Page 57 of Green Flag
The lounge was busy as I nursed my drink. Henri Alho, a Finnish singer, was going to perform before the StormSprint race and it had young women flocking to the race track. As the price of tickets had gone up, the track wasn’t often sold out. Today it was.
He’d seemed humble when he came to meet Nix — he was a big fan — but he knew Everly. And their interaction boiled my blood. He kissed her hand.
And I couldn’t even hold it.
My Sprint3 friends had already been on the track and were at a table waiting for me to join them. I just needed to get out of this funk before I ruined everyone else’s mood too.
Three whiskeys deep, my jaw hurt with how stiffly I held it.
If I weren’t on the grid, I wouldn’t have an excuse to talk to Everly. I wanted to coax details out of her about Henri and how she knew him.
It would also be nice to see her again. I was stealing every moment I could. They were fleeting now.
She hadn’t called me. Hadn’t texted me.
I hadn’t contacted her.
Because I couldn’t fucking control myself.
I shouldn’t have told her it wasn’t enough when I was getting my cock soaked. I shouldn’t have told her how much I wanted to sink into her heat. It wasn’t fair on her.
It was true, but I didn’t want to guilt her into something she didn’t want. Especially not in the lust-filled moment and I couldn’t trust I wouldn’t do it again.
Because I wanted herso fucking badly.
Now that I’d had her, stalking through her socials would never be enough.
Whereas seeing a man’s lips pressed to the back of her hand was too much.
Over the last four weeks, I filmed videos for her like our original messages. I probably had hours’ worth of footage by now, all unsent.
She fit right in across StormSprint, though. She always posted about being out with the other grid girls. On nights out, I avoided her, not wanting to make a drunken mistake.
But I was mostly sober now.
If I couldn’t see her on the tarmac, I’d go and meet the crowds with her after the race. That’s what I’d do.
But I ordered another drink first.
A man next to me chuckled. “Never see many people up here in their leathers,” he said.
I didn’t look at him, just swilled my drink. Yes, I’d put my leathers on, hoping I wouldn’t be turned down. Ready for them to change their minds.
“Cris Bacque,” I muttered. “Refused for me to race after my crash yesterday at qualifying.”
“Miserabile pezzo di merda,” he said in Italian.Miserable piece of shit.“Ciclati è diventata spazzatura.” Ciclati has become rubbish.
I sat straight and looked him over. He was dark-skinned, with pitch-black hair, thick brows and a strong jaw. He was probably in his mid-30s, if not older. He was exactly the man Everly said was her type.
But if he hated Ciclati, he was my type too.
“Not a fan?”
He downed the rest of his pint. “That’s putting it mildly. I hate him.”
Livie had made it very clear we weren’t to speak negatively about the team, but…
“You’re Alv’s cousin, aren’t you?”
