Page 61 of Dirty Air
Fritz is shocked frozen by the visual. Champagne-drenched clothes in a different lifetime. His arms bound in front of him, while Henry runs his fingers down his spine.
“That’s more like it.” Henry turns back to the screen, satisfied. How could he say something so cruel? Didn’t he know what effect he still had on his driver?
After only a few seconds, Henry whips his head back. “I didn’t mean—!” His mouth hangs open, his eyebrows further up his bald head than Fritz has ever seen them. “I'msosorry, Fritz, I just meant?—”
“Forget it.” Fritz isn’t fidgety anymore. All of the energy he’s ever had flees his body in one fell swoop, leaving nothing but a shell.
If Fritz wants to win, if he wants to keep working alongside Henry, he needs to stay professional.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s only whispered, but there's so much emotion buried behind it, Fritz's eye prickles. So much for his ego, for his attempt to always appear unaffected.
He shrugs it off, really casually, like they’re just some normal coworkers who haven’t seen each other’s cocks. Coworkers who don’t know how the other sounds when he comes, and certainly not how he tastes.
The graphs on the screen make much more sense when everyone races at the same time, but it also becomes harder to track each car. Henry talks the child through a couple of mid-level passes and showers him with praise like he’s God’s gift to racing.
It’s extra stupid because the kid loses time by not sticking to the race line, by braking before he needs to, by fuckinghesitatingbefore leaving the pits. He is definitely not an ‘amazing work’ type of driver.
Thankfully, Fritz’s headset doesn’t come with a microphone attachment.
Henry touches Fritz’s arm to get his attention, and then taps the screen. It’s a graph showing tire deg. He presses the microphone and says, “Watch your tires, especially the front left.”
A distorted “copy” comes through the ear piece.
Henry looks at Fritz pointedly. “You should say ‘copy’ more, so I know that you’ve heard me.”
“I am too busy being a good,fastdriver to waste my time like that.” Fritz makes a note of it anyways.
Henry just snorts.
“If we are recommending comments, you should praise me more for doing the bare minimum.”
“Don’t be jealous, it’s his first time racing a Formation 1 car.”
Fritz scoffs. “I am not jea?—”
“Shh, I’m engineering a race.” Henry smirks like an asshole and turns back to engross himself in data.
Fuck, it sucks how sexy he is. It’s not fair how effortless he makes it all look. How can he consume, digest, and spit out information like it’s nothing? How can he juggle the noise coming through the headphones with the information on the screens and the feedback from the kid?
It makes Fritz want to climb under the table and suck him off.
He’ll stay professional, but he really,reallydoesn’t want to.
The kid finishes the race P17. Not a bad result for people used to mediocrity. Still, Fritz congratulates him afterwards. A pat on the back and everything. At least, if Adam doesn’t want him after all of this, Fritz will definitely still have his job in VFIBR.
William seems to actuallylikethe kid, which proves how bad he must be. Fritz isn’t the only driver benefitting from a show of how difficult the car is to run.
Red Boar won again, so Fritz waits next to his father for Adam’s call. It’ll probably be a while—the team principal is frontand center on the broadcast, standing in the middle of the crowd waiting for the podium celebration.
“Whatever he offers, we need to take it,” his father says in hushed German. “There is no Mercenary deal. It’s Red Boar or you race in VFIBR again next year. You do not want to be stuck here.”
Well, maybe Fritz didn’t want to drive the VFIBR car, but looking around the garage, he doesn’t mind beinghere. Working with these people.
Oh God, he’s gotten soft.
“Yes, sir,” Fritz replies.
