Page 34 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Friends on the road

Violet

W illiam’s name in my contacts.

I’ve been staring at it for seven minutes now, thumb hovering, debating.

He’d asked me weeks ago in Barcelona about going to a show—a casual invitation I’d accepted just as casually.

Yet, here I am, frozen in indecision, like I’m about to call the board of directors with catastrophic news instead of a racing driver about a concert.

I toss my phone onto the couch and pace my penthouse’s living room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame London’s skyline, lights puncturing the gradual darkness that is taking over.

When was the last time I even went to a live show?

Six years ago? Seven? Anna had dragged me to see some indie band in Tokyo during a business trip.

I’d spent the first hour checking emails until she confiscated my phone .

I pick up my phone again. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman who runs a Formula 1 team. I can call a driver about a concert.

His contact photo stares back at me. It’s his official team headshot—serious expression, racing suit. Nothing like the William who’d grinned and said, “When we’re back in the UK, we should go to a show together,” as if suggesting something as simple as grabbing coffee.

I hit Call before I can overthink it again.

The line rings three times. I almost hang up.

“Violet?” His voice carries surprise, but he controls it quickly. “Everything okay?”

My throat tightens. Of course, he thinks it’s work-related. What else would it be?

“Everything’s fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m calling about that live show you mentioned.”

A beat of silence. “The live show?”

“In Barcelona. You invited me to go see a band once we were both back in the UK.” My words speed up. “If you don’t remember, or if you’re busy, that’s perfectly—”

“I remember.” The smile in his voice is audible. “I just didn’t think you’d actually call about it.”

I sink onto my couch, tension draining. “Well, I’m back in London. Have been for a few days. And I realized I never asked you about it, so I’m following through.” I sound so awkward. Thank god this is a call, because in person, I'd be hiding by now .

“And here I thought you were avoiding me.” He chuckles, the sound unexpectedly warm through the phone. “I was going to head to this place in Birmingham tonight, actually. Small venue, great acoustics. Band called Hollow Crown.”

“Tonight?” I check my watch. It’s 5 PM. “That’s… sudden.”

“Best decisions happen on impulse.” A pause. “Unless the great Violet Colton needs two weeks’ notice, and a formal invitation?”

I snort before I can stop myself. “I’ll have you know I’m very spontaneous.”

“Says the woman who color-codes her schedule.”

“How do you know I color-code my schedule?”

“Blake told me. Red for urgent meetings, blue for media, yellow for technical reviews, purple for—”

“Okay, okay.” I laugh, surprising myself. “I see you’ve been gathering intel.”

“Know thy enemy, right?” His tone shifts, softening. “Though we’re friends, but you get what I mean, right?”

“Yeah, we are,” I say finally.

“I hear a smile in your voice. Good. So, Birmingham tonight? I was going to go alone, but company would be nice.”

I hesitate, scanning my mental calendar. Tomorrow’s meetings don’t start until 10 AM. “What time would we get back?”

“Late. Or, we could crash at a hotel. Your call. I’m driving, by the way. No arguments.”

“I can drive myself— ”

“Nope. Birmingham’s a maze if you don’t know it, and we’ll need to park in some sketchy places. Plus, I know exactly where we’re going. Consider it my tour guide service.”

“Are you this bossy with everyone, or am I special?”

“Definitely special.” The teasing in his voice makes something flutter in my chest. “Now, since I’m guessing you haven’t been to a hardcore show in a while—”

“What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch about the CEO lifestyle. Anyway, some friendly advice: no heels. Wear boots or sneakers. Your feet will thank me. And stay away from the mosh pit; those guys don’t care if you’re running an F1 team, they’ll knock you sideways with their elbows.”

“I’m not completely clueless,” I protest. “I’ve been to concerts before.”

“Beyoncé doesn’t count.”

“It wasn’t—” I cut myself off, because it actually was a Beyoncé concert, the last big show I attended before Anna’s indie band adventure. Am I that predictable? “Fine. No heels, no mosh pit. Anything else, oh wise concert guru?”

“Wear something you don’t mind getting beer spilled on. And earplugs might be smart, but I have extra. Nothing cute or professional, but it’ll work. They’re new, by the way.”

I smile as he continues his list of concert survival tactics.

The warmth spreading through me isn’t just from the advice—it’s from the realization that this is the first social plan I’ve made in months that isn’t a networking event or business dinner.

Just… fun. With a friend. The concept feels foreign, almost forgotten.

