Page 32 of Drive Me Crazy
I collect my thoughts before listing out my “death-row meal.” Fried calamari and crispy Brussels sprouts with bacon for my appetizers, lamb chops as my main, potatoes au gratin and spring rolls—from my favorite restaurant in China—as my sides, my sister’s banoffee pie for dessert, and green tea and whiskey for my drinks. It’s surprisingly harder than I thoughtit’d be. After I say it, I already want to swap out one of my appetizers and change a drink choice.
“That was such a good death-row meal! I’m seriously impressed. You even included a restaurant name, which is, like, five hundred bonus points.”
It’s baffling how something as simple as a death-row meal can brighten her face as if she’d just won the lottery.
“I thought this wasn’t a test.”
“If you lost, I wouldn’t have let you know. Want to know mine?”
I don’t have time to say yes before Ella launches into a long-winded explanation of her meal. She’s seriously thought this out. There are even rotating options based on the season or the type of mood she’s in. When she finishes, we’re smiling at each other like idiots. For the first time since my mum left, I wish that cookie-cutter fairy tales were written for guys like me. But they’re not. They’re written for girls like Ella. The ones whodeservea happily ever after.
FOURTEEN
Ella
BLAKE’S in a mood from the second I see him in Austria for the next Grand Prix. Snappy and closed off, his hand permanently rakes through his hair in an agitated state. I try asking him if he’s okay, but he waves me off without a word. To make things worse, his practice sessions on Friday do not go well. It seems to be problem after problem with his car. The camber on his back tires isn’t right for the circuit conditions, there’s too much grain, something with his engine is off. His team makes changes to address the issues, but I don’t think anything can snap him out of this funk.
By the time Saturday rolls around, he’s in no better of a mood, yelling at everyone from the mechanics to Andreas. I keep enough distance between us so that I can oversee and overhear everything without being an inconvenience. Apparently, not enough distance because after he lands himself P9 at qualifying, which is the worst position he’s yet to start in, I become his personal punching bag.
He growls at me in front of the entire pit crew. “Christ, do you have to writeeverythingdown, Ella? Enough is enough. Move out of their way and let them do their job.”
I’mstanding off to the side, taking notes on my iPad, not bothering anyone. His jaw clenches and his brows knit together in frustration.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wishing I could hide behind the stack of tires next to me.
“Can’t you find something more meaningful to do than follow my every fucking move?”
Color storms my cheeks in embarrassment. After a few more similar instances, I’mthisclose to losing my shit on him, but people always surround us. He might not care how he sounds, but being here is my job, and I have no intention of losing my professionalism because of his temper tantrums. I make myself scarce the rest of the weekend to avoid him. He has yet to say sorry for being a dick and I have a feeling I’m waiting on an apology I’m not going to get.
I spend Sunday with Andreas, the team principal. He’s the heart and soul of McAllister. Nothing happens that he doesn’t know about, so he’s a great source for the biography. I’ve spent some time with him before, but not a ton. Everything he says sounds like he’s mad even though he’s not. He’s indifferent about my presence as long as I don’t interrupt what he’s doing because there’s a lot going on.
After stopping by the pit garage for some conversation about tire compound for the circuit, it’s just the two of us. I’ve already hit 10k steps on my fitness watch and it’s just a few minutes before noon. He shoots me a small smile, a knowing glint in his gray eyes. “Wondering how I deal with Blake when he’s a pain in the arse?”
“Lots of patience … and alcohol?”
Andreas has muttered about five times already that he needs a drink. I can probably use one too considering Blake’s snarky attitude and menacing glares.
“This weekend’s been a walk in the park compared to last season.”
“Ican only imagine.”
“He has a fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen in some time,” he says thoughtfully. “And I’d be remiss not to think it has something to do with you.”
“Oh, well, I—”
“I know you’re here to help with his book but don’t think I haven’t noticed your friendship.”
“He’s a good guy when he’s not being … well, when he’s not being a complete asshole. Pardon my language.”
“Just don’t give up on him,” Andreas tells me. “He’s a tough egg to crack, but he’s worth the scramble.”
Well, that’s a new expression.
I’m still mulling over Andreas’s comment as I make my way back to the paddock. I run directly into Blake. The force of it knocks me back a few steps and he grabs onto me before I fall. It’s like a scene out of a poorly directed, low-budget Lifetime rom-com.
“Shit. Sorry. Are you okay?”
Sorry for running into me or sorry for being a dickhead?
