Page 9 of Fast

The promoter’s party is at the best hotel in Bridgeport, on a huge deck on the beach.

Tiki torches decorate the venue and give the party a relaxed vibe.

I’m glad I let Heather convince me to borrow her pleated black miniskirt and a silk blouse that puts my cleavage on full display, without being vulgar.

My hair is curled into loose waves and the makeup Atlas’s girlfriend applied makes the green of my eyes pop dramatically.

“Let’s go get a drink while the guys rub elbows with all the rich sponsors.” Heather says, linking our arms.

“I thought Atlas and Ares already had a contract for the MotoGP? Why do they need to talk to sponsors?”

Heather lowers her voice. “The money they get from the team is ok. But individual sponsorships are where the real money really is. The team that hired Atlas and Ares isn’t the main team owned directly by the manufacturer. It’s a satellite team. The manufacturer or constructor supplies the bikes, but this is a relatively new team. This is why they gave two emerging racers a chance. So the pay isn’t like your dad would get.”

That makes sense. The few times my mom felt like talking about her relationship with Dad, she told me that when they met, there wasn’t a ton of money. Dad had just been signed by his first pro team and had to make a name for himself before the money started flowing in.

She was much happier back then, before Dad got that constant spotlight on him and a gaggle of groupies vying for his attention.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“I would love a spicy margarita. What about you, Zara?” Heather says, flashing a smile to the bartender.

“Hmm, I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe a mojito. I’ve always wanted to try one.”

The bartender smiles. “That’s an excellent choice. Would you like a traditional mojito or our signature basil moonshine recipe?”

I open my mouth to answer—basil is one of my favorite herbs—but a deep voice cuts in.

“She will have a virgin mojito and Heather will have a virgin margarita.” Ares steps between us, resting his muscular, corded forearms on the bar. “These two are underage.” He offers to the bartender.

“So are you,” Heather glares.

Ares’s lips quirk up in just the hint of a smile, his gray eyes glittering like stars under the light of the tiki torches. “I know. This is why I’m getting a Coke.”

“Party pooper,” Heather sticks her tongue out at her boyfriend’s twin. “Atlas is way more fun than you.”

Ares laughs at his friend’s childish behavior. “Sure. I never claimed I’m the fun twin. But Atlas and I have a race to win tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll be grateful that I’m keeping an eye on you. The last thing he needs is spending the night babysitting your drunk ass.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, I’m so glad I went out with Atlas and not you. If I think that I thought you were cute… I dodged a bullet there.”

This time Ares’s laugh is louder, his head thrown back as he chuckles. “Of course you thought I was cute. Atlas and I look the same.”

“Here you are, ladies,” the bartender puts two glasses in front of us and then busies himself pouring a soda for Ares.

“So sad,” Heather sighs, taking a pull from the thin, small straw in her glass. “This whole drink is a missed opportunity.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Chance’s voice comes from behind us. “This is just the official party. The real party is further down on the beach. There, no one will even think about carding us.”

Heather beams at the news. “Awesome. Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go where the real fun is.”

Lev takes her glass from her, stealing a sip of her mocktail. “In a second. We’re waiting for your boyfriend. He got into a debate about electric bikes with the rep from a famous helmet manufacturer.” He points out to a cluster of high tables where Atlas is talking to a girl, his hands moving animatedly as he explains his point.

“Who the fuck is that?” Heather hisses, her eyes narrowed into furious slits.

Chance and Ares shake their heads, laughing at their friend’s antics. “Cool your jets, Heath,” Ares reassures her. “That’s the exec manager of one of the biggest helmet companies in the country. They have a line dedicated specifically to racing and each year, they have a few special edition helmets that bear the name of a racer. If Atlas got their interest, it would be huge for us.”

That doesn’t seem to appease Heather, who keeps staring daggers in the direction of her boyfriend and the young exec who are talking and laughing like old friends.

“Come on, Heath,” Ares’s hands land on her shoulders. “You know, my brother only has eyes for you. Let’s go get our party on. He’s going to catch up with us in a few.”

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