Page 59 of The Fast Track

“Now,” Lou continues on, “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I’m personally hoping to have you with the Orbital family for a long time.”

My heart speeds. If he’s saying what I think he’s saying…

But another sponsor comes over, and Lou is pulled away.

“Did you hear that?” I turn to Dietrich so I can confirm I didn’t hallucinate the whole exchange.

“I did.” He nods, eyes twinkling.

“So, does it mean… do you think I’m the front-runner for the F2 seat?”

“You sound like their lead horse to me.”

Without thinking about where we are—in a public venue, dressed fancier than I’ve ever been in my life—I pitch myself into him and throw my arms around his neck. I think I hear something somewhere tear in my satin sheath dress, but I’m too jazzed up to care.

“Be careful, you almost torpedoed my wineglass,” he says, but I can tell by the way he’s smiling gently that he doesn’t mind.

My gaze flickers over his shoulder. Through the forest of floral-and-candle table settings, crystal glassware, and VIP guests, my eyes land on Cameron, sitting toward the back next to Pat. I give him a tentative smile. This time, he glares right at me, dark eyes cutting into mine over the champagne he’s drinking.

“Now, now, children, save the PDA for the after-party.” Britt materializes out of nowhere, diamond chandelier earrings jingling.

My face heats. A quick peek around tells me Britt and Cameron aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed. Lou Wilson gives me an approving smile, like an indulgent father who’s thrilled his daughter has snagged such a catch.

“Dietrich, you’re speaking first.” Britt ushers him up the dais as the lights dim.

I barely hear a word of his welcome speech, I’m so all over the place. Part of me is racked with nerves, wondering what I can say to Cameron to set things right between us. If they can ever be right, once he finds out I’m definitively the front-runner.

The other part of me is soaring. About F2, about finally belonging, even if it doesn’t feel quite real. Lou Wilson himself made it clear he wants me here. With Orbital. The F2 seat is all but mine; I just have to finish out the current season strong. My future is opening up, so grand and rich with possibilities I feel like anything—even a future F1 championship—is in the cards.

“How was that?” Dietrich’s already back, sliding into his empty seat.

I didn’t hear a word of his speech. I fumble for something—anything—to say. “I liked what you said about, um, teamwork.”

He stares for a second, then bursts out laughing. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“No,” I admit sheepishly.

“It’s okay. That was a boring one.”

I grin in relief. He really is the nicest guy.

As soon as the rest of the speeches and meal service wrap up, the guests resume mingling and table-hopping. Lou and Dietrich are swarmed, swept away on a tide of admirers and networkers. I seize my opening and make a beeline for Cameron’s table. I’m still not sure what I’m going to say. Apologizing for not giving a heads-up about Dietrich feels toopresumptuous, like,Hey, I know you like me SO much and that’s why you’re mad. I don’t know what I’d do if I said that and he laughed in my face.

My internal debate is resolved by Cameron no longer being at his table by the time I get there. I’m half relieved, half disappointed.

“Justine!” Roz waves from a table nearby. Her cheeks are pink and she’s holding a half-drained martini glass. “You’re coming to the after-party, right? Uncle Lou booked Gini!”

“Who else is going?” I ask warily. I’ve long run through my energy supply from small talk. I’m not sure I have it in me to spend another few hours on my feet in a sweaty, rowdy crowd.

“Dietrich, of course.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “The mechanics. All the engineers. Most of the drivers. Grayson, Caleb, Cam—”

At his name, I sit up. “I’m in.”

18.

Gini Lounge, as it turnsout, is only a few blocks away from my apartment. I’ve been walking past the nondescript black door at least three times a week without noticing it. At 11:45 p.m. on a Saturday, the place is completely transformed, with a line stretching around the block. Two bouncers who would look right at home on an NFL offensive line stand guard over the entrance. One holds a clipboard while the other looks guests up and down, allowing only a handful of what seems like the prettiest girls to pass while directing most would-be club-goers to the back of the line.

“Please, my friends are all in there,” a girl pleads.