Page 21 of Start Your Engines

“The less we talk about him, the better. There’s another twenty-two races to go, and with Antoine peacocking and Connor wanting to smack him, not to mention the lack of money to improve the cars or replace parts after crashes, we don’t stand much of a chance of regularly doing better.” I breathe slowly, closing my eyes and tucking my lower lip into my mouth.

“Fair. I bet you count your lucky stars that I’m your lead mechanic,” she says with a fake chuckle.

I pin her with my stare. “I count them every day. You are one of the best racing mechanics in the world, and I’ll never be able to tell you enough how lucky we are that you chose our team.”

“You chose me, too.” A glow trips across my skin as we match each other’s smiles. I wish I had the money to spend on the cars rather than make her team bust themselves for mediocrity. “So if the makeover isn’t about him, then what?”

I study the furnishings to avoid her penetrating stare.

“Senna,” she pushes.

I wrinkle my nose, walking around the room before staring at her. “I need to upscale my look. Firstly, I must match Filip, Vessa’s team boss extraordinaire.” I stand in front of the mirror and study my tired eyes and limp hair. “He’s stylish perfection. We’re not in the same league when it comes to preening, let alone power dressing. And…”

I don’t want to say the other thing. Jacs stands behind me, eyeing me and sensing my reluctance. “You can tell me anything,” she says, imploring me with her stare, a strand of red hair catching in her long eyelashes. “What is the issue?”

“I’m fed up with everyone trying to protect me. My dad’s decided I’m incapable. Niki tried to orchestrate some protection intervention, and Connor said what he said because he heard me crying. To the men, I’m a pathetic teenage girl, and that might partly be because I haven’t changed my look since I was seventeen, but my body has changed a lot.”

My eyes drop to my chest and my slight curves.

“I’ve spent years hiding who I am in order to fit in, whether that was a hairstyle I could easily fit under a helmet when I raced as a teenager, or wearing polo shirts and plain trousers as Comms Director so I’d be known for my abilities and getting the job done.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that if that’s who you want to be.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “I don’t think that’s who I want to be anymore. I want to command attention when I walk through the garage. I know I do that with my voice, and I’m starting to have an impact on some of the team.” I hold out my hands. “I need to show it’s me against the world and be that bitch boss, or at least a woman who came to do business, not a teenager planning her university choices. I want to show I’m here to kick ass and look good while doing it, and if I stop hiding my body, then even better.”

Jacs claps her hands. “Does this mean you’ll finally show off your perfect legs?”

I smile at her reflection. “I have good legs?”

“Are you for real? I have a footballer’s calves and a rugby player’s thighs. That isn’t the best combination. On the upside, I have an arse that features in the dreams of every man and woman that’s spent time with me.” I giggle as she spanks her butt. “But you have the legs of a ballet dancer. You run miles every week, so show off.”

My face heats with a blush. I wouldn’t change my family for the world, but growing up with men and a mum who didn’t bother with clothes or make-up meant I didn’t think about my body. My favourite clothes are Coulter Racing hoodies and shorts. “But how do I sort out this makeover? I don’t want to end up overdoing it and resembling the time Niki turned my Barbie doll into a troll. He was awful to that poor doll, shoving her down the toilet and tying her to his kart.”

“I bet he regretted making you angry. You gave up your toys, took up karting, and beat him,” Jacs says. I was a typical little sister, equal parts adoration and competition for my big brother.

“I really miss him.”

“I know you do. I wish I could bring him home. I can help you with the makeover, though.”

“Yeah?”

“My ex, Aida, from when I studied in Australia, is a personal stylist.”

Jacs swallows, and I’m reminded of her drought when it comes to relationships and sex, mainly due to work and our sector’s lack of eligible options. Neither of us would date someone from the team because it would get around and we’d lose all the respect we’ve painstakingly built as independent women.

“I’ll get Aida to help you before qualifying. Then you can walk in like a bitch boss and shut all those overprotective arseholes up. Aida and I stay in touch, and when we race out there, I pop by for some stress relief”—she winks—“like you do with your vet.”

“He’s notmyvet.”

“He’s a sexy man, awesome in bed—your words—and he loves animals,” she replies as I drain my glass. “Isn’t that what you want in a man?”

I shrug.

“Don’t give me that. The photo he sent you with his top off, muscles everywhere, holding a puppy nearly destroyed me. You’d have it as your screensaver if every nosey bastard didn’t ask questions. Is there no chance with you two?”

“He’s a hookup. Yes, he’s hot and caring and good with animals. And the night we first slept together after a shitty day on the track is firmly in my ‘self-care’ bank, but even if he lived down the street from me, I wouldn’t want long-term with him. It’s nearly impossible to have a relationship in this job when you’re working every hour that exists and in a different country nearly every week.”

“You’d make it work if you liked him,” she argues while pointing at me with the nail varnish brush.

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