Page 1 of Formula Fling

CHAPTER 1

Lex

It sounds likea fire alarm is going off, the shrill ring pulling me into consciousness. My head’s banging like a drum and for a moment, I’m completely disoriented. Groaning, I roll over in bed as the noise continues and I blink against the blinding morning light pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room’s spinning and my mouth tastes like I licked a dog’s arse.

Somehow, it filters in that it’s my phone ringing on the bedside table. I grab it, answering with a croaking “Yeah?”

“You’ve really cocked it up this time.” The sharp, distinctive Scouse accent from Liverpool has me groaning as I recognize Rosalind Pierce. She’s the executive secretary for Crown Velocity Motorsports, and she’s all business and no warmth. “Ms. Patrick would like to see you in one hour.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub at my temple. Harley Patrick is the team principal, the person who hired me and the person who can force me out of formula racing all together. “Mind telling me why?”

“Clearly you haven’t seen the tabloid headlines this morning, have you?”Tabloids? Bollocks.“You’ve made a right bloody mess of things again, Lex. I suggest you make haste because I believe she said something to the effect if you were one minute late, you’re fired.”

“Fuck,” I mutter and don’t bother with a goodbye, merely disconnect the call. Rosalind wouldn’t expect niceties from me anyway.

A groan emits from beside me on the bed and I lift my head, frowning at the dark hair sprawled across the pillow, a naked body tangled in the sheets.

Who the bloody hell is she? I don’t remember much of anything last night other than starting at a pub, going to another pub, and then inviting perhaps five, maybe fifty, people back to my flat to continue the party.

Just brilliant.

I sit up—wincing at the pain in my noggin—and run a hand through my hair before looking at the woman again. I nudge her shoulder. “Hey.”

She tries to burrow under the pillow.

“Hey,” I say again, pulling the pillow away. Her head lifts and she stares at me with bleary eyes rimmed with smudged dark mascara. Red tint is smeared across the side of her face and chin, the remnants of lipstick that I’m betting are also on my dick. “You got to shove off.”

“What time is it?” she asks grouchily, flopping over with a huff.

“Time for you to go,” I answer, rolling out of bed and striding naked to my bathroom for a quick shower.

By the time I’m done and pulling on a fresh T-shirt, jeans and trainers, the woman’s gone. My flat’s an absolute tip—bottles everywhere, a cracked glass table, clothes flung around like we had a rave in here. A chair’s knocked over near the balcony. Yeah, must’ve been a belter of a night.

I’m sure I’m going to hear some complaints about the noise—at least based on the state of things, I’m guessing it was loud. South Kensington is posh, expensive, full of wankers like me with too much money and not enough sense, but they do like things quiet. I’m guessing they’re still ruing the day a twenty-four-year-old Formula International race driver moved in.

My place is all sleek, modern and soulless, just like the rest of the neighborhood. Park-view flats costs more than some people make in a lifetime and my own—not park view—knocked my bank account down by two million pounds. Not bad for someone whose only skill is driving fast and not getting killed while doing it.

The flat reeks of booze, smoke and stale air but I’ll worry about that later. I’ve got fifty minutes to get to Woking where Crown Velocity’s headquarters is located, and I still have to find out what the fuck I did.

No time for my normal hit of espresso as I’m going to be cutting it way too close to Harley’s deadline. As I make my way to the underground car park, I navigate my phone and easily find the tabloid article Rosalind was referencing.

I wince as I read the headline:Lex Hamilton in Drunken Brawl with Earl at London Club.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. I don’t even bother reading the article as it includes a color photograph of me holding some man by the shirt collar, my fist cocked back to throw a punch.

I look at my hand, don’t see any marks on it and wonder if I actually made contact. I’ve been in my share of brawls over my life, and it will fuck up your knuckles. My hands are essential to my career and I can’t be doing stupid stuff like risking them.

I get in my McLaren 720S Spider, done in the signature McLaren orange, and rev the engine. My head is still pounding as I hit the A4, which is the most direct route out of central London. Traffic is horrible and I’ll never make it there on time. I dial Rosalind, who’s programmed in my favorite’s list, and she answers crisply on the first ring. “I hope you’re on your way.”

“I am, but let Harley know… traffic’s horrible. I won’t make it on time.”

“Then you’re probably out of a job,” she replies pertly.

I scoff at the notion. I’m one of the top four drivers on the circuit and Crown Velocity came in third in the Constructor’s Shield last season. The Shield is the award given to the team with the most points at the end of the season and it translates into lots of money.

Like upward of a hundred million pounds to the winning team.

I’m one of Crown Velocity’s best chances to get there so I’m confident my job is safe. “Just let Harley know,” I instruct Rosalind. “I’m on my way.”

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