‘To getting what we want,’ adds Minnie.
‘To fondant penises!’ giggles Ash. ‘Let’s hope Tom’s isn’t a chode like this one.’
Chapter 2
TIAGO
MIAMI
One of the biggest rappers in Latin music slaps my back. ‘Congrats, man.’
‘Thanks, bro,’ I say, hoping he’s too drunk to notice he’s looking at the world’s fakest smile.
‘You’re going to benumero unothis year,jefe. I can feel it.’
That makes one of us.
I watch him disappear into the throng. He really must know jack shit about Formula 1, and that works for me.
‘¡Felicidades, Tiago!’calls a telenovela star with a great rack, raising a bottle of Hennessy that I’m pretty sure she’s drinking straight. She says something else but it’s lost under El Alfa blasting through the speakers.
It’s an objectively good party, if I do say so myself. In Miami, parties are judged on their ratio of guys to girls, and there are about 80% girls here. I watch a trio of ladies dancing together, their hips rolling effortlessly to the filthy dembow beat, asses straining against their dresses, hair flicking from side to side. My eyes are drawn to the furthest one, butt so full I could lose my face in it. I watch it jiggle with every thrust. I bet she’s loud. Real loud.
It’s like she can feel me watching her. She turns and bites her lip, eyes pure heat as they lock with mine, and the sight shoots straight to my?—
Get it together, man! This is what got you in this position in the first place. I gather the strength to drag my eyes away.
Face it, I don’t even know why I’m throwing a party, it’s not like I have anything to celebrate. Sure, I fly to pre-season testing tomorrow, and a new season’s always exciting as hell. And some might even think a new team opens a sick new chapter. But it doesn’t. Going from Volare to Martinelli’s puny development team Leone is a disaster of epic proportions.
Volare and I had something good. When I started there as a rookie, we were stuck in the midfield trap. But even with lean budgets, minimal upgrades, and power unit limitations, the whole team worked their asses off for five years and we finished last season in fourth.
I thought we’d made it. I thought this year, we’d look to rival the Big Three. Millions in prize payouts; world-class sponsorships; consistent podiums. For the first time in my career, I could actually fight for titles.
Then I got fired.
‘How ya doin’?’ asks Isa, my sister and assistant, joining me on deck.
‘Guess I don’t feel much like celebrating.’ I stare miserably into my beer. It’ll probably be my last drink in a while and it galls me that I can’t even bring myself to enjoy it.
‘I get it. It’s going to be a big change, but look on the bright side: at least you’re still in F1. Every seat is covetable. So many people dream about just having a spot.’
‘I’m at thejoint worst constructorin the whole Championship, Isa.’
‘At least there’s always trusty DFK. Their averages are even worse than Leone’s.’
‘That’s true.’ I gaze out at the rows of superyachts around us, the lively dock filled with bars and restaurants, the glass skyscrapers and condo towers of South Beach beyond. ‘I guess I’m just an unlucky guy.’
Isa’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. ‘Oh sure, the son of Colombia’s biggest property conglomerate’sunlucky.’
‘I’m serious!’
She shoves me. ‘Enough already. I thought you said you were going to be “back at Volare in no time.”’
‘I will,’ I say emphatically. ‘Trust me, this is a minor setback. Give me three races and they’ll be begging to have me back.’
She throws me a look of unfiltered scepticism. ‘And how do you plan on repairing your reputation in the space of four weeks?’
The reason I was fired.
