SECOND PLACE WAS AS GOOD AS FUCKED.
It had no value. It meant nothing at the bottom line.
In this race, he had to be first or nothing!
The checkered lane was only good for one car.
HIS car.
But Giane may have blinked when he shouldn’t have.
The next thing he knew, Drew was in front of him.
Che cazzo…?!
It was a fraction of time so small it was almost magic.
Poof, and Drew’s car popped up, blocking his way to victory.
In a race where a millisecond counted like a million blue chips on the high-end poker table, he lost a billion worth of chips in a flash. He had one last chip left, but now, he had a crappy hand. A VERY crappy one.
Two laps before checkered lane with a not-so-comfortable 2-second lead, no F21 driver worth his salt must commit this colossal mistake—giving the No.2 in the race position a chance to overtake.
But Drew had an unpredictable love-hate relationship with Turn 13. The last time they met neck to neck in that corner, Drew missed a beat and went flying into the lake.
However, just five blinks ago, Drew sneaked up and was now making him eat fine Melbourne dust on a beautiful Sunday in front of 50 million ESPN viewers around the world.
He chased him down after Turn 16 at 220 kmh on the straight but Turn 1 came in fast. He slowed down, narrowly missing Drew’s rear tire when he tried to break back into the lead at the sharp corner.
You reckless fuck! You’re going to total this 80-million-dollar car if you pull that stupid stunt again! he berated himself. Not to mention a fucking suspension.
Drew maneuvered Turn 2 perfectly, giving him no room to overtake.
A short straight had them parallel on the track, but cut short by Turns 3 and 4.
Drew held on pretty solid.
What the fuck did the fucker eat today?! Maybe Drew was doping? This wasn’t Drew at all. He used to grind the fucker to dust on this circuit! And where the fuck was Ricciardo when he needed a blocker?! No luck with that. His team mate was at No. 8 in the current race position, an eternity away in the grand scheme of things.
This was not happening!
By Turn 9, he was flying off the handle. There was another opportunity as they came into another easy straight. He revved it at 240 kmh. It was a duel once again but this scenario was different from the last four years as he was now the one chasing Drew, not the other way around.
A nightmare, really. Worse than what he’d experienced in the hands of the fucker in Mexico, Brazil and Abbu Dhabi last year.
He wasn’t used to anybody in front of him in this track. Not on his turf.
It was like watching himself miss the last bus out of apocalypse.
Slow. It was so slow. But his speedometer said he was already flying.
How to recover a lead when the car blocking his way was being driven by his archrival who had beaten him three races in a row? It was like trying to pull out a sinking ship from the bowels of the deep.
Cazzo, no! He won’t give this to him!
Albert Park was his!
Drew can take any track but not this one.
The figures were crucial. He was running at 250 kmh while Drew was punishing his engine at 260, an advantage because nobody was in front of the fucker.
Last lap.
They were approaching Turn 13 again.
This was his last chance to overtake and break back.
He revved it up and swerved right aiming to jump the chicane.
But Drew seemed to have developed a sixth sense at this turn. The fucker jumped too and he thought they would crash onto each other if not for Drew’s virtuoso driving, quickly pulling his Ferrari back onto the lane, then fading away like a rocket while his Zoldatti went off track, spinning on the grass. Two meters and he would have met the Albert Park lake up close and personal for the first time in his fifteen-year professional racing career. He barely heard his team mate Ricciardo on the radio, asking how he was.
Gnashing his teeth, tires squealing, he went back on the track, getting sandwiched by the third and fourth placers. Three blinks behind them were the pack of some twenty hungry beasts rearing to whip his ass off the speedway.
Drew had just cleared Turn 16.
He was chasing a cyclone amid hurricanes.
Fifteen seconds to impossibility.
He was getting familiar with the bitter taste of defeat. He just lost the first race of the season, the race that he’d been winning constantly for the past four years in this league. They were going to name a stretch in the circuit after he’d retired to honor his incredible record on this circuit, but that won’t probably happen now.
Three consecutive losses were hard to swallow, but he did, hoping the third was the last of it. A fourth loss in a row was plain acid in his mouth. The acrid taste burned all the way to his gut, ricocheting in his head, searing his brain with the humiliating reality.
He was Gianfranco Zoldatti, King of Albert Park, the F21 street circuit in Melbourne. He’d never lost here. He held the longest record of wins here.
He got blasted off the circuit today. By a full minute.
Owned by Drew.
A total beatdown.
He was seriously doubting his capabilities now.
Was this the beginning of the end of his racing career? Should he recognize the writings on the wall? Should he start believing the motorsports cognoscenti’s lamentations that his recent successive failures in the hands of Drew was a serious sign of decline? His glory days were a thing of the past.
A part of him violently roared in denial. The thought was simply terrifying. For someone like him who lived for racing, the possibility of not being able to race again and win was simply inconceivable.
