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Ten years ago, my teenage self would have killed to be sitting where I am right now, behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car about to head onto the track. Now? Now I’m bored senseless.
The two choices I have are to be in a blind rage twenty-four seven or drown it all out and exist in a semi-conscious state of apathy, with the random snide remark to keep my heart pumping.
The only thing keeping me awake today in between runs during Free Practice is my NILF flitting around the garage like a kid in a candy store, in utter fascination with the big boy toys. She didn’t find my new acronym for her, the Nanny I’d Like to Fuck, very funny but it hasn’t stopped her from chasing me around like a harpy all day asking a million questions.
It might be cute if she weren’t also taking pictures all day long for her cockamamie marketing ploys, and that gets on my nerves. The whole influencer generation grates on me. None of it is real, the bullshit people post to their profiles. Vacation photos of the happy couple who sleep in separate bedrooms and pray for the other to die so they can collect on the life insurance policy. But damned if they aren’t going to post beach photos from the Bahamas and gush about how in love they are so they can try and one-up the neighbors. Are they really fooling anyone?
Everyone wants what someone else has.
“What about this button, what does it do?”
Nanny has asked about every button on my steering wheel so far and she’s doing it because I am fully strapped into the car, helmet on, ready to go and can’t get out. I’m being held hostage and begging the crew to release the car so I can get the fuck out of here. She’s perched over me in the cockpit and deliberately flipping her long hair over me and leaning her chest in so I can see down her shirt. I know this game.
Unfortunately, she’s winning it because being smashed into the car is not a comfortable time to have a semi.
“How about this button, and what does this dial do?” Her fingers are sneaking in trying to push every goddamn button the steering wheel.
“Fucking stop, you evil harpy!” I swat her hands away, but she keeps it up relentlessly.
“And this one, and this one, ooo what is that switch?”
“Matty, for fuck sake, pick her up and lock her in the motorhome!” I yell to Matty who is standing beside me with a cold air hose blowing on me, watching her with rapt fascination.
“You don’t pay me enough for the sexual harassment lawsuit, sorry,” he answers and cocks his head to the side in wonder at her obnoxious and unprecedented behavior.
Nanny manages to hit a clutch pedal behind the steering wheel and the car rocks forward a split second before I catch it. “Stop before you kill someone, wench!”
“I’ll stop it when you stop calling me Nanny,” she stands and puts her hands on her hip.
“You’re mad,” I shake my helmeted head at her, as much as one can shake their head with a HANS device on.
“Ok then,” and she’s back to double fisting every fidgety bit she can reach within the cockpit.
“You realize this car is worth about seventeen million pounds, aye? I guarantee that destroying it will get you sent back to New Hampshire faster than I ever could.” I know she’s from New York.
“Sounds like your problem.” Push push push, fidget fidget fidget.
“FINE,” I declare defeat and swat her away. She may have won the battle but I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon making war preparations.
“Ha! That means no ‘Nanny’, no “NILF’, no ‘AU that’s a great PAIR of tits ya’ got there, none of it, Lennox!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave her off and look straight ahead but it’s impossible to miss her giant smile as she stands to my side, thoroughly impressed with herself.
The crew lowers the car from the dolly and sends me out moments later and I can finally adjust myself as soon as I pull out. Fucking hot nanny always arguing with me with that smart mouth. I can think of much prettier ways for her to use it.
I do a couple of dozen laps and run the programs the engineers call for, not that it matters, they’ll see to it that I don’t win the race anyway, and then I pull back into my garage bay. I’ve got twenty minutes before the next session so I hop out of the car and make my way into the back to find the bathroom because Matty pumps gallons of water into me every day.
Rounding the corner I hear Mallory giggling and I’m planning to announce that she neglected to ban the word ‘babysitter’ and I’ve come up with a few puns for that while driving around the track. But as soon as I see her, my jaw locks and my hands instinctively ball into fists.
My piece of shit teammate, Digby DuPont, is leaning against the wall with one arm above Mallory running a long strand of her hair between his fingers and she’s laughing and smiling. Falling for his bullshit.
“Dickby!” I roar and march toward them.
Mallory jumps from the boom of my voice but Digby only turns to smirk at me like the manipulative little bitch he is and puts his arm around her shoulders.
“Ahh, Lennox, I see you’re in caveman mode yet again. How charming. I was just introducing myself to the lovely Ms. Mitchell,” and he glances down to smile at her with his smug artificially-whitened toothy grin.
“Get your fucking hands off the nanny,” I seethe.
