Page 89 of Flat Out
My eyes burned. My nostrils flared. Fury boiled so hot it was a miracle I didn’t storm out of the garage right then and there to rip her team a new one. But that would undermine her, make it look like she needed me to fight her battles. And that was the last thing she needed.
Still, every part of me was vibrating with helpless rage. Because what I’d just watched wasn’t a tough race. It wasn’t “normal aches and pains.” It was a driver being broken down piece by piece, sabotaged into suffering for no fucking reason.
And if this sport thought I was going to sit quietly and watch them destroy the woman I loved? They didn’t know me at all. This wasn’t just fuel for my anger anymore. It was fuel for hers. Because if I knew Aurélie—and God, I did—this wasn’t going to end with her collapsing in Kimi’s arms. This was going to end with her standing in front of the GPDA and demanding they change the goddamn sport.
It took nearlytwo full days before I stopped feeling Callum’s piercing every time I shifted in my seat. The dull ache lingered in ways that were almost embarrassing, constant and teasing, a reminder of how completely he’d claimed me.
Then came the race, and that ache was drowned by something fiercer. It wrung me out and left me sore in places that had nothing to do with sex. Yesterday had been something else entirely. The near-debilitating pain of muscling the car around the circuit had chewed through me, stealing my breath each time the rebound jarred my back. Every rebound rattled through my spine like a hammer strike, every corner was another demand on a body already stretched too far. By the time I collapsed in Kimi’s arms after climbing out, I’d been trembling with exhaustion.
This morning, every muscle burned, my neck screamed, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to curl up in bed for a week or crawl inside Callum’s lap and never leave.
Instead, I was at a private air strip in Spielberg, sipping bitter coffee. It was the morning after. The air was cooler, an overcast sky rolling low and gray above us. Jet fuel hung heavy in the damp air, and a faint chill slid through my race jacket as Callum and I crossed the tarmac. Yesterday there was blistering sun and smoke. Today was all quiet clouds and muted light, the world dulled to exhaustion.
I was tucked against Callum’s side while we whispered about Silverstone. What evidence we’d need for the FIA, how we could corner them with data—telemetry sheets, suspension reports, engineer notes. His voice was low, conspiratorial, and despite everything we’d both endured, there was a thrill to it. We were a team, even if we were on different teams.
God, I loved him so fucking much.
I leaned into him, letting his warmth soak into my tired body. His thumb brushed circles over my hip, a gesture so casual it might’ve gone unnoticed, but it grounded me.
“Telemetry first,” I whispered, too drained to raise my voice. “Then the dampers. That’s the evidence.”
He hummed, brushing his lips over my hairline. “And witnesses. Somebody signed off on those submissions. We’ll find them.” It was conspiratorial, intimate—just the two of us murmuring against the gray horizon. For a second, it felt like no one else existed.
Then Marco’s voice broke it.
“Look at him,” Marco called, sunglasses crooked, his grin wide enough to cut through the fog. “Domesticated. Tamed.”
Kimi trailed beside him, helmet bag slung lazily over his shoulder. “Pathetic,” he added with a smirk. “Give it a week and he’ll be making you tea in bed, Aurélie.”
I scowled, tugging my jacket tighter against the chill. “Better than waking up hungover and late to briefing.”
Kimi only grinned wider, unbothered.
And then, like a scene from a film, a sleek black town car rolled to a stop at the edge of the strip, glossy and out of place against the utilitarian backdrop. The door opened, and out stepped Ivy—heels clicking on concrete, oversized sunglasses despite the clouds, a steaming coffee in one hand and a glossy magazine in the other. She didn’t stroll. She didn’t wave. She cut across the tarmac, straight into our path, and stopped dead in front of us.
“Morning,” she said breezily in her posh English accent, then lifted the magazine high like a queen presenting tribute.
France’s Most Impressive Thirty Women Under Thirty
My stomach dropped.
Because there I was. On the cover. Hair tousled, lips swollen, eye makeup smudged and sultry, my skin glowing with the kind of post-sex sheen no makeup artist could replicate. My silk slip was pooled at the foot of the ornate chair I kneeled on, dark red lingerie adorning my body. And faint but undeniable… were Callum’s handprints branded across my ass.
The world went silent.
Marco froze mid-step, mouth falling open. Kimi’s sunglasses slid down his nose, his brows climbing above the frames. Callum choked on his tea so violently I had to pat his back.
Heat rushed to my face, a crimson flush that burned hotter than any spotlight. “Oh my God.”
Marco was the first to crack, laughter exploding out of him. “Dio mio,that is not Photoshop.”
Kimi tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling. “You French girls,” he said in that low, amused tone, “always dramatic.”
Callum’s jaw worked, caught between pride and mortification, his accent thickening until the words rolled rough and guttural: “It’s art.”
I smacked his chest. “ART? That’s your bloodyhandprint!”
Ivy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head of jet black hair, thrown in a messy bun, her green eyes glittering. “Relax. France thinks you’re a feminist icon now. Sexual liberation, women in motorsport, all that.” She sipped her coffee, smirk widening. “Honestly? You look hot as hell.”
