Page 10 of Drive Me Wild
“He may be a dick,” Russell agrees, “but he’s got to have a good work ethic if McAllister hired him.”
I grumble to myself, knowing I can’t deny that Avery’s good at his job. Back when I lived in Milan while driving for Ithaca, James was the CEO of some major hedge funds. Since then, he’s had a few other high-profile jobs, so it’s clear he has the credentials and experience.Unfortunately.
He doesn’t care about Formula 1, though—he just follows the money. Considering McAllister’s nickname is McMoney to its sponsors, it’s honestly no surprise he found his way into a high-ranking position. And a bonus of his latest job is that he can ruin my career.
“Don’t focus on him,” Russell warns me, running his hand through his chestnut-colored hair. “Focus on whatyou’rethe best at and you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think making a girl come in less than five minutes is going to help me much today, but thanks for the advice.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Win the race today and you’ll have plenty of women lining up for you to do just that.”
He’s right about that.
Monza’sthe fastest track on the Formula 1 calendar. It’s made of long straights and tight chicanes with engines being in full throttle for most of the race. The aerodynamics are relatively low, which means the grip is low, too. Drivers put a premium on good braking stability and traction, which is why I’m starting the race on medium tires.
I wish I could capture the smell right before the final gantry light goes out at the start of a Grand Prix. It’s a mix of grease, burning rubber, and nervous sweat. It’s all of Formula 1 bundled into one specific, adrenaline-fueled scent that reminds me why I love this sport so goddamn much.
I keep my eyes transfixed ahead of me, listening to eachthumpof my heart. The sound of twenty engines roaring flood my ears as the gantry lights flick off. I peel forward, sweeping over the asphalt beneath my tires.
My starting grid position is P3, but I quickly crowd AlphaVite driver Mateo Bertole going into turn one and maneuver myself to P2, directly behind Blake. No surprise that he started the race in P1. I hold my position for the first twenty laps, except for when Lucas nips past me for second. I’m able to maneuver around his left side to reclaim the position as we blister down themain straight. This is my favorite part about driving—the feeling of complete control as I maneuver my car toward a win.
Every vibration from my engine pulses from my head to my toes. I feel every bump and groove of the circuit, every bit of speed I gain. I don’t mind it as it helps me stay in tune with my car. For everyday folks, it gets uncomfortable within the first five minutes. I took Josie out in a double-seater last year, and after three laps, she was yelling that it felt like she was trapped inside of a vibrator. It’s the first and only time I’ve ever gotten a semi while driving a circuit.
The pit crew doesn’t disappoint when I make a stop at lap twenty-four to swap out my medium tires for hard ones. A quick and clean pit is essential to holding my position, and I’m in and out of the pit lane in two-point-four seconds. My body arches backward as I change gears and speed up to re-enter the race. Thompson and an Ithaca driver speed past me, but they’re both a lap behind me, so I’m not worried.
“You’ve got Bertole six seconds behind you,” Andreas tells me through the radio. “Full throttle after this turn, Walker.”
If my eyes didn’t have to be on the track ahead of me, I’d roll them. Full throttle? No fucking shit. What do they think I’m going to do? Slow down to be courteous?
“Copy that, mate. Thanks.”
The deep blue paint of the AlphaVite car glistens in my mirror, the sun illuminating the color. A thrilling three-lap battle between Bertole and I kick off as we head into the Variante della Roggia. It’s a surreal feeling knowing that few in the world have experienced speed like this. Only those of us lucky enough to drive for Formula 1 share the combined goal of taking a circuit lap as quickly as possible, performance overriding every other factor, facing every twist and turn without compromise.
The edge of my elbows press against the cockpit of my car as I take the turn at a heart-lurching speed. Bertole drives offthe track, heading into the chicane, and my chest expands with pride. Aggressive defense is my specialty.
As we near the final ten laps, dots of sweat bead on my forehead. A podium win fringes on my ability to keep Bertole and Lucas behind me. I lock my eyes ahead, melting into the seat of my car as I will it to go just a fraction faster. Flexing my gloved fingers against the wheel, I navigate the intense drop in speed around the next corner. My body pitches to the side as I hit 4Gs of force.
Eight minutes later, I’m driving over the black-and-white-checkered line right behind Blake, securing a second-place win and eighteen points. I point a finger in the air as I cheer into my radio.
This one’s for you, Dad.
FIVE
JOSIE
Money may not buy happiness,but it buys you the ability to host an exclusive event at SoHo House in London. The members-only club costs an exorbitant amount in annual membership fees, but the type of people it caters to can afford it. Blake’s been a member for years and insisted it be the venue for his book release party.
His publicist fought him on it—wanting somewhere with the capacity to hold more than two hundred people—but Blake put his foot down. Although he’s opened up about his mental health and anxiety, he prefers the shadows to the spotlight, and SoHo House offers the privacy and security he wants. The irony that he wants a “small, intimate” party for a book that quite literally shares his life story, with whomever wants to read about it, isn’t lost on anyone.
I’ve only been here once before, for Lucas’s birthday dinner last year, and I’ve been dying to come back ever since. Situated in West London, there’s three floors of club space, a rooftop pool and terrace, and some of the best cocktails I’ve ever had. I’m usually a wine girl, but their signature drink, the Picante De La Casa, is to die for. It’s a fired-up version of a classic margarita,with added chili for extra bite. I’ve tried recreating it based on copy-cat recipes online, but it’s not the same.
I’m ordering my second—okay, maybe it’s my third or fourth, whatever—cocktail of the night when a familiar voice causes my entire body to freeze. Turning to my right, Andrew comes into focus. I notice he’s wearing the tie my parents bought him for his birthday last year. It makes the emerald specks in his eyes pop.
He’s at the other end of the bar, standing next to his friend as they order drinks.What in the bloody hell is he doing here?Well, I know he’s here because he was invited, but that invitation was obviously revoked when we broke up. Well, apparently it wasn’t obvious enough because here we are.
The scent of bergamot and birch announces the presence of someone next to me. It’s floral, spicy, and distinctively Theo. He lightly places his hand on my lower back. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Jos?”
I don’t answer, still debating what to do: approach Andrew and say hi or abort the entire situation and hide in a corner somewhere. It’s not like we ended on bad terms, but an occasional text is much different than seeing each other in person. I may be over him, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready or willing for us to transition into some sort of awkward friendship. One where we shoot the shit and pretend we didn’t used to spend all of our spare time together.
