Page 72 of The Fast Track

All’s well that ends well, though, as Lange has been reported to be seen about town again with Kemper. Nice try, Miss Kwong, but this is a win for the everyday girl. In the meantime, the F1 WAGs in the paddock better hang on to their men—this hard-partying butterfly clearly has feminine wiles!

“How could you let this happen?” Dietrich is staring at me with wide, disappointed eyes.

“It’s totally out of context,” I protest.

“The after-party. Did you or did you not allow yourself to get so drunk you couldn’t stand?”

My stomach shrinks and shrinks, until I think I may throw up the liter of hydration juice I drank during the race. “I did,” I say in a small voice.

“Mein Gott.” Dietrich runs a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I was… upset that night,” I explain lamely, highly conscious of Cameron just a few feet away.

“Are you talking about me? About us? Is this some sort of strange revenge? I apologized for my confusing intentions; I thought it was all okay for us.”

“It was—is—okay.”

“Then why would you do something so stupid?” Dietrich closes his eyes briefly, as if it physically pains him to look at me. “I don’t have time for this right now. I have to go prepare for my race.”

He snatches his phone out of my hand and blows out of the cooldown room, muttering German expletives under his breath.

Fuck.

“Feminine wiles, huh?” Cameron looks up from where he’s been reading the article over Sasha’s shoulder. “Thought you two weren’t a thing.”

My blood runs cold. “We aren’t.”

“Kwong certainly gave it her best shot. She was spotted spending ample time with the F1 driver during the lead-up to her big night out,” Cameron reads aloud, every word like a fingernail across my face. Next to him, Sasha’s smiling so wide, he looks likesomeone just told him the Orbital F2 seat is his. “‘She’s not conventionally beautiful,’ says a trusted source, ‘but lots of strange things can happen when you spend so much time in a bubble together.’Is that what you’ve been up to during all your ‘mentoring’ sessions?”

“No, not at all!” I break out in a sheen of icy sweat. How has everything spiraled so quickly?

“Mate, you’ve got a mention too,” Sasha says. “Once Lange realized he preferred his Heidelberg sweetheart, the enterprising female driver wasted no time. After she spent a night drowning her sorrows in every kind of alcohol (except, ironically, Hendriksen beer—we wonder what Orbital’s title sponsor makes of THAT), she has now been rumored to be spending time with none other than her very own teammate, the up-and-coming F3 talent Cameron Evans. Quick, someone alert the FIA—they’ve let a fox into the henhouse, or, should we say, the cockhouse. That’s pretty clever wordplay, actually.” He looks positively thrilled at this turn of events.

“I’ve read enough.” Cameron hands the phone back to the FIA attendant.

For the second time in as many minutes, someone I care deeply about storms out of the cooldown room without looking at me.

“Wait!” I chase after him, tugging the sleeve of his race suit. He shakes me off and I have to jog to keep up with his long, angry strides. “I know it sounds bad, but—”

“Bad?” Cameron whirls around, stopping so suddenly Ialmost crash into his chest. “It’s abhorrent.” His furious gaze pierces into me, cutting directly to my heart. “I feel like a fool. I thought you actually gave a shit about me, then—” He thrusts a hand at the air, too disgusted to go on.

“I do care,” I hiss, feeling the corner of my eyes stinging.Oh god, not here, not when there are twenty million people in the paddock getting ready for the F1 grand prix.

“Yeah? Then why am I your crap fallback option? The one you didn’t want anyone to know about?” Before I can say anything, he goes on. “Did you even like me? Or was this all some tactic to distract me for the win?”

A tactic? Just how garbage of a person does he think I am? That I’d stoop so low just to gain an edge on-track? Fury tears through me.

“What, were you a source for this article? You’re the one who gains the most from this. Now you can go get that F2 seat and pay off your grandparents’ mortgage.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t think he did it, not really. Maybe the cutthroat competitor in him thought about it for a millisecond, but I know, deep down, he would never do something like this, no matter what he stood to gain. I just wanted to hurt him as much as he’s hurt me.

“Are you fucking kidding?” He stares like he doesn’t recognize me. “Look, I know I’m not part of this world. I don’t have a trust fund and my parents aren’t racing royalty. No one expects me to win ten championships or whatever crapeveryone thinks Dietrich is going to do. But honestly, Kwong? No one’s made me feel as bad about it as you’ve just done.”

I’m trembling.

I’m stunned and miserable and most of all—angry at myself. I wish I could take my words back. I wish I could take everything back.

This is what I get for being so greedy. Things started going well for once, and I conned myself into thinking I could have it all. The boy and the F2 seat.