Page 31 of Red Flag
I was watching Nixon from the corner of my eye for any concerning behaviour — I hadn’t noticed any yet — whenSalihacried as someone walked over.
“Frank!” she squealed, reaching up to hug a man in gym gear walking through to his hotel room. He was one of the taller riders, she was one of the smallest people I had ever known.
Lucapatted his shoulder. “Frank, this here isLivie. New toCiclati.”
FrankFeldt. The rider who had come second in last year’s championship. The media loved to pit him and Nix against each other.
His eyes met mine and hovered there a little too long. I looked right back. He was handsome in a very pretty boy way, with a straight nose, bright eyes, and a strong chin. A man you would see on the front cover of a magazine.
“I can stay for a drink or two,” he said and smiled down at me.
I hated and loved this job.
Chapter 8
The first race of the season. First official race, anyway.
The last two days had been hectic with the media coverage overLucabecoming the new rider forCiclati. We’d gone for the ‘honoured, grateful but living life as normal’ approach. He’d posted a picture of his breakfast that morning and nothing could stop him from wishing his mum a happy birthday for all to see. With an adorable shot of four-year-old him in her arms, covered in yoghurt.
He was easy to manage.
Nix, not so much.
After hearing he was having a shorter interview with Road Racing League, he had ‘forgotten’ the meeting and I had no option but to scream at his door for twenty minutes to get him up.
At least I didn’t have to worry about him making it to the track on time. He was often the first one there, groaning about track conditions and the hotel facilities.
All week, I had been forced to spend time with him, taking ‘soft-launch’ photos as his girlfriend. A number of tweets had followed from his picture of me driving his car, but no actual reporting.
We’d gone out for dinner as a team and, sat opposite him, hesnapped a picture of his hand holding mine across the table, showing off my ‘classy rings’ he kept mentioning. We touched for the length of time it took for him to angle the photo, snap it and crop me out.
Crishad eyed the touch with a wrinkled nose.
High off the news of his front-page cover,Lucawas skipping around the pit box. The first race was in Singapore, the next in Hong Kong. Last year,Lucahad started the season ofSprint3well, and he watched his friends race from the VIP lounge, cheering them on.
He brought that energy to the pit box, ready in his leathers, grinning as he sucked on the straw of his energy drink. He didn’t need to be any more buzzed.
“Quick,Luca, Nix, a photo!”
Nix groaned at me andLucagrinned, all teeth, eyes closed.
He really was a puppy dog.
“Smile, Armas,” I warned.
He rolled his eyes but turned with a grin. I snapped the picture, tagged them, captioned it and posted it within thirty seconds.
So caught up in it, I didn’t noticeCrisstanding behind me. “Livie.”
I looked up at him with an awkward smile. He was my boss. As much as Nixon andLucawere my clients, the only man I had to prove myself to was him.
“Cris,” I said.
“You made him smile,” he said, looking after Nix as he watched his bike being wheeled out.
I nodded, checking the comments onLuca’sfirst post in his new leathers from his shoot earlier in the week. “It’s not easy.”
“And the new show intro,” he said. “That’s… was he laughing when you filmed it?”
