Page 4 of Drive Me Crazy
“I’m excited about it,” she says. “It’ll let people get to know the real Blake instead of the A-R-S-E you make yourself out to be.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I don’t bother mentioning that my problem with the biography is that I don’t want people to get to know the real me.
“How do you feel?” she asks. “And don’t say fine because that’s what you said last year and then you got penalized after purposefully causing a crash, Blake.”
It wasn’t on purpose; I was just trying to sneak past Harry Thompson and it backfired. Horrendously. “We’re not getting into this again, Ash.”
She doesn’t push me any further, no doubt to avoid World War III. I’ve been a ticking time bomb this past year, known to blow up at the slightest comment. God knows she got hit with enough shrapnel. It turns out mixing antidepressants and loads of alcohol isn’t a great idea. Who knew?
“DidFinn and Millie get my postcard?” I ask, my voice softening. My niece and nephew love getting snail mail and I try to send some as often as possible, even when we’re in the same city. The last one I sent had their favorite cartoon pig eating a macaron in front of Big Ben.
“Yep! They just sent you back a hand-drawn card. It’s very … unique.”
I snort at the descriptor. Unique is a nice way to describe their artistic abilities. Finn’s triangles will put his future Geometry teacher into cardiac arrest, and Millie exclusively uses orange because she “feels bad it has to share a name with fruit.” My sister’s an interior decorator, but her penchant for color-coordination and clean lines hasn’t manifested in her children.
“Finn tried to draw you two juggling at the circus, but it looks more like”—she cuts herself off with a laugh—“you know what? I’m not going to ruin the surprise. You’ll know exactly what I mean when you see it.”
“I’ll be on the lookout for it,” I tell her with a small grin. “I have to get back to my meeting, but I’ll come over for dinner soon, okay? Tell everyone I say hello.”
“Dinner sounds lovely,” she replies. “Be safe, okay?”
I mumble goodbye before sinking against the wall. If it could just swallow me and spit me out into the depths of hell, that’d be greatly appreciated. This season is make it or break it, and right now I can’t afford to break down. If I’ve learned anything from last season, it’s that I need to do a better job keeping my emotions in check and off the track.
THREE
Ella
THE FEW WEEKS after my goodbye party fly by. The flight to London does not. Probably because I spent all six hours panicking. I managed to calm down and remind myself why I was doing this by the time the wheels touched down. The glass of champagne—okay, or three—probably helped.
George lives in the suburbs outside of the city but has a two-bedroom “flat” in Shoreditch—a trendy and posh London neighborhood according to Poppy—where I’m living in between races. I only spend two days in London before flying to Bahrain for the first race weekend. I’m still adjusting to the time change, so the absolute last thing I want to do when I land is work out. Yet here I am, lugging my overweight suitcase down a never-ending hallway. I seriously have no idea where my room is; this hotel is a labyrinth. No Midwestern corn maze could’ve prepared me for this.
“Mom.” I sigh as I turn down another hallway. I think I’ve already walked past these rooms. “Please don’t friend request Blake. I haven’t even met him yet. And I’m pretty sure the Facebook account you sent me is fake. Do you know how many people probably pretend to be him?”
“Hedoesn’t have to accept!” she protests. “I just want him to know you have a caring mother looking out for you, so he better watch himself.”
“Yeah, Mom, because you come off super intimidating on Facebook.”
She posts inspirational quotes and reshares feel-good videos from the news. Nothing about her Facebook page screams “I’ll kick your ass.” My dad, on the other hand? Maybe. But my mom? Try again. The only thing she’s likely to scare is trick-ortreaters if she’s wearing a mask.
“Aha!” I stop in front of 4033. “Finally found the room.”
“Be sure to check under the bed and behind the curtains to make sure the room’s secure.”
“Of course.” I’ve seen way too muchLaw & Order: Special Victims Unitto not check for creepy men hiding in my hotel room. “I’ll call you later, okay? Love you!”
“Love you more, honey.”
I hang up the phone and use the card reader to enter the room. Holy hell. The suite is sleek, modern, and bigger than my NYC apartment by an embarrassing amount of square feet. And I had a decent-sized place, by Manhattan standards anyway. I feel like I’m on an episode ofInternational House Hunters.Except instead of having a two-million-dollar budget as a button collector, I have no budget as a biographer! But don’t worry. I’m willing to make that work in order to stay in this probably very expensive room in Bahrain.
Even though I’d flown first class, my muscles still ache from inactivity and I practically sprint into the shower. The high pressure of the hot water kneads the tension out of my shoulders, and I leave the bathroom in a euphoric state. I curl up in the king-sized bed, eat a room service dinner, and pass out wondering if the hotel sells sell full-sized bottles of their lavender lotion in the gift shop.
I WAKE up with a pit the size of a watermelon in my stomach. Today’s the day I meet Blake.
I can do this.
I hope.
I’m too nervous to eat, but I head to the breakfast buffet at the hotel to make myself a to-go coffee. With my caffeine boost—and the detailed instructions Blake’s manager Keith emailed me—it’s easy to find the conference room we’re all meeting in. Of course, when I walk in, Keith is nowhere to be found. The only person there is Blake. And I’m not sure if it’s the jet lag speaking, but holy hell this man is drop-dead gorgeous.
