Page 69 of Flat Out
I dropped my voice further, my jaw tight. “I’m saying either someone doesn’t know how to set up her car, or someone doesn’twantto.”
The words hung between us, heavy and ominous.
A lump formed in my throat as I turned back to the screen. She was still out there, still fighting, still making it look easy. But all I could see now was every ounce of strain bleeding into her body. And the longer I watched, the clearer it became: if this kept up, it wasn’t just her times they’d be destroying.
It was her.
“Morel’s on a push lap,” someone called out a bit later, and my attention shifted to the screen tracking him. His style was unmistakable—aggressive, almost reckless, and it showed in his telemetry. He attacked the corners with wild abandon, his brake trace sharp and his throttle inputs erratic.
“He’s going to overcook those tires,” I said, watching the live feed as Morel exited Turn 6 with a snap of oversteer. The rear stepped out, and he caught it, but it cost him valuable time.
“His aggression doesn’t match the car,” I added, shaking my head. “He’s treating it like a frontrunner, but it’s not stable enough for that.”
“Morel’s always been like that,” Marco’s voice cut in as he returned to the garage. He pulled off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat. “All gas, no brakes. Fun to watch, but he’s not winning any championships like that.”
“Maybe,” I said, my eyes drifting back to Aurélie’s feed. She was wrapping up her run, her pace consistent even as the tires began to degrade. “But consistency wins over aggression every time. That’s why she’s a threat to him.”
Marco followed my gaze, his expression softening as he watched the Luminis car come into the pits. “You’re proud of her, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I was proud, but it was more than that. Watching her push that car to its limits reminded me of my early days in F1, fighting for every tenth of a second in a midfield car that didn’t want to cooperate. It was a grind, physically and mentally. That kind of driving took a toll.
My fingers twitched against the headset. I could go to her garage right now. Watch her review the data, tease her about her braking, brush my knuckles against the inside of her wrist just to feel her warmth for a second longer.
Instead, I stayed seated. Acting on impulse right now would send me straight into freefall.
“Yeah,” I said finally, my voice quieter. “She’s got what it takes.”
Marco grinned, but it wasn’t cocky this time. It was proud, like he knew she was one of his, too. “Damn right she does. Morel and his bitch boys hate her because she scares the shit out of them. After what she pulled in that FIA meeting?” He whistled low. “She’s not just surviving here, Fraser. She’s rewriting the rules, and she has all the leverage to do it.”
Pride swelled in my chest, but something darker tugged at me–fear. Because the longer I watched her, the more I realized how much she was wrestling with that car. And if I could see it, others would too. Or worse, they wouldn’t, and she’d be left to pay the price for someone else’s sabotage.
A sharp ache flared in my ribs, sudden and biting. I pressed a palm there, trying to breathe through it, but the unease only deepened. My heart was hammering, my throat tight.
Fuck it.
The session was ending. Cars streamed back into the pit lane and engineers rushed to greet their drivers. Marco was still talking, but I was already pulling the headset off, dropping it onto the desk. My legs carried me forward before my mind caught up.
I couldn’t just stand here on the outside, watching her drive herself into the ground in a car that didn’t want to carry her. Not when I suspected why.
The sabotage didn’t stop at me. Itstartedwith me.
I wouldn’t become a spectator just because I wasn’t in the car.
For the first time in my career, it wasn’t about lap times or points or contracts.
I had to see her. I had to tell her.
The pit lanefelt like a wasp nest. Mechanics wheeled trolleys, chattering amongst teams, the odor of hot brakes hung heavy. The pain in my skull throbbed with every step, but I didn’t slow. I cut past a cameraman and flashed my pass at a marshal who moved an inch too late. The Luminis bay loomed ahead, blue and gold and white, busy and painfully loud.
Aurélie was just inside, helmet off, hairline damp, that crease between her brows carved deep. She handed her gloves to a mechanic and reached for a bottle. When she tipped her head back, I saw the guarded flex at the base of her neck, the micro-wince she would’ve murdered anyone else for noticing.
“Good run,” I said, voice even, as I sidled up next to her from behind.
Her eyes flicked up, heat and surprise in one glance. “You shouldn’t be on this side,” she murmured, but I knew I hadher when her teeth sank into her delectably plump bottom lip. “Concussion. Lots of light and noise.”
“I’m fine.” Lie. I was petering out fast and wanted to go lay down in our dark hotel room for approximately four business days.
She gave me a slow, devastatingly adorable smile. “Ah, so you’re lurking,” she teased, her voice light despite the exhaustion in her features. I wanted to strip her out of her slutty little race suit, pull her into bed, and curl up beside her.
