Page 8 of Formula Fling

I turn to see a handsome man in his mid-twenties sliding into the seat next to me. I recognize him right away because I know all the FI drivers. I sip my club soda and reach my hand across the table. “Posey Evans.”

“Carlos Moreno,” he says with a warm smile.

“Yes, I know. Number one driver for Union Jack Motorsports based right here in the UK,” I say as we shake hands.

“Looks like someone did their homework,” he says with a laugh.

“There’s a lot to absorb,” I admit sheepishly. “It was a little daunting trying to memorize twenty drivers’ names, faces and statistics.”

In truth, it happened over time as I binge-watched the documentary series about FI racing. There are ten teams in FI and each team has two drivers that race at the same time. They’re technically driving against each other since it’s an individual sport, but there are many times where they will make strategy decisions and maneuvers on the track in the spirit of teamwork because in addition to the individual driving championship at stake, they have the Constructor’s Shield which is the prize that the team ownership really covets.

Carlos was one of my favorites to watch in the documentary because he’s one of the nicest and humblest of the drivers. He’s just as handsome as Lex and Ronan, maybe even more so. His dark hair is wavy, and his brown eyes are warm, gleaming with a mixture of humor and intensity. His build is more muscular than Lex and Ronan and he wears a trim goatee that highlights theangular lines of his jaw and cheekbones. His skin is the warm, rich color of bronze under the pulsing light and his eyes are framed by thick black lashes and brows that give him a striking, expressive face.

“Tell me what you want to know about any of them,” Carlos says mischievously, his Mexican accent rich with a lilting, romantic quality. “I’ll spill all the dirty.”

Laughing, I look out at Lex and Ronan. “Those two seem like the bad boys of the sport.”

Carlos looks toward the floor, his lips quirking with amusement. When he resumes eye contact, he winks. “We’re all bad boys to some extent, no? But those two are double trouble sometimes.”

As if they knew they were being talked about, Lex and Ronan come to the table and there are fist bumps and backslaps with Carlos. They sit around and talk racing, their conversation filled with technical jargon that flies right over my head.

I stay silent and watch while I sip on my club soda. Carlos ends up with Ronan and Lex on the dance floor, although to his polite credit, he asked me to join them. I declined. My dancing skills aren’t completely lacking, but they are not up to par with these glamorous people.

I glance around the club, taking in the scene, trying to think of how I’m going to capture this in my book without sounding like I’m completely out of my depth. Through the strobing lights I see Lex’s face appear in the crowd, impossibly handsome, laughing because he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if he knows I’m watching, his gaze lands on me and locks. I hastily look away but when I glance back up, I see him walking my way.

He collapses into the seat next to me, face flushed, his hair even more perfectly tousled than before. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, then glances at me with a sly smile.

“Not your scene, I take it?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to my outfit.

“No, not really,” I admit, trying not to sound defensive. “But clearly it’s yours.”

He sweeps his hand out. “My domain.” I roll my eyes, unimpressed, and it only makes him laugh. “Oh, come on. This is what race car drivers do. All professional athletes actually. We party, we carouse.” Lex’s gaze slides out over the floor and lands on a beautiful woman dancing near the edge. He stares at her, rubbing a finger over his bottom lip in contemplation. “We take all that is offered because when you’re as good as we are, we’re offered the world.”

“So very typical,” I mutter under my breath, but apparently not low enough.

His head swivels my way. “Typical? I hear your disdain, so please explain.”

Where to start? I wave my hand around the club. “It’s just… this is what I’d expect. I think what most women expect.” I nod out to the dancing throng. “You said you’re offered the world because you’re an FI driver and you take all that’s offered. Seems like every man’s dream. Dozens of women out there, all dressed the same, all bumping and grinding to get your attention. And you’ll choose one lucky girl, but truth is, she’s no different from the rest. You’ll pick her probably on a random whim and forget her just as quickly the next morning. I get you’re talking about easy women and fun times, but really… you’re doing nothing special to earn it.”

He leans back, his gaze sweeping over me. “Those are some strong opinions.”

I shrug. “Just opinions.”

Lex raises an eyebrow, his smile widening. “Didn’t realize my personal after-hours life was necessary for your article.”

“Accurate reporting,” I say, pulling out my notepad and scribbling something just to make a point.

He chuckles, low and soft, and takes another sip of his drink. “You should come dance.”

The offer seems real, and I’m prepared to decline out of principle so as not to embarrass myself, but then it hits me… he’s bordering on drunk.

I look him over more critically. His glazed eyes, flushed skin, and his demeanor… he’s almost being nice to me.

“No thank you,” I say primly.

Lex shrugs, pushes up out of the chair. “Suit yourself. I think you could use some proper fun, but maybe you don’t know what that is.”

Before I can respond, Ronan yells from the dance floor, waving Lex back over. “Oi, Hamilton! Quit chatting and get back here!”

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