The problem wasn’t his car. Nor his crew. It was him. He’d blinked too much at the most crucial turns in the last four races and it had cost him dearly.
He’d lost his edge. His killer instinct.
Racing was the fire in his blood and it was clotting. The fire was turning into ice.
No! He needed to feel something other than this! He had to get out of this major slump, shake off this feeling of helplessness.
What the fuck was wrong with him?!
He was angry. Very, very angry. Furious! With himself.
He wanted to raise some major hell to vent this violence roiling inside him. It had to come out or he’d go mad. Only he didn’t know how. He’d raised all kinds of hell in all parts of the world and it failed to raise his thrill level from bored shitless anymore. Only racing could do that.
After today’s defeat, he crashed in his Chairman’s Villa at the Crown Towers, not knowing what to do. The Red Lounge, the official F21 afterparty, was underway somewhere teeming with all kinds of creatures with double Ds and twin endless legs. He was worried that his stick wasn’t even revving up for some high-gear action tonight. He hadn’t had sex in two weeks. He’d been too preoccupied with his obsession of kicking Drew’s ass out of HIS checkered lane.
Guess whose ass was kicked out bigtime.
He turned on the TV. His loss today was still the fucking topic at Fox Sports and ESPN. Like he needed to be reminded of that every damn minute!
He scanned the channels and stopped when a news flash caught his attention.
“The Valenna Jones Virginity Auction ends tonight at 12 midnight. The high profile “popping” as they call it, happens tomorrow after her concert at the Rod Laver Arena. Interested millionaires can still jet off to Melbourne to catch the last wave of bidding. Sources say it has reached a staggering 30 million dollars, the most expensive auction of its kind in history. Reports say the top 5 bidders are all in Australia now awaiting Valenna’s verdict. Who will be the lucky guy? Her fans are hoping Valenna will disclose the man’s identity but she says it depends on the man if he wants to be exposed...”
Che cazzo...?!
The US needed to participate in a new war. Hollywood smut had invaded the hallowed halls of CNN. But for whatever strange reason, that stupid news piqued his curiosity.
He went to check the internet on his laptop.
True enough, “Popping The Pop Diva” was smoking all other headlines. How come he hadn’t heard of this? Yes, he was too busy seriously training to beat Drew. But what did he care about shit like this? And what level of insanity would make a woman sell her virginity to the highest bidder? On the fucking internet of all places?
But after pacing the vastness of his hotel suite for minutes, he called his manager.
30 million dollars huh?
He posted a 35-million bid. That should take care of it. Not even a dent on his 15% individual share in the 250-billion-euro Impero Di Zoldatti corporation, the biggest carmaker in Europe which his great grandfather founded.
Now why did he want to pop a cherry for 35 million dollars? He was another breed of insane. But she did say the winning bid would go to her favorite charity, right? Now, charity was good. He was a charitable man. He had several foundations scattered all over Europe. That saved him hundreds of millions worth of taxes.
He really needed to relax, to be entertained. Since he was loath to join the Red Lounge, he would have to arrange his own private party.
Yes. That’s it.
Popping some celebrity’s cherry could get him out of this morose fog and kick start his mojo again in time for the Malaysian GP. This was as good as a RnR as he could get.
Valenna Jones.
He’d heard of her, alright, though they hadn’t crossed paths yet. He didn’t really play the Hollywood party circuit. His social bases were London and Monaco. But any red-blooded male who had access to the internet and TV knew Valenna Jones. The chick was even more famous than Barack and George combined because of her purity vow. The oldest and hottest virgin in Hollywood, they’d said.
Cazzo. Who gives a shit?
He’d caught some stories on the Yahoo page recently about her riding a mechanical bull naked or something on her music video. According to the article, the virgin was rampaging all over the place, behaving like a class A slut. She’d gone wild, they’d said.
Wild was good. He was the epitome of wildness in his youth. Racing had injected discipline into his system, taming the restless beast in him. But it was coming out again.
He typed her name on the Google image search. A screen full of big, sparkling eyes the color of premium whiskey arrested him.
Three seconds later, a boner the size of the Eureka Tower seized him. He stared agape at his crotch, disbelieving his body’s reaction.
Whoa...?! A bloody boner in a blink?! That hadn’t happened since....never.
What the hell caused that? Her beauty was not extraordinary. He’d had better-looking lovers than her. Maybe it was her cherry. He hadn’t had a cherry in like...he couldn’t remember. Maybe he never had one. Maybe that was it. How else could he explain his supersonic boner?
Cazzo, that throbbing was serious. Super high-gear. He’d bet his Zoldatti race car, an orgasm from this kind of erection was going to be so fucking high-octane. He wanted that. Badly.
Yes, he was a bored, mad lecher, but fuck it, he wanted a cherry.
Valenna Jones’ cherry.
He called his manager again and asked him to change his bid to 50 million dollars.
That should fucking close it.