Page 8

CHAPTER 8

Senna

He’s doing it. He’s actually doing it.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Connor is speeding around the track.

My first race as team boss and the first race since Niki crashed.

Memories of the flames burning my brother’s car as he was dragged to safety replay in my head. I thumb my scar and count to ten slowly.

Connor’s car wobbles on the corner, and he moves close to the barrier at high speed before wrestling the car back.

“Fucking oversteered. He needs to get the car under his control,” I mumble as I get a flashback of the moment Niki oversteered and ended up flying towards the barrier. I don’t know if I can do this.

Jacs watches the screen with me. “It’s going well. He’s doing fine. It’s just first-race nerves.”

I nod but don’t look away from the images of cars zooming around the track. Connor seems to slow and back away from other cars. He’s not fighting, and he’s still making mistakes.

I drag water from my bottle.

“Would it help if I distracted you?”

I side-eye Jacs. “And how are you going to do that?”

“That mechanic that used to work at Vessa, the one that brought us together, asked me for a job.”

I choke on my water, and Jacs taps me on the back.

“I know, right?”

“Maybe we should offer him one. If not for him, then we wouldn’t be best friends,” I say as I recall the night I met Jacs at an end-of-season dinner. A jumped-up engineer from Vessa explained how she’d never amount to anything because there wasn’t space for women like her in Formula One.

She tips her head and glares at me. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You need to get control of the car. Watch the track limits,” Macca, Connor’s race engineer, says over the radio, referring to Connor driving slightly over the edges of the track, which will incur penalties.

Cars bunch around the track in different spots, but Connor has a straight track without many cars around him. His driving should be as smooth as Antoine’s.

“I’m trying, Macca,” Connor replies, his voice wavering. “Some of these corners are really testing the car. That’s why I oversteered.”

He’s not the driver he was.

“You’re doing really well,” I say into my microphone.

Jacs waves at me and heads back to her team.

“Hey, boss.” Connor’s shaky voice is lighter.

“Hey, Dane,” I reply. “You’re doing well on the tyres. Are you happy with the strategy?”

It isn’t my place to talk on the radio. It should be between Connor and Macca, and I wouldn’t do the same with Antoine. But this helped Connor when he was younger. Although I’ve tried to distance myself from him, I’ve listened to his after-race interviews, and he’s commented that chatter can help.

“Yes, Coults.” He drops in my nickname and introduces a familiarity that I’ve tried to avoid. “Is there anything I can do to improve?”

“Let’s not share too much with everyone,” Macca says, reminding us the radio is open and anyone can listen.

“Dane, do you remember the race where you were first called Dane the Pain and why?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, and I hide my mouth with my hand so no one sees my smile.

I watch the screen as his car speeds up, as if he’s chasing another driver.

“You and Niki teased me mercilessly before that race. You showed me a photo of Layla wearing a T-shirt you’d designed and sent her,” he says.

My giggle slips out at the way he grumbles. It said on the front, Senna is the best driver ever , and on the back, Connor Dane sucks .

“Well, if you don’t bring Dane the Pain to this race, I’m getting T-shirts made for the whole team and insisting they wear them around head office and the factory for the next week. The back will say, ‘Connor Dane sucks.’ I won’t tell you what the front will say. I need to work out how many N’s are in Antoine, though.”

His growl fills my ears, and my belly flutters.

“You’re not ready for the adrenaline I’ll be bringing back into the garage with me.”

“I look forward to it,” I reply. “Macca, he’s all yours.”

Jacs stares at me from across the garage with an eyebrow raised. Shit, I’m smirking. I force my face into a blank look as Connor overtakes a driver from Force Brazil. He doesn’t do it as smoothly as he would have in the past, but there’s hints of Dane the Pain.

I lean back in my chair. I want to support and celebrate him, but the knowledge that he made me crash still sits deep in my stomach. My head and heart battle. When I avoided him, I could pretend he risked everything to be the best, including forcing me off the track so I never raced again. But I haven’t thought about the race a year earlier, when he got the nickname Dane the Pain, for years.

After that race, he checked in with me to ensure I was okay. Although he drove like a demon, he wanted to be certain that our friendship was safe and explain I wasn’t in danger at any point.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip as Connor nears another driver at a corner. My emotions spiral as I remember the moment he hit me, and I have to look away.

