Page 22 of Cross the Line
Whatever. Buck can be as mad as he wants. I’m not here to coddle Nathaniel’s ego. I’m here to score points for the team and work on getting out of this red, white and blue hell.
Good-luck charm or not, I haven’t seen much of Willow since Thursday. I had a quick breakfast with her and Oakley this morning, and I’ve caught glimpses of them in the pit as the chaos of race day began. She snapped a few photos of me and then the car – though only in the moments right before I climbed in, taking the advice I gave her during our tour on Thursday to heart.
‘Couple of things to remember when you’re taking pictures in here,’ I told her as we moved through the garage. Oakley was busy talking to one of my mechanics on the other side of the space and out of earshot. ‘One, don’t post any pictures where a computer screen is visible. Two, never photograph the car when the tyres are off or if any sort of internal component is exposed. And three, try not to take too many photos of the back of the car in general. We don’t need any of our competitors seeing that up close.’
‘No ass shots,’ she said, nodding thoughtfully as she scrawled in the little notebook she’d pulled out of her purse. ‘Got it.’
‘Willow Williams!’ I gasped and nearly stumbled as I turned to her, genuinely delighted by the show of raunchy humour. So much for the innocent-girl act. ‘When did you get so dirty?’
I was pressing my luck. I should have laughed it off and toned it down instead of entertaining more of that attitude. But that little quip had me craving more.
She held her hand up and circled her pen in the air. The bridge of her nose went a little pink, but otherwise, she held her own, even though she refused to look at me. ‘Let’s just acknowledge the joke and move on.’
‘You’ve already spent too much time around me,’ I teased, ignoring the way my stomach twisted. ‘I’m rubbing off on you. I wonder what you’ll be like by the summer break.’
That got her to look at me. Her dark eyes sparkled, even though the rest of her face was devoid of humour. ‘I’m choosing to ignore that you saidrubbing off.’
‘Willow.’
She finally laughed, light and lyrical, and turned away to inspect one of the bays of tools and spare parts. ‘I’m not a child, Dev. I can hang with the big boys.’
And that’s my problem. She has truly grown up, and I can no longer rely on my go-to defences in order to keep my attraction to her from multiplying. I knew I was in trouble the second I saw her at the SecDark event on Wednesday night, but that unease has only increased tenfold since then. Especially after being near her, albeit briefly, every day since. How the fuck am I going to get through the next few months without throwing caution to the wind and doing something Howard would describe as ‘ill-advised’?
But I can’t think about her right now. Not when I’m standing on the grid, ready to climb into my car for the formation lap. The second I’m in my seat, my mind has to be clear, my attention focused solely on the road in front of me. Any trouble I’ve made for myself can wait.
Because this is Monaco, baby. And I’m about to put on a show.
——
Okay, make that ashit show.
The challenging part of qualifying so high is keeping the position. I’ve been fighting for my fucking life since the race started fifty-three laps ago, and with twenty-five to go, there’s still a strong chance I might not finish.
The car’s reliability is starting to degrade, and the brakes are growing less responsive with each turn. I nearly lost my front wing after an Omega Siluro came around the hairpin curve and clipped me six laps ago, and my rear tyres aren’t feeling great. The only saving grace is that my pit stop was sub-three seconds and perfectly timed. That alone kept me from being put so far back that I couldn’t easily make up the places I’d lost by stopping.
As long as I can hold tight and see this through, I’ll finish P7. Sure, it’s not the podium, and yeah, maybe it’s optimistic to think the Deschamp car that’s absolutely eating up my dirty air won’t pass me, but I think I can pull this off.
‘Keep pushing,’ Branny instructs over the radio. ‘Gap to Kivinen is 2.6.’
That’s not something I hear often. The only time I’m close to Otto Kivinen or the Mascort cars in general is when I’m being shown blue flags to get out of their way. Otto and Zaid are always quite literally miles ahead of me, but this is a nice surprise. I doubt I have any chance of passing Otto, but my race engineer seems more optimistic.
It must mean Otto is having issues, and Branny confirms it for me. Mascort’s number-two driver is struggling. It could be a gift for me, but it could also be a trap if I push too hard and can’t get these tyres to last until the end.
‘At this pace, you’ll be ahead of Kivinen in three laps. Repeat, three laps.’
Fuck, okay, all right. Otto won’t give up the place easily, though, even if he’s struggling, which means we’ll have to battle for sixth. And if it comes down to it, can I manage on fuel and tyre degradation? It’s a careful balance, keeping the car from failing me while simultaneously pushing it to its limit.
Before I’ve had much time to consider it, Kivinen’s rear wing is in my sights. I make to cut left, but he predicts my move and blocks. It’s to be expected for a man who’s been in Formula 1 for ten years; he’s seen every play in the book.
But I’m not green either, and I’ve learned a thing or two in my handful of seasons. So I dummy him.
I move left, right, then left again before flicking slightly to the right once more. But as he defends to the right, I pull left. By the time he catches on, he doesn’t have time to block me. We’re already wheel to wheel. I close him off in the next turn, and what do you know. I’m ahead of Otto fucking Kivinen.
‘Nice work,’ Branny praises. ‘Keep the pace.’
I won’t be able to make it any higher than this, but driving across the finish line in sixth feels like a win. Minus my mechanical DNF in Miami, I’ve finished in the points for every race. By comparison, Nathaniel’s only done it twice in six Grands Prix – seven after today. According to Branny, he finished P15 here, losing two places from the start. If that’s not an argument for who should be the number-one driver on our team, I don’t know what is.
Of course, if the press ever asks, Argonaut doesn’t rank its drivers. It doesn’t prioritize one over the other. That would be scandalous, because we believe in the ever-so-American value ofequality. Except they absolutely do rank us, and Nathaniel is always the top boy, thanks to Daddy’s billions.
