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“You need to learn a few things about the cars and the races,” I change the subject with no finesse whatsoever and pace back to my car so I can explain. “You made a post the other day about DRS that wasn’t correct.”
“You read my posts?” A quiet voice whispers from behind me.
Uh-huh, not interested, my ass. She isn’t going to lose her job over sleeping with me, either, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. She may lose her job, or more likely quit, for a thousand othe
r reasons, but not because she gives in to what she wants from me.
“Aye, and I read the comments from the assholes making fun of you for saying the wrong thing.” Because keyboard warriors and pussies around the world never hesitate to act tough when they can hide behind a screen and anonymity.
“See this flap here?” I put my hand on the rear of the car and open and close the carbon fiber wing a couple of times. “DRS--Drag Reduction System. At certain points in the race, I can open up this wing and reduce aerodynamic drag on the car. Gives me another twelve kilometers per hour, more or less.”
“Oh,” she comes over and fiddles with the wing herself, “so you want this open as much as possible.”
“No. When it’s closed there is more downforce on the car which is better for cornering. Plus, we can only use DRS in certain zones when we’re within one second of the car ahead, and never on certain laps like right after a safety car or the first couple laps of a race.”
“Wikipedia did not mention all of that,” she looks up at me, her face softening and the tension melting from her stiff shoulders. The same porcelain shoulders that were bare for me last week.
“Aye, you confused DRS with KERS, Kinetic Energy Recovery System. See this reservoir here?” I kneel next to a wheel and she joins me to poke around under the car. I’m oddly turned on talking shop with her. She seems genuinely interested, like she’s not just doing this to humor me or for some ulterior motive. And the damn jasmine smell is wafting off her again.
“This big metal thing?” She asks and touches the smooth titanium component.
“Aye. The KERS harvests energy produced by braking. It stores it and then, when I choose, I press a button and can use that stored energy for more horsepower.”
“All the buttons on the steering wheel are making more sense now.” She’s biting her bottom lip as she contemplates and asks more questions. I want to know what those lips taste like, be the one biting her lip.
She asks a dozen more questions and even finds paper to start taking notes, halfway through. Pausing her writing, she lifts an eyebrow as if there’s been a sudden rush of skepticism, “Why are you helping me?”
Because you smell like heaven and I want to see you naked in my sheets flushed with satisfaction that I give you. Because I want to run my tongue over every inch of you and I want to hear you scream my name. Because the way we argue is such a turn on I think the way we fuck will be cataclysmic.
Because I’m lonely and like spending time with you even though I have no business dragging you into my mess.
“You’re supposed to be here to help me. If I help you, that only helps me. No?”
Lies. I can tell them, too.
Mallory nods, either believing my bullshit or pretending to. I can’t tell.
“Most people here have dreamt of working in F1 since birth. You don’t know the first thing about it. Why are you here?” I ask her, flat out. I have no right to ask, I know this. But Mallory feels oddly tangible to me, something real amidst the facade. There’s no Botox, no duck lips stuffed with filler. No kissing my ass or trying to get me into bed so she can post it on Instagram. She could have done that on Day One.
The reality is, I don’t particularly want her to leave anymore. Celeritas will just replace her with someone far less tolerable or fuckable. If she won’t leave on her own, we’re going to do this. And if we’re going to do this, more than once, I need to know what I’m getting into. Besides her leggings.
Mallory hesitates for a moment then sinks to the floor and sits with her legs crossed, facing me and leaning up against a toolbox that separates the garage bays. “I’m new to racing but it’s always been sports,’ she fidgets with the hem of her shirt and avoids eye contact.
I pretend to inspect something on the car that does not need any inspecting. “Let me guess, you were a tomboy and this was Daddy’s dream.” Pretty sure that was the case with Nanny numbers two and six, though they didn’t last long and it was just speculation. I certainly never cared enough to ask.
“Nope, my father does not believe driving is a sport and is disgusted that I’m here.” She shakes her head. I guess she wants me to pull it out of her.
“So this is revenge. You’re getting back at him?”
“He probably thinks so. I doubt he even realizes that I went into Sports PR because he got me hooked on it when I was a kid.” Mallory slouches forward and rests her head on her palm, her hazel eyes sagging from her flight ordeal.
“Go on.”
“We used to go to games with him when we were little - the Mets, the Knicks. The Jets once or twice. He had box seats and would entertain clients there.”
“That sounds wholesome enough,” I add. Daddy may be ignorant about driving not being a sport, but no skin off my nose.
“He quit taking us when we were ‘too old to be cute’ for the cameras photographing him there as a ‘family man’ and Mom decided it was ‘unbecoming’.” Mallory makes air quotes around several phrases and her face twists up in bitterness. “We were just there to be seen. There was nothing wholesome about it.”