I pull my headphones off and toss them onto the desk beside the screen, sighing with relief. A couple of race engineers pat me on the back, and Jacs pumps her fist in my eyeline.

We did it.

The first race under my charge is over. We weren’t podium-worthy but came in eighth and tenth, which is impressive for our first race. I’m proud of my team.

My cuticles bleed from me gnawing on them. My hair hangs limply around my face, and my poor-fitting polyester trousers have probably left red marks all over my legs from where they scratched me up.

One of the models—I expect a guest of one of my drivers—sashays past, drawing stares from some of my garage team.

I blanch. I should be celebrating. I need to up my outfit game, not to get that reaction from the drivers, but so I don’t focus on my lacklustre appearance. I consider the other team bosses, all men. Some of them are dishevelled messes. Some insist on wearing racing suits, though they spend the whole race staring at screens, but others dress impeccably. The boss of Vessa is the pinnacle of style. He never sweats, and in recent years, as team boss, he’s never had a hair out of place. His clothes don’t crease because he doesn’t allow it. I need to be taken more seriously, which means dressing like a winner and not a teenage intern.

The model walks to the cars. Please don’t be here for Connor. Please be here for Antoine. I cross my arms and purse my lips as I track her. She steps between the cars. Connor gets out first, high-fiving his trainer, Silas.

I hold my breath.

But Connor barely notices the beauty with full lips, legs that go on for miles, perfect features, and wavy blond hair spun from gold. Instead, he catches my eye. His brow furrows as he sees my eyes flicker in her direction.

My jealousy must be like a banner across my face. Antoine gets out of his car, pulls off his helmet, and swaggers to the model, who jumps and squeals. He tips his head, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Antoine winks at me over her shoulder.

Connor sees that wink and me blinking before looking away as if caught out.

Shit. I’m not staring or even happy because Antoine winks at me. I’m dealing with my secret, shameful relief that she wasn’t here for Connor.

“Leave her the fuck alone,” Connor grunts. “She’s too good for you. Stop playing games with her.”

Antoine laughs. So Connor does want the model. My emotions somersault so fast I don’t understand how everything goes from celebration to chaos in seconds. I shouldn’t care if Connor desires the model.

“If you want Claudia here, you can have her. She likes drivers, don’t you, baby?” Antoine teases. The blond buries her face in his shoulder before whispering something in his ear and walking to where her designer handbag sits.

“I don’t mean her,” Connor snaps as he rounds on Antoine. “You know who I mean.”

Antoine winks at me again.

My mouth dries up, and my palms sweat. A crumb of hope stabs my heart, but I dismiss it quickly. Connor can’t be jealous because of me.

I hold my breath. I wouldn’t want that anyway.

I see the flush of adrenaline on Connor’s cheeks. He’s amped up because of the race. He steps closer to Antoine, and I hold my breath. He’s always looked sexy when he came off the track, but now he’s a man. My gaze slides down at how his racing suit grips him. His biceps flex as he stands toe-to-toe with Antoine.

I shake my head, but my attraction lingers even as the men eyeball each other.

Antoine whispers something that only Connor hears. With wide eyes, Connor grabs the collar of Antoine’s driving suit, but Antoine tips his head and smiles.

My dad’s voice tells me that having them fight might make them better drivers. But this isn’t the kind of team I want. I rub my scar as I debate between my management style and my dad’s.

“Come on, pretty boy. You know how she feels, how she’s always felt. She loved racing against me.”

“That’s enough,” I bellow before clearing the garage of everyone but Connor and Antoine.

The last days have shown they can behave and stay out of each other’s way, but as soon as they’re together, they are a pair of fireworks I have to throw water on.

“Dane, just fucking stop,” I shout.

Connor’s head whips around, and he stares at me. “Did you hear him? I didn’t?—”

I hold my hand up, and his eyes widen. My lips quirk briefly. I shouldn’t enjoy getting a reaction out of him this much. I should be calming him down.

“Antoine, I don’t want you winking at me, attempting your charm on me, rewriting history, or generally willy wanging around this place. You don’t own this team. I own you. Get that?”

He cocks his head, and his eyebrows furrow. “What is this willy wanging?”

It’s typical that all he hears is the phrase involving a man’s appendage. “It’s…” I throw my hands in the air. “It means walking around this place like you have an eight-inch dick.”

“But I do have an eight-inch dick, ma belle.” He winks at me. “I can prove?—”

Connor grabs him by the collar of his racing suit and picks him off the floor.

