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Chapter Thirty-One

Darien

I roll up my sleeve and peer at the aggressive scars marring my right arm. The good thing is that they’ll be covered. The bad thing is that covering them won’t stop the questions.

We touched down in Emilia-Romagna, Italy, just hours ago, but I haven’t even had time to breathe. It’s already the hour of the annual Drivers’ Dinner, and Heidelberg Hybridge F1 Team has a reputation to uphold.

The dinner itself has been an occurrence since the rise of Revello, who consider Imola their home race. The dinner started out as a Revello tradition, with just their team around the dinner table in Fabrizio Revello’s house, but quickly grew to accommodate all the drivers on the grid when the Grand Prix was established in 2020, and then morphed into a full-blown gala featuring the core members of all ten teams. Press wanted to see the teams parade around in formal wear, and principals wanted to get hot gossip fresh out of the oven. The Drivers’ Dinner was the perfect opportunity for both.

I grab my suit jacket off the bed and slip it on. The jacket and slacks are a matching navy blue, with the Heidelberg logo over the breast: a coat of arms like the distant cousin to Revello’s, the Heidelberg family crest. All three of us drivers will match with the white dress shirts and navy suits to echo Heidelberg’s aqua and white colour scheme, although I decide a bit of bling is also required. I pair the suit with small gold hoop earrings to match my cross. The finishing touch: a Patek Philippe I bought last year with my first P1 bonus. Appearances are everything at these events. Heidelberg has the facilities now, but we also need to show that we, as drivers, are on top of our game – classy, professional, put-together.

And maybe, just maybe, I want to look good for another reason.

I leave my room to link up in the lobby of the small hotel, where Celina has announced she will personally vet everyone’s gala outfit. Under her watch, no one will be allowed to half-ass – of that much, I’m positive. She’s already not too thrilled with the number of sour gummy bears I consumed last night, so I make sure I’m extra put-together to avoid her bad side completely.

When I get down, I can see the chaos out of the window. There are already cars everywhere, pulling up along the front of the itty-bitty hotel building, its lights twinkling against the night sky. My heart thrums like the engine of one of our cars. This gala offers every team the chance to make positive impressions and do a little bit of peacocking, especially with our sponsors. After the practices in Miami, I’m stepping out into the limelight for the first time since my accident. It’s a lot of firsts. I’m not sure I’m prepared for all of them.

The moment I reach the lobby, I’m accosted by photographers. The sound is so loud, I can scarcely believe it. The media, for their part, don’t waste time with the bright light flares and shouted questions. I try my best to ignore the interrogation on the state of my arm, on whether I’ll even drive in the actual race come Sunday, and creep through to a separate hallway closer to the ballroom. I can feel the sweat already beading up on my forehead, my pulse quickening as I think of the night of the crash.

In the hallway, thankfully, the others have followed my game plan to get away from the cameras. I convene with Miguel, Henri, and their respective trainers, Louie and Jack. Celina and Shantal, last to arrive, bustle in soon enough.

Cel gets to work assessing the outfit situation right away, with a curt ‘Fine’ here and a brusque ‘That’ll do’ there. But my eyes catch sight of Shantal, and they can’t look away.

She wears a sleeveless blouse similar to a bralette. It’s silver and gold and covered in mirrors and jewels, and leaves her midriff completely exposed. What’s got to be yards of shimmering navy blue fabric are wrapped around her as a skirt that falls to her ankles, crossed over the front of her body, and tossed over a shoulder. The gold border of the fabric, lined with more mirrors, stands out perfectly against her deep tan. Her short hair has been half pinned back with tiny little diamonds. It conceals none of the uncovered skin at her collarbones, none of her cleavage. The outfit hugs every one of her curves, accentuating her small stature in all the right places.

I must be staring way too intently for way too long, because Shantal shifts on her silver heels. ‘The saree wasn’t too risky, was it?’

‘Uh … no,’ I stutter. Dude. You’re so much better than this. Be good. ‘You’re just … absolutely stunning.’

She tilts her head with a shy smile, not quite meeting my eye, and sends her big gold earrings swinging. ‘Oh … thank you.’

‘Shantal!’ Celina calls. Shantal turns, and holy shit , the back of the dress is nonexistent. I don’t even know if I’m in my right mind any more. I must look like I’ve lost it right now, but I can’t take my eyes off her. I can feel the front of my stupid slacks tighten as I take in every inch of her, every place I want to touch, to feel my skin against. She’s perfect.

Shantal confers with Celina for a moment, and then she spins back towards me, her hair blowing back from her face like she’s an angel sent straight from heaven. ‘Would you like to sit together at dinner, Darien?’

‘Dinner,’ I repeat numbly. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m assigning her to you as your handler,’ says Celina. ‘Shantal seems to be an excellent medium for keeping fragile male egos in check.’

I scoff. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘I’ll help deflect interrogation about your arm before you get up and swing at someone so hard you break the other one,’ Shantal replies with a hint of sarcasm. She raises an eyebrow markedly. ‘There are, after all, representatives from every team here tonight. We need to stay calm and collected.’

‘Oh, sure.’ Cool. So I’ve got to sit by Shantal all night and pretend I’m completely unaffected by her. Totally not suffering a raging boner every time I look at her, and my eyes inevitably trace their way up to her perfectly glossed lips.

‘Call me your shield,’ she teases with an absolutely killer smile. Her smiles. I don’t know if I can do this right now.

‘What if I call you my date?’ I suggest, before I can help myself.

‘You want …’ Shantal looks as shocked by my sudden words as I am.

But then she holds out her arm.

I just blink and give her a confused glance.

‘Well?’ She sticks her arm out further, giving it a shake so that the gold bangles on it clink together. Her right arm. She’s still trying to help me out, even in the slightest ways.

I awkwardly raise my good arm to let her loop her right through my left. ‘This once,’ she whispers. ‘I owe you for the temple.’

We enter the banquet hall together, and even if it’s just this once, I’ve never felt so confident as we descend into a mess of sponsors and motorsport royalty.