Page 21 of Formula Chance

“Anytime,” he says when we pull away and I flinch as I see Nash walking toward the Titans tent.

Carlos turns his head that way and neither of us miss the cold look Nash has leveled at us.

I feel a flush of guilt creep through me even though I have nothing to feel guilty about.

Carlos, however, laughs quietly. He nudges my shoulder. “I think someone still has feelings for you.”

“Yeah… hatred,” I murmur.

“That was pure jealousy, Bex,” Carlos says with another laugh. More like a cackle actually, as we watch Nash disappear into the tent.

No way. Nash would never consider me his in any shape, form or fashion. I’m nothing to him other than his chief race strategy engineer. And I’m not even sure we can get along in that capacity.

CHAPTER 7

Nash

The sponsor partyis in the middle of the freaking desert, and I’ve never seen anything so ridiculously lavish in my life. The temperature has dipped to the low seventies, which is practically a cold wave. The moon is full, making the sky look like blue velvet studded with diamonds, and laid out before us are massive white tents. I count ten in all, each the breadth of a moderately sized house and interconnected by wooden walkways.

Along the walkways are massive urns with palm trees strung with fairy lights and small speakers are nestled within so the music drifts through the space. The tents themselves are open with no walls, but the edges are swathed in fabrics of rich golds, deep purples and shimmering silvers with translucent veils hanging down that ripple in the soft breeze. Through the hazy material I see men in custom suits or in the traditional Saudithobesof flowing white. Women are in formal gowns but many, in deference to modesty, have long sleeves. Some have sheer capes or scarves over their shoulders. A few wear jewel-encrusted hijabs.

“This is fucking bananas,” Matthieu says as we make our way into the first tent. Tonight, we shared a car with Bernie to wherever we are. We were taken out of the city and into the dark desert for this event.

Inside the first tent, it’s immediately obvious why there are ten of them. The center pole, planted on a gleaming hardwood floor, is a swirling braid of fabrics in black and orange, the distinctive colors of my former team, Bauer FI Racing, based out of Austria.

“A tent for each team,” Bernie says, stating the obvious. “Cool.”

The tent is cavernous, easily able to hold dozens of people, along with tables of food and neon-backlit bars serving drinks. Because alcohol is strictly prohibited in Saudi Arabia, I’m sure they’re serving a variety of mocktails, fresh juices and probably teas.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” I say to the other guys, mainly to distance myself. I have no intention of hanging with them tonight, and I want to use this opportunity to connect with some of the other drivers I haven’t seen in three years.

I particularly want to see Carlos and find out why he was so cozy with Bex earlier today, but I haven’t quite figured out how to go about doing that without sounding overly invested.

“Good thing I brought my own,” Matthieu says, and I glance at him. He grins at me, opens his suit jacket, and I see the top of a liquor flask inside.

“Dude,” I say, lowering my voice. “You get caught with that, you’re going to end up in a Saudi prison.”

“Not going to get caught,” Matthieu says dismissively.

“If you do, I’ll move into your slot,” Bernie says with a bark of laughter.

Jesus, these guys are idiots and I walk away, needing to get as far from them as I can. I exit the Bauer tent and move along the path to the next one. It’s decorated in the red and white of Matterhorn FI Racing.

Several glittering chandeliers overhead cast shadows that dance across the hardwood floors, and I move to one of the bars to get a sparkling water. As a driver, I’ve attended my share of sponsor events, but nothing quite like this. I’m here to mingle, schmooze our sponsors, and—hopefully—not think too much about the chaos of the last few days.

Definitely shouldn’t be thinking of Bex, although I’m not even sure if she’s coming. It’s mandatory for the drivers but not the rest of the team.

I spot Carlos talking to a young Arab man in a bespoke suit in dark charcoal gray. He oozes wealth and I’m sure he’s associated with one of the formula sponsors, although I don’t recognize him. Carlos catches my eye and lifts his chin. He says something to the man—shakes his hand and laughs at something he says. Carlos is good at the schmooze game and extricates himself with a slight wave before heading my way.

There’s no pretension with Carlos as he crosses the floor, nodding at others he passes with a genuine smile. He’s the kind of guy you want by your side at every event like this, and even though I had a flare of jealousy when I saw him hugging Bex, he’s the type you just know wouldn’t encroach. Still, I am curious if he’ll reveal anything of their conversation. Being in proximity to her the last few days, I find myself far too curious about her for my own good.

Carlos greets me with a clap on the back. “There you are, amigo. Your entry back into FI is looking good on you.”

“Feels good to be back.” And yeah… even this spectacle that we’re required to attend for our sponsors in gratitude of the insane amounts of money they spend feels like I’m home.

“I have to say,” he says, looking around with amusement, “I never thought I’d find such glamour in the middle of the desert. I mean… just the generators they must have somewhere out there in the dark to power this place is over the top.”

I laugh, taking in the sparkling lights and people chatting, laughing and looking entirely too polished for my taste. The occasional server passes by, holding trays of flutes filled with exotic juices and small bites of delicate food.

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