Page 8 of Drive Me Crazy
“You were stabbing at it pretty aggressively,” she explains, thrusting the tumbling hair back from her eyes. “Either no one ever taught you how to properly use a fork and knife or you were using it as a voodoo doll.”
The throaty laugh I release catches me off guard. “No, I wasn’t voodoo-doll-ing the chicken. I’m just not hungry.”
Idon’t add that the emergency anti-anxiety meds I took earlier suppressed my appetite. The weight of everyone’s expectations is sitting heavily on my shoulders and I needed something to take the edge off.
Ella plucks the untouched dinner roll from my plate, ripping off a small piece before popping it into her mouth. She doesn’t even bother buttering it.
I blink rapidly. “How do you know I wasn’t saving that for later?”
“Were you?”
“Well, no. But who steals someone’s dinner roll?”
Ella throws her head back in unabashed laughter, the sound wholesome and seductive at the same time. “You just said you weren’t hungry, and it’s hardly called stealing. This isn’tLes Misérables.”
She opens her purse to take out her phone and I can’t help but notice the pepper spray nestled next to her lip gloss. She’s a pretty woman traveling to foreign countries, so it makes sense, but I have insane security who can do a lot more damage than a small canister can.
“Oh, wow, it’s late,” she comments to herself. “I’m going to head up and get some sleep. Jet lag and all of that. See you tomorrow?”
I give a quick nod, not able to stop the mixture of incredulity and exasperation I’m feeling. Don’t really have much of a choice but to see her tomorrow. Her arse looks damn fucking fantastic in her dress as she sashays away, completely unaware of the looks of appreciation it’s garnering. At least I’m looking forward to seeingthattomorrow.
The hour before any Grand Prix is the most hectic. The hour before the first Grand Prix of the season? Absolute fucking mayhem. What people see on TV are the drivers casually rolling onto the grid, ready for the race. They don’t see the behind-the-scenes. Mechanics giving the car last-minutechecks, engineers running through strategy, and the media buzzing around, asking annoying questions. The garage is the heart of the entire team and it’s bumbling with everyone running by and shouting in organized chaos.
Sixty minutes:I do a few final stretches and reaction drills, while my team preps the generators and cooling fans for the grid.
Forty minutes:The pit lane opens, and I exit the garage with my mechanics and their equipment. Fans cheer from the stands, the sound like music to my ears. I do a quick installation lap around the track, familiarizing myself with track conditions and noting any last-minute adjustments that’ll have to be made.
Thirty minutes:My engine powers off and I’m pushed to my grid position. I hop out of the cockpit and head to the front of the grid for the formal procedures, as the mechanics on the grid check my car, measuring and monitoring what they can. I calm my rapidly beating heart as Bahrain’s national anthem plays.
Twenty minutes:Josie and the rest of McAllister’s marketing team run around my car, snapping photos that I’m sure I’ll see on McAllister’s social media accounts later today. Journalists circle my car like vultures, asking questions I’m able to ignore thanks to my headphones.
Fifteen minutes:I get back into my car, my gloved hands resting steadily on the steering wheel. A sense of calm envelops me. Nowhere else in the world do I feel like I’m most myself.
Ten minutes:Everyone but the drivers, start crews, and FIA officials leaves the grid. My chest expands, a lightness fluttering through me.
Seven minutes:My team performs their last-minute checks before removing the tire blankets and lowering my car from its stand.
Five minutes:Personnel and staff exit the grid, leaving justthe twenty drivers—my competition, my friends, my enemies. My whole world is condensed into one two-hour circuit.
Three minutes:We take our formation lap, trying to simultaneously warm our brakes and tires while cooling our engines. I perform a bite point find to help with my clutch control before driving into the grid again. I’m upfront in pole position, where I belong.
One minute:The five red light start sequence is initiated. The first light on the starting gantry flicks on. Let the countdown begin. The race engineers buzz in the radio attached to my ear.Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.
Forty-five seconds:Another light goes on. The excitement of the crowd drowns out the sound of my engine.
Thirty seconds:Three lights now illuminate the starting gantry. My helmet obscures the smile radiating on my face. I’m ready to go.
Fifteen seconds:The fourth light turns on. I can’t tell if it’s me or my car vibrating with energy.
Ten seconds:I hyper-focus on the track ahead of me as the fifth and final light switches on.
Five seconds:The calm before the storm. My fingers drum against the wheel. A burst of anxious energy appears just as quickly as it dissolves.
Zero seconds:All five lights extinguish, signaling the start of the race. It’s go time, baby. I’m ready to remind the world who I am and what I’m capable of.
FIVE
Ella
