‘So, Jules, what do you do again?’ Tom asks, his face the picture of sincerity.
My brain sputters. Oh my god.
He doesn’t know who I am.
He doesn’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what to do with this information.
Is he playing dumb? His crew know who I am; his teammate knows who I am; his management know who I am. Has he really not heardanything?
Which leads me to red alert number two: if he doesn’t care what people think about him, how the flying fuck can I tell him I’m a content creator? Caring what people think of me ismy entire career. Why would he want to associate himself with someone who has opposing values?
Jules, calm the heck down. Answer the man and see what he says. He might just be being polite?
I clear my throat. ‘I’m?—’
His publicist swoops in to excuse him for team duties. I almost sag to the floor in relief.
What in the world am I going to do?
Chapter 10
TIAGO
BAHRAIN
For the first time since I’ve sat in this piece of junk, I feel pretty fast. Not, like, Volare fast, but something, and that’s more than I had in the past three races. I don’t know what secret sauce the pit crew poured in the fuel tank overnight, but this was not the car I drove in qualifying yesterday. But who cares? I’m actually racing!
I’ve just managed to overtake – overtake! – an Alpha Prime, and now I’m running in P14 with six cars behind. My teammate’s up ahead at the end of the straight. He struck gold on a pit stop when a Tenzing crashed out on the exit behind him as three others headed in, emerging four places up. Lucky dog.
But the guy’s a total amateur. He’s hesitant, feathering the accelerator when he should be flat. As he approaches Turn 1, smoke puffs off the front tyres – he’s locking up, either braking late or struggling with control. Regardless, I’ll cruise past him. Give me two laps, maybe three, and I’ll?—
‘Tiago, hold position. Repeat, hold position,’ says my race engineer.
The blood drains from my overheated face.
No.
Please no.
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘I can do it cleanly!’ It’s not steady, but that’s not totally my fault. The car’s bumpy as shit. ‘I can?—’
‘Confirm: no racing. We need you to manage the gap to the cars behind.’
What in the—? I’m objectively faster. 0.3 seconds a lap faster, if we’re splitting hairs. If I were in his position with fifteen laps to go, I might actually have a chance at sniffing points. Points!
But now? I’m watching his bumbling butt screw up Turn 8. His rears are twitching something fierce, telling me, on top of everything else, his tyres are failing. An optimistic fool would hope they’ll pit him soon and I can scoot ahead, but I’m slowly realising there’s no logic in the upper echelons of this team.
To add salt to the wound, Jack Bowden’s Pagari flies by me going double if not triple my speed.
Self-pity switches to horror when I check my rear mirrors and spot the Alpha Prime I’ve just overtaken. My car’s radiating under me, itching to be used, eager to be tested, hungry to pull away.
Yet here I am, watching a Maxim Performance join the party. The one my crew pulled off their fastest pit stop ever so I could get out in front. The reason I drove like I was putting in a quali lap to put space between us.
It only takes two more laps for the Alpha Prime to seek revenge.
C’mon, tortoise-mobile, let’s show ’em what we’re made of.
