Page 8 of Downforce

“You’re not Luca Taylor,” I say in outrage.

“You finally noticed,” he says cooly.

“Why didn’t you … you did that on purpose,” I accuse.

Ferrera is my brother’s new teammate this season, and to say the two aren’t friends is a slight understatement. Ever since Max viciously ran my brother off the damn track years ago while they were both in Formula 2, leading to a very serious crash that broke Travis’ arm, they’ve despised one another.

Which naturally means I hate Max as well.

I’m nothing if not loyal.

He’s a dirty driver.

I don’t know why Drake Horner or the team at Amato thought it would be a good idea to sign him as their second driver.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lies.

I go to argue, but then I remember that the real Luca Taylor has just walked away from me. My eyes move to the clock again. It’s nearing ten o’clock, which means he’s leaving, and I never got to speak with him.

I sneer at Max before dramatically spinning away from him and rushing off to find Luca Taylor to save this deal.

CHAPTER 3

Max

I have no reason to follow her. None at all.

Yet, my legs begin moving before my brain can tell me to mind my bloody business. I wasn’t particularly excited about attending tonight’s fundraiser. Most of these pre-season events are nothing more than the teams and their owners showing off their human trophies before the season begins.

Ordinarily, that type of thing doesn’t bother me. But lately, parties and fundraisers bore me. The same people over and over, jockeying for some position. I do enough of that on the track. The performance aspect of the pre-season is starting to wear thin.

With a sigh, I assume whatever’s sticking in my craw about my discomfort, is due to starting a new season with a new team.

My father’s team.

The cars don’t make their appearance until our pre-season practice runs, which are still a few weeks away. The drivers, on the other hand, though not obligated to attend all of the events hosted by the FIA, it’s often a way to network with sponsors and the like.

A lot of backroom deals are made at these fundraisers.

That thought leads me to wonder where Edwin, my agent, has gotten off to. I note that he did mention something about speaking with the owner of an apparel brand I’d mentioned being interested in working with.

Instead of going to find Edwin or sidling up to a number of other potential brand partners, I follow the woman in the dark, floral dress and bronze mask. She quickly weaves her way through the dancing couples, and I keep my attention not on the sway of the dress but her coppery red curls she’s tamed for tonight into a side ponytail.

I’m a few paces behind her as she breezes through the door to catch up to Luca Taylor.

“Mr. Taylor,” she calls, making him stop about halfway down the four exit steps that lead to his awaiting car.

I step just out of the way of the door into the shadows, remaining in earshot of the conversation.

“My apologies for chasing you down like this,” she says, sounding breathless. “But I meant to meet with you earlier in the evening.”

“Have we met before?” he asks, looking confused.

“No, but I’m Annalise. Travis Townsend’s assistant. You’ve worked with his agent, Norm, until now, but Travis and Norm couldn’t make it tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Taylor says.

“Wait.” She takes another step in his direction, her voice bordering on desperation. “Travis was greatly looking forward to discussing this deal with you in person.”