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FORTY-ONE
TALLY
The first race of the season was early this year, but we were ready. The Florida government had managed to woo both IndyCar and Formula One to happen within a week of each other, and it was causing a buzz across the racing world.
I wondered if it was because Rocco had defected, and they were trying to lure some of the die-hard Formula One fans to Indy. Already, Rocco had been bombarded with requests from the media for interviews, which his management had accepted. It was good for Rocco, it was good for VANT, and it was good for launching our relationship.
It also probably meant that we would have to walk the paddock at the Miami Formula One race, which terrified me. It was like a fashion show, and I was not a Brazilian lingerie model. I was just a girl with a fast car and a baby.
That was next week’s problem. This week was the launch of the race season, and I’d be watching Rocco and Mickey race for the first time. There was a buzz around the garages, as people stopped to snap photos, and Antony gave interviews, as did the rest of the VANT crew. The whole place was electric with energy, and I was part of it all.
Rocco had flown us all over on a private plane, which seemed a little excessive, but he’d argued that Bobbi-June was still too young to fly commercial. It was hard to believe she was almost twelve weeks old already.
Jesse had her strapped to his chest, and honestly, it was doing something crazy to my ovaries. Like I wanted to have my recently inserted IUD removed and let him impregnate me already.
I mean, I obviously wouldn’t. I was nowhere near mentally ready for another baby, but I wouldn’t mind practicing on any free surface.
“Babe, you gotta stop looking at me like that. I can’t watch this race with a hard-on,” he said softly. “We’ll be up in the grandstands, cheering for our team, and then we can all celebrate properly tonight.”
We’d created a monster when we’d decided to have group sex on Christmas Eve, but it was a hot monster, like Beast from Beauty and The Beast, or like, a dragon. Everyone wanted to fuck a dragon, right?
Kissing me on the cheek, he pushed me gently into the garage. Luckily, being a reserve driver meant I got none of the media attention, which was amazing, and I could hide with the mechanics and engineers out the back. Most of these guys were hardcore sports reporters and didn’t give a fuck about Rocco getting married, especially now it was old news.
If they snapped a picture of me, it would be just a throwaway line at the bottom of their article on why Rocco Passero—a prodigious, somewhat contentious Formula One driver—had switched teams to come to IndyCar. The fight between him and his former teammate was still far bigger news than him marrying a barely newsworthy former NASCAR driver.
We’d been here since Thursday, and both Rocco and Mickey had qualified well. Rocco was third, with Mickey a little further back, but both were in good spots for the team’s maiden race. The whole of VANT Racing had been flown out for today to witness our hard work finally come to fruition.
Alphonso patted my back. “Exciting, right?” he whispered, and I sucked in a deep, shaky breath. I wasn’t even racing, and I had nerves.
“I think I’m going to throw up. I’m so hyped.”
Alphonso chuckled. “Trash can is over there, kid. Don’t puke on the cars.” I shook my head with a laugh.
Rocco finished his interview and moved back into the garage. Spotting me, he walked over, that little smirk on his face. God, he was beautiful in the black and purple VANT gear. It made him look like a villain, and it was sexy as hell.
“Are you eye-fucking me, my star?” He leaned closer. “Baciami. Kiss me, Stellina.”
Gah. When he whispered to me in that sexy Italian-English mix, I was helpless to resist. I leaned forward, kissing him softly, as I chased the taste of him with my lips. He kissed with an expertise that made me weak in the knees. He should be locked away as a hazard to free-thinking women everywhere, because when his lips touched mine, my brain turned to mush.
“Wish me luck, beautiful.”
I shook my head. “You don’t need luck, Rocco Passero. Show these people why they call you Il Diavolo in Europe.” It was because even if you got in front of him, the devil was always nipping at your heels.
“Because I tempted too many virgins into sinning?” he asked lightly, and I slapped his chest.
“I think it’s poor form to talk about all the naive women you deflowered to your wife.”
He kissed me hard. “You’re the only woman who matters now,” he whispered against my lips.
“Passero, let’s go!”
He pulled back and winked at me, and I had to acknowledge the truth I’d avoided for a couple of weeks now. I’d caught feelings for my fake husband.
St. Pete in Florida was a hundred-lap race, and at some point, it became less about driving and more about fuel preservation. That didn’t mean it wasn’t tense as hell. As soon as the strategy engineer breathed, “Green, green, green,” down the line, we were out there to win.
I sat in the garage, watching the race on the screens as Rocco maneuvered his way from third up to second almost immediately. I had the headphones on so I could hear the team radio, and it was absolutely electrifying. The high-pitched whine of the cars roaring past made my heart palpitate in my chest. It was amazing.
Hayes was part of the pit crew, and the mechanics rushed around, getting orders from the performance engineers up in the timing stand on the pit wall. A few wheel touches, a little bump and grind in the first chicane as they all jostled for a good position, but soon, it relaxed out into a proper race. Mickey had lost it a little, falling to eighth after someone nudged him, but he pulled it back and honestly, that was a testament to his skill.
