quick but thorough, leaving me slightly dazed when he pulls back.
"Just checking," he says with a grin that should be illegal.
"Checking what?" I ask, though my voice comes out more breathless than intended.
"That you still taste like trouble."
The laugh that bubbles out of me is pure joy, uncomplicated by the pressures waiting for us back on shore. Out here, we're just a group of friends enjoying a perfect day on the water.
Luke ends up joining us, and somehow Dex gets evicted from his spot with good-natured grumbling about Beta privileges. I end up laid across both Luke and Kieran's laps, my back to the sun and a pillow of their thighs that's surprisingly comfortable.
Their conversation flows over me—discussing race strategy, arguing about tire choices, Kieran complaining about the modifications needed for the Montreal circuit coming up.
Luke's fingers card absently through my hair while Kieran's hand rests on my ankle, thumb tracing absent patterns that are definitely going to leave weird tan lines.
I'm drifting into that perfect space between sleep and waking, where everything feels soft and safe and possible, when someone asks, "What the hell is that speedboat doing?"