Page 16 of Drive Me Crazy
“We’re barely skimming the surface, baby.” He flashes me agrin that makes me press my legs together. “Get ready to burn some rubber.”
Blake happily rearranges my perception of what fast means. The high pitch of my shrieks as the wind blurs past us rivals only the squealing of tires against the asphalt.
“Finally ready to admit that I’m the best?”
I ignore him. He presses down on the accelerator, launching us through the straight faster than my brain can comprehend.
“What about now?”
My vision blurs as I’m pushed back into the cushioned seat, trapped by the force of an invisible hand.How is this thing still speeding up?
“Fine! You’re the best driver in the world!” I shout. “Everyone should bow down to how fucking fantastic you are! You’re a god among men.”
“You sound a little sarcastic,” he notes.
I’m going to kill him if he doesn’t kill me first.
“I, Eliana Jane Gold, hereby pronounce that Blake Hollis is the best driver in the entire universe. I will forever be impressed by the way he majestically handles a car! Happy?!”
“Very,” he says. I don’t even need to look over to know that fucker is wearing a shit-eating grin. “I thought you were a screamer. Glad I can now confirm.”
“Glad you now know what real screams sound like! Unlike Natasha the fake porn star.”
Blake’s amused laugh and my ear-piercing screeches cancel each other out as we finish the final lap. When we pull back up to the pit lane, I’m mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. Getting out of the car, my legs are like jelly. Blake has to unbuckle my helmet because my hands are too shaky.
Josie’s giggling at her phone where she’s been watching our drive in real time. “I have to edit out seventy-five percent of itthanks to Ella’s screaming and swearing, but this is high-quality content. You did it! Congrats!”
The only congrats I deserve is one for not throwing up all over my shoes. I shoot her a thumbs-up. She snaps a photo of me, although I’m probably so pale I’m translucent. Josie’s been attempting to convince me to let her “run” my Instagram. She says that no matter what I want to do post-Formula 1, I need to build a brand for myself and use Instagram as my résumé. I refuse to give her my login information, but I will let her take photos of me.
“I knew you’d have fun,” Blake says. “I sure as hell did.”
The corners of his lips tug up in a boyish sort of grin. It’s the happiest I’ve seen him since we met and I can’t help but savor the view. My parents warned me about drugs when I was a kid. They didn’t warn me about how addictive a smile could be.Ugh.
EIGHT
Ella
IT TAKES three hours in Monaco for me to realize Blake’s rich. It takes three more hours to realize that Blake’s filthy rich. I know that Formula 1 drivers can make millions upon millions, but seeing it in person is different. He’s got major “fuck you” money. I think the soap dispenser in one of the guest bathrooms costs more than my college tuition did. After some Internet sleuthing, I found out he bought the property for a whopping 7.2 million. Chump change when you’ve won as many championships as Blake.
Did I mention he has two other homes? This isn’t even his main residence; he just comes here when it’s dreary in London. I’m subleasing my apartment in New York while he owns multiple properties across the world. Love that for us.
When Blake told me he was coming here to relax before the next race, I told him to count me in. The surprise on his face was quickly replaced with exasperation. Too bad, buddy. If I’m supposed to learn about you, that also means learning what you do during your time off.
I’ve only been in Monaco for a few days, but I’ve spent each morning interviewing Blake. I finally feel like I’m makingheadway. It’s about time. George accounted for some initial pushback from him, so we’re still on schedule to meet our deadline.
Sitting across from Blake at his kitchen table, I get today’s interview started. “Have you ever peed in your race suit during a race?”
In all honesty, I’m just curious. I’ve read about it, and even though it might not be the most professional question I’ve ever asked, I think Blake will find it amusing. I’m starting to learn that he does have a sense of humor, even if it’s drier than I’m used to.
“That’s what you’re choosing to start with today? I thought you wanted to talk about the Junior World Karting Championship.”
“My interview, my questions.”
I shoot him a sugar-coated smile, mimicking his interview rule. He rests his hands on his toned stomach, the muscles outlined through his shirt.
“No, I haven’t. But I know a few drivers who have.”
Equally interesting and gross. I’m sure if I ask Theo, he’ll go into a detailed explanation on whether he has or hasn’t. Good luck to his future biographer. If Blake doesn’t say enough, Theo says too much.