“Dane, stop!” I shout. “Antoine, get out and go to press.”

Connor drops Antoine, and Antoine walks out. I stare at the biceps rippling beneath Connor’s driving suit rather than the alleged big dick in the Frenchman’s pants.

“You need to stop fighting, Dane. I can’t have this garage erupting because you two have too much testosterone, or you’re fighting over some model, or because you’re in some competition on who has got the biggest dick.”

He raises his eyebrow at me. His lips are tight.

I need to calm his after-race adrenaline because it’s doing neither of us a favour. In every interaction between us since he returned into my life, my anger has slid right off him. Maybe I can make him laugh like I did in the race.

“We can establish Antoine has a huge dick,” I say.

“Hold off on that opinion until you see mine,” he snaps. Okay, I guess it’s not the time for jokes. His eyes narrow. “And stop having a go at me when it’s his behaviour that’s out of line. The guy is a problem, and he treats you like you’re here to service him. You’re his boss.”

My skin flushes with anger. “I’m well aware of what he’s like, but I’m handling it.”

Dane walks closer to me, and I swallow. He pushes a hand through his soft black hair. My hands tremble, and I sweep my tongue over my lower lip. My stomach flutters, and a silent thrill crackles around my body. I can’t work out what’s a remnant of my past crush and what’s my current anger.

“I’m protecting you, Senna,” he says between gritted teeth.

I step back, and my voice pitches. “Protecting me? Are you for real?”

“Stop rubbing your scar,” he growls, his stare on my thumb rubbing the line from the operation on my hand.

His words slap me like the wind when I’m racing down the motorway with my windows open. I didn’t know I was doing it.

“You can’t pretend you’re my knight in shining armour now when you’re the one who did this just so you could win.”

He closes on me. “You don’t know the truth,” he snarls. “Others are to blame. I tried to protect you that day.”

“What, by hitting me so I’d crash? I know the truth about that day because others told me while I was lying in the hospital. The people who cared about me, people like Antoine, came to see me as soon as they could. They said you’d try to blame others.”

He steps back, colliding with my desk.

Memories of him storming out of my bedroom weeks after I’d been brought home, when he wouldn’t say sorry but was adamant I had to listen to him about the race, are like boots on my chest. He steps close enough for me to smell the mixture of his sweat and woody lavender scent. I smelt that in the corridor after my call with Niki. He must be acting like this because he heard me crying.

Great. Another man in my life who’s decided I’m incapable and must protect me rather than support me. I squeeze my eyes to stop the tears threatening to burst free. I will not cry in front of him again.

“If you really want to protect me, then leave me alone and stop fighting with Antoine. Drive the way you’re capable of, and then maybe, you can stop being the man I can’t bear to be around because he ruined my life. Can you do that?”

Instead of answering, he walks away, and I swear I hear the word “crasher.” It’s the nickname other drivers have called me—a name to humiliate me.

My whole body is on fire. I stalk towards him and grab him by the shoulder, yanking him around to face me. He stares at me with a mixture of hatred and something else that makes my skin prickle, even as my whole body flames in anger.

“Don’t ever call me Crasher again,” I reply shakily.

“I would never call you that. I would rather die than hurt you. I hate what I did to you that day. I meant to protect you and keep you safe.”

His eyes pinch, and his lips are tight. My chest heaves as I stare at him. Adrenaline sparks through my body, making my limbs burn. He holds my stare as my fingers press into his racing suit. Anger bubbles between us. He licks his bottom lip slowly. I suck in a breath, and he parts his lips as he stares at me. I lean in, and his chest brushes against my breasts. Heat bursts between my thighs, and the fire of his touch threatens to consume me. He lifts his hand to my face, and my lips tremble. All the tension in his shoulders disappears. His eyes soften, and the earlier lines disappear. The contrast is so overwhelming that my pulse rises, and turmoil flips around my body.

I won’t let this happen. I can’t.

“Can you just keep driving like you’re capable of?” I whisper, repeating one of my requests.

I hold my breath in anticipation.

“Yes, I can do that, Miss Coulter. Boss.” His last word is like a punch. He pulls back so quickly I nearly fall, his suit ripped from my hand.

It’s what I needed to hear. I am his boss. Nothing more.

He walks away. I’m left standing alone in the garage. Goosebumps cover my skin, and I can’t forget what he said. What does he mean by saying he meant to protect me that day?