“So, your address?” William asks. “I can pick you up around 6.”

I hesitate only briefly before telling him.

“Swanky,” he comments. “Very CEO of you.”

“Says the F1 driver. Don’t tell me you live in a humble cottage.”

“Well, it’s a farmhouse. I’m not penthouse level yet. Maybe after I win a few championships with our team.”

Our team .

The casual confidence in his voice makes me smile again. “Big dreams, William.”

“The biggest, and I’ll achieve them. So, 6 PM?”

“I’ll be ready.” I pause, then add, “How do I pay you back for the ticket and driving and everything?”

His answer comes instantly, without hesitation. “Be my friend, for real .”

The simplicity of it catches me off guard. When was the last time someone just wanted my friendship, with no agenda? In my world of business deals and strategic relationships, genuine connection is rare.

“I think I can manage that,” I say softly.

“Not in that ‘I'm just accepting to be polite’ way you did during our first team dinner when I joined. I mean, for real.”

“Okay, okay. I mean it.” He’s quite adamant about this. I ask, “Don’t you have female friends, or something like that? ”

“Nope. And before you say I’m desperate or something… I’m not. Now, get comfortably ready. I’ll let you know when I’ve arrived.”

After we hang up, I sit motionless, phone in my lap.

The penthouse feels different somehow—less like a showcase of success, and more like a home I’m about to leave for an adventure.

I check the time again. Half an hour to get ready for a concert with William Foster, who’s somehow shifted from the driver that energizes my entire team to… my excited friend?

I head to my closet, shaking my head at the strangeness of it all. But the smile doesn’t leave my face.

William is exactly six minutes early, pulling up in a red Volkswagen Polo that hugs the ground like it’s afraid of heights.

I spot him through the lobby windows, wearing distressed black jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that’s seen better days, but somehow looks perfect on him.

Nothing like the racing suits I’m used to seeing him in.

Or the simple white T-shirts and black jeans he wears in the paddock when not racing.

I adjust my own outfit—old but comfy sneakers, dark jeans, and a faded band T-shirt I’ve rescued from the back of my closet—and step outside before he can come in and get a full tour of my “swanky” lifestyle .

He spots me and lifts his eyebrows in surprise, a grin spreading across his face. He reaches across to push open the passenger door.

“Well, well,” he says as I slide in. “CEO Colton knows how to dress down. I’m impressed.”

“Did you think I live and sleep in tailored suits?” I buckle my seatbelt. The car smells faintly of pine and something else—cologne, maybe. Not overwhelming, just… present.

“Honestly? Yeah.” He pulls away from the curb with the smooth confidence of someone who drives for a living. “I figured your closet was just fifty identical power suits, and maybe one pair of pajamas with little Formula 1 cars on them.”

I roll my eyes. “My F1 pajamas are at the cleaners, unfortunately.”

“Tragic.” He flicks his eyes to my T-shirt. “Linkin Park? Hybrid Theory era? Okay, you’re officially cooler than I thought.”

“Your approval means everything to me.”

He laughs—a quick, warm sound. “So that’s how it’s gonna be? You match me joke for joke the whole way to Birmingham?”

“I can stop if it’s too much for you to handle. It's a three-hour trip, after all.”

“Oh, I can handle it.” He glances sideways at me, a challenge in his eyes. “But fair warning—off the track, I rarely lose.”

“First time for everything, William.”

We settle into a rhythm of banter that feels surprisingly natural as William navigates through London traffic.

He’s not your typical aggressive sports car driver—he’s patient, precise, signaling every turn with plenty of notice.

It’s strange seeing him in this context, away from the paddock and press conferences. And driving at normal speeds.

As we hit the motorway, I’m aware of music playing softly through the car’s speakers—heavy drums and guitar riffs, but low enough that conversation isn’t difficult.

The heating is on just enough to keep the evening chill at bay.

These small considerations strike me as oddly touching.

He’s made his space comfortable for a guest—for me.

I recognize the song that comes on next and start nodding along.

“Wait,” William says, eyes widening. “You know Architects?”

“I don’t just wear band shirts for fashion, William.”

He turns to me fully at the next red light, a stunned expression on his face, like I’ve just told him he’s won a championship. “No way. You’re into metalcore?”

“Don’t look so shocked. I contain multitudes.”

The light changes, and he accelerates, but the excited energy remains. “Favorite album?”

“ All Our Gods Have Abandoned Us . No question.”