Page 39 of Green Flag
I was trembling in my cowgirl boots. After Livie said I could wear whatever shoes I wanted, I’d gone for my sturdy favourites that Fia had bought me for my birthday last year. Lucky boots. Today, I’d prove my worth.
Because today, if Livie hadn’t already, she would hear my new song.
The day before qualifying, Arabella had taken me on the same route as her tour the other day. This time, I led. She slowed me down when I talked too fast. She made me explain what some of the words meant — like fairing and tank slapper.
I was getting there. I could tell my fake smile was strengthening because Bella was saying “Warmth!” less and less.
Sometimes it was real. When I was enthusiastic about the sport, or not telling people what was completely obvious, but…
I needed to stop judging. I’d grown up on the track, whereas these people… had definitely not. Sometimes it was surprising they knew there were only two wheels, unlike the Ciclati logo with its three wheels and jaguar.
But it had been my best day in two weeks. Not the best night, though. That was Luca’s.
The night before qualifying, I spent hours in bed, not out with the girls, editing the footage Bella and I had recorded throughout the week for the song…before sending it to Luca for his approval.
We’d video messaged back and forth a few times, and my finger had hovered over the video call button, but when I gave up on that idea, I replayed his voice over and over and hovered my finger over my clit instead.
It had been one night of lust-filled… masturbation. That was all.
I couldn’t use him for revenge.
But watching him in his leathers, talking to Nix and Abbé, I wanted to use him. His tongue, fingers, cock. He’d said even his bike was up for grabs.
Grinning at the drunken memory, I pulled out my phone from my locker in the pit box.
Today was a good day. I toured by myself and made an actual connection with the group of guys I showed around. We laughed, and by the end, we even had an inside joke about the gloves. If they were the ‘secret shoppers’ Livie mentioned, I was sure I’d get five stars. Or maybe that was my own arrogance.
Arabella burst into the pit box with short, determined steps, her heels calling the attention of the entire box as she called, her hand in the air, holding her phone. “Everly Bacque, you are a sensation!”
I turned my phone on as she shoved hers at me. She had the pit box’s attention for precisely three seconds before they tuned her out.
“Nearly a million views!” she cried, her high pitches vibrating through the pit box.
Livie glanced up at the sound of anything media-related. The second she’d assessed us, she picked up her iPad — that she had attached to her like a bag with a long strap — and went tap tap tapping.
“Really?” I asked, impatient for my phone to load. Instead, I grabbed hers to scroll through the comments of the reel I’d posted on Instagram.
Not nearly a million—but hundreds of thousands. My fastest viral post ever.
“Wow,” I muttered, looking it over before clicking on the ‘liked’ list and searching for a certain name.
@PedroVelazcohad liked the post.
Maybe he’d finally read my messages and reply. I couldn’t enact my revenge without his help; it was partly his anyway.
“StormSprint have reposted it!” Bella added, then lowered her voice, wiggled her eyebrows and spoke out of the corner of her mouth, “How could they not employ you now?”
I scrolled through the comments.
@ZsófiaBacque: That’s my damn sister!! Oh my gooooood!!
@StormSprint: Collab sometime, yeah?
As my phone loaded, I went straight to Instagram as the notifications rolled in. Messages. Requests.
@PVThrowaway: Cute song.
@PVThrowaway: You look cute too.
