Page 100 of Racing for Redemption
Anna:And?
Me:And now, I don’t know what it is. I want more.
Her reply comes after a pause:
Anna:Be careful with your heart, Vi. But also… live a little. You deserve it.
I stare at her words, letting them sink in.Do I deserve it?This complicated, potentially disastrous thing with William?
“Everything okay?” Blake asks, noticing my expression.
“Fine,” I reply, pocketing my phone.
He leans closer, a frown creasing his forehead. Then, he widens his eyes slightly.What did I do now?
“Interesting,” he murmurs as he picks up a short, bouncy, light-brown curl from my T-shirt.Damn.
“What is it?” I try to mask my embarrassment as quickly as possible.
“Nothing.” He settles back in his seat. “That's quite the different style of curl you've got there.” He chuckles and adds, “It was only a matter of time.”
My heart stops, then races. Blake says nothing more, but his knowing look speaks volumes. I want to crawl into a hole.
The taxi speeds through Dubai’s gleaming streets, carrying us toward meetings that suddenly seem trivial compared to the complication I’ve introduced into my life. Into our team. Blessed be Blake, because he’s too smart and knows his time and place, having noticed what happened, yet not prying at all.
Chapter 27
A rough patch
William
Islam my palm against the steering wheel. “What the hell was that call?” The radio crackles with Tom’s voice, a mixture of apology and frustration that mirrors my own. The safety car disappears ahead, and just like that, our window vanishes. P9 to P15 in the space of two laps. The taste of potential points turns bitter in my mouth.
China. The Shanghai International Circuit. My first time racing here, and it’s turning into a nightmare.
“We thought the safety car would stay out one more lap,” Tom explains, his voice strained. “The others came in early.”
I don’t respond. There’s no point. My tires are shot, and the fresh rubber on everyone else’s cars means I’m a sitting duck. I watch helplessly as Bertrand’s car slides past me on the straight, the smug bastard wagging his fingers as he goes by.
Five laps later, I cross the finish line in P15. No points. Again.
In the cool-down room, I strip off my sweat-soaked fireproofs and check my phone. Nothing from Violet, just a team-wide message about reviewing performance. My chest tightens. It’s been weeks since Melbourne, since that night in her hotel room. Since her lips against mine, her hands in my hair, that whispered agreement about “blowing off steam” whenever we needed it.
Apparently, she doesn’t need it.
I toss my phone into my bag harder than necessary. James, my manager, raises an eyebrow.
“You good?”
“Peachy,” I mutter, pulling on a team shirt. “Just love watching points slip through our fingers because of strategy calls even an F3 team wouldn’t make.”
James pats my shoulder. “One race. We’ll do better in Jeddah.”
We don’t do better in Jeddah.
I qualify P14, drive my heart out for two hours in the Saudi heat, and finish… P14. The car lacks straight-line speed, and every time I find a rhythm in the corners, we hit a straight, and I watch the backs of the same cars pulling away.
I dream of Violet that night. Not even sex dreams—just her smile, the way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when she laughs at something I’ve said. The weight of her head on mychest after Melbourne, both of us sticky with sweat and satisfaction.
