Page 27 of Cross the Line
Three other drivers got caught up in the mayhem as well. The fucking FIA called the whole thing a ‘racing incident’, even though Lorenzo Castellucci’s obvious recklessness caused the crash. He should have been slapped with penalties and fines and firm warnings, because that guy is going to get someone killed one day.
‘Are you sure you’re not concussed?’ Chava’s voice comes over the speakers in my car. Or really, my mom’s car that I stole for the day. ‘You hate picking people up from the airport. And I’m your assistant. Isn’t this in my job description?’
‘I’m fine. Enjoy the day off with your family, dipshit,’ I tell him as I merge into the lane for the on-ramp to the arrivals terminal. ‘And if you make tres leches today, you better save me some.’
Before he became my assistant, Chava was in culinary school. He dropped out after realizing he only liked cooking for fun and not for a career, and came to work for me instead. It was only meant to be a temporary position, something to save him from his parents’ disappointment, but four years later and the guy’s still with me. The restaurant world’s loss is certainly my gain.
Chava sighs. ‘You know Mark is going to kill you if you—’
I’m saved from having to acknowledge the threat to my life and my diet when Chava’s mom shouts, ‘¡Salvador, ven acá!’ in the background.
‘Sounds like Mama wants you,’ I say, grinning to myself. ‘And bring me cake! I deserve it after almost being murdered by Castellucci.’
Chava hangs up after grumbling something highly offensive in Spanish that brightens my day with its filthy creativity. I wasn’t kidding about deserving a treat after last weekend, and I have no doubt he’ll be at my parents’ house later bearing a plastic container full of cake and a blessing from his mother. I’m going to need both if I plan to survive the rest of the season.
Every time I get into the car, I take a risk. There’s always a chance that I won’t walk away unscathed. Advances in safety technology have saved my life countless times, but drivers like Lorenzo put that tech to the test every time those five red lights go out.
I’m lucky that he usually qualifies higher than I do. He’s almost always near the Mascort and Specter Energy cars at the front, but his last flying lap in Q3 of qualifying on Saturday was cut short by a red flag. It left him down in tenth while I squeaked into twelfth, putting us a little too close for comfort for the race start. I should have predicted he’d try to muscle his way to the front. During his attempt, he clipped another car, causing them both to spin and take out everyone in their vicinity – me included.
Why D’Ambrosi keeps him around is a mystery, considering all he does is ruin their championship chances over and over again. The Scuderia is a legendary team. Its name is synonymous with F1 and elite racing and is supported by a fanbase that runs generations deep. Despite his terrorism on track, Lorenzo is their poster boy. He’s the Italian stallion, the pride of the paddock, son of a former four-time world champion. He’s amazing when he’s not crashing, I’ll give him that, but he’s careless – still too young and cocky to have developed any kind of fear.
At twenty-five, I’m still relatively young, even by racing standards, but the twenty-one-year-old makes me feel like an old man shaking his fist and shouting at the clouds when I complain about him.
The blare of a horn distracts me from thoughts of Castellucci as I pull up in front of the airport terminal. It doesn’t matter that I literally drive for a living; driving in the real world is a fucking nightmare. At least on track I only have to worry about nineteen other idiots, not thousands.
I park at the kerb and put the flashers on, then turn up the volume of my playlist to drown out the sounds swirling around me as I settle in to wait. According to the flight tracker, Willow’s plane landed twenty minutes ago, so she should be walking out at any second, if she hasn’t already.
I scan the crowd milling around as the title track of a late-nineties Bollywood movie plays. The man singing waxes poetic about a woman’s smile and something happening to his heart at the sight of it. It’s sappy as hell and nothing I’ll ever admit listening to on a regular basis, but damn if it doesn’t throw me back into memories of lying on the living room floor, playing with toy cars while Mom watched her movies and spoke loudly into the phone to family back in India.
I’ll also never admit that the Hindi lyrics make more sense when Willow breezes through the doors, a surprised smile lighting up her face when she spots me stepping out of the car.
Like in the lyrics of the song, there’s definitelysomething happeningto me too – it’s just a little less chaste.
‘Hi,’ she breathlessly greets me as I join her on the sidewalk. She’s dwarfed by a suitcase on each side. Her curls are a little windswept, and her pale-green sundress flutters as she swipes her palms across her hips. ‘Sorry, I – I wasn’t expecting you. Chava said he’d be here.’
I grab the handles of her suitcases to keep from wrapping my hands around her waist. Every time I see her, my reaction gets stronger, which doesnotbode well for my promise to keep things strictly professional.
‘Chava had errands to run.’ I drag the bags to the back of the black SUV. ‘You get me as your chauffeur today. Go ahead and get in.’
She clutches her purse to her stomach as she heads to the passenger side, giving me a chance to get my shit together before I’m in an enclosed space with her. When I told Chava that I could handle picking Willow up from the airport – all right, when IinsistedI’d do it – I was focused on getting a head start on my social media resuscitation. I didn’t think her smile would send my heart into overdrive, or that I’d be fighting with my dick all because of the way her little dress skims her thighs.
And yet here I am, adjusting myself in my jeans after hefting her bags into the trunk, nerves and guilt eating at my stomach. God, I could really use that tres leches right now. Or a punch to the gut.
Once the suitcases are tucked away, I join her in the car. Heat surges to my face when notes of the embarrassing love song float between us, leaving me to desperately grab at the volume knob and turn it all the way down. I’m not sure which is worse though – Udit Narayan’s crooning or the tense silence that’s replaced it.
‘Good to go?’ I ask, choosing to ignore the lingering awkwardness.
Willow nods as she clicks her seat belt into place. ‘Thanks for picking me up. You really didn’t have to.’
‘It’s no problem.’ I turn off the hazard lights, tap the navigation back on, and shift the car into drive. Checking my mirrors, I ease the oversized SUV into the flow of cars attempting to leave. ‘Gave me something to do other than brood about how shitty my weekend was.’
‘Yeah, I watched the race. That was a tough break.’
I snort. ‘That’s one way of putting it. But I’m glad you’re back. I’ve decided you’re my good-luck charm.’
When she groans, I finally glance over and survey her quickly. ‘Don’t put that on me! That’s so much pressure.’
‘Too late. So you better live up to the hype,’ I rib her. ‘I’m planning to make it onto the podium next Sunday.’
