CHAPTER SEVEN: CANADA
Andy
I can’t believe the kind of calculation required to pull something like this off, that a paper would even print such nonsense. It’s fucking insanity. A shower doesn’t help. Jerking off does nothing but make my arm sore. Not even the top shelf of the minibar can rescue me from my own fucking self-pity. It’s becoming a habit and we all know how well that turned out with my old man. Mind you, I’ve never met an alcoholic so highly functional.
By the morning my head’s full of rocks. Last time I checked, liquor wasn’t on the prohibited substances list, but it sure as fuck isn’t going to help me out on track today either.
It’s fucking freezing down at the pits, not that I expected sunshine and sand, but it should be in the mid-seventies at least.
I warm my hands at a portable heater. Sara isn’t here, but I didn’t think she would be. I haven’t even tried to call her. No, I need proof first that Stacey was trying to screw me over, that it was all a set-up, and I will find it even if I have to call every private investigator in the book.
Start with the photographer.
I’m half-drunk, feeling like I was run over by a truck, and looking for a fight. When I find Steven he’s surprisingly amicable.
He’s layered up like the Michelin Man. “Yes, I know the car’s having issues, Andy. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. I’m losing seconds out there. That’s money down the toilet for you and Goodall.”
He nods. “I’ll have the mechanics run over it all again—diagnostics, X-ray, the works. Leave this to me, okay? Trust I can see this through.”
It’s a surprising turn of mood for someone who wanted to knock my head off a week or two ago. “Okay then.”
He puts his hand out. “Let’s start fresh, shall we? Work together. What do you say?”
Fuck, I really am drunk.
I take his hand, shake. “I think that’s best.”
Klaus looks like he’s seen a flying saucer when I pass. I give him the famous Fortes wink. Guess Steven has a surprise or two left up his sleeve yet.
Steven
I wait until a Sauber mechanic passes before lifting the phone back to my ear. “He will lose the race. You have my word.”
There’s a snigger from the other end, Boris, Alexei, whatever Gulag name this guy was gifted with lost on me but his threats definitely not. “It is very simple, Mr. Jones.” He stops to take a drag of a cigarette. I half-expect smoke to be blown into my ear. “You handle your boy, or we handle you.”
I shouldn’t have gotten mixed up with these cunts, but I had no choice after Andy took the first four rounds. That seriously hurt my wallet. I need more capital.
The line goes dead. I stare into the screen, at myself, questioning why I can’t get Andy to do what I ask. It should have been simple, an easy order, but the prick’s tougher than I thought, one of those real anti-authority types that does the opposite of whatever you say.
It was time for a different approach.
Whatever it takes, Steven, my father used to tell me. Whatever it takes, son. He knew the rules, knew how to break them and get away with it. He wouldn’t have made it to the top of the corporate ladder any other way. I’ve followed in his footsteps, fucking ruthless, but it’ll all be for naught if Fortes keeps pushing back.
I’m not about to lose another mil because I can’t keep him under control—or my head. I’m not going to let it happen.
Whatever it takes.
Andy
I find Sara up in the team box. At first she pays me no attention, continuing to talk to sponsors and Goodall honchos dressed in the same shade of company grey.
I cut in. “Excuse me.”
The gentleman she’s talking too seems too star struck to argue. He pats me on the chest. “Please.”
Sara’s cold, back in her ice fortress. I can’t blame her. “I was talking to that guy, you know.”
“And now you’re talking to me.”
“What do you think you’re going to achieve, Andy? Do you want me to suddenly drop into your arms after you’re little tongue-wrestling episode with Stacey?”
I try to keep my voice down. “Nothing happened with Stacey. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ll find the photographer. I’ll get proof.”
She’s not convinced. “And then what? I spent most of last week trying to talk down management at Caliber. Any more of this and we’re out. We can’t have our brand connected to scandal.”
“It was hardly a scandal.”
“No,” she says, freezing over, “it was worse. How do you think I felt after letting you in, trusting you?”
She looks out the windows, back to me. “I should know better. I’m an actual adult.”
I put one hand against the glass. “Maybe you’re right.”
She remains silent, arms crossed.
I can’t deal with this now, not so close to qualifying.
Fuck it.
I head back to the pits instead, set Metallica to full blast in my headphones. I’m not going to be thinking of Sara out there today. I’m going to think about Stacey, about the many ways she’s been fucking me over. I’m going to think about that poisonous bitch and I’m going to use that revulsion to win.
*
Rather rare during the Montreal round, it rains—biblical, sheeting rain that turns the track to glass, but I’m on point. I’m aggressive on the hairpins, the best I’ve ever been at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. The curbs on the final chicane are always tricky, but today I blitz everything. The car’s gremlins are magically gone. I’m on top of the fucking world as I make pole position, Carl clocking in second.
The rain doesn’t let up a single drop for the race. I gun hard, but the initial momentum I felt in qualifying is lost to my increasingly clouded head. I’m not in the right frame of mind and I catch myself watching the box I know Sara is in as I pass down the straight. Carl cuts me off at the Wall of Champions. It’s a ballsy move. Maybe he does have a pair after all.
I pull ahead, switching with Carl and then back again. This cat-and-mouse game continues the entire race. I’m used to Steven barking in my ear to let Carl through, take the one-two, but this time he’s quiet, only running through the odd piece of data, times. He could be a fucking robot.
In the end, Carl has me by a car-length down the Casino straight. It’s enough to hand him the win. I know what this means. His newly acquired twenty-five points to my eighteen puts him into the championship lead by one point. It puts everything I’m working towards with Ferrari into jeopardy.
I dodge as many people as I can on my way out of the pits. They’re all asking the same questions, speculating on the rivalry between us. You’d think we were the only team in the competition.
I come around the corner and almost slam into Sara.
She’s holding an umbrella, but I’m enjoying the cold wetness running down my back.
“I was on my way to see you,” she says.
“Why?” I snap, not giving a shit about her latest corporate spiel.
She looks around, but we’re alone. “I came down to the pits earlier, heard Steven talking.”
“About?” My voice is a bark this time and she recoils.
“Jesus, I’m trying to help you out here, Andy. I can leave if you want.”
I put my hand out, feeling instantly guilty. “No, wait. Tell me.”
“He was talking about team orders. He wants Carl in the lead, whatever it takes.”
I kick the ground. “Motherfucker. That’s why he was acting so nice. He’s fucking up to something. I know it. ‘Whatever it takes’—Those were his words?”
“Yes. Look, you’re not going to achieve anything by getting worked up about it. Let me find out more. I’m becoming quite good at snooping around, weird as that sounds.”
“Does this mean you believe me about the Stacey thing?”
Her face tightens. “I never said I didn’t, but it still looks bad for business. You can at least understand that, can’t you?”
I can, but that doesn’t mean it’s not driving me fucking insane.
Sara looks up at the sky, squinting against the glare. “Come to the party tonight. Forget about the race. I need you there.”
“You?”
“Caliber,” she clarifies, but I’ll take it all the same.
“Fine, but I’m only doing it because of you.”
She nods. “Okay, I’ll see you there. Your suit’s waiting in your room.” She holds her hand out. “Given the weather, I think blue will be fitting.”
*
Quebec has really stepped up its game after the garden debacle last year. The lack of champagne didn’t help, the Championship torn between champagne sponsors at the time. That’s all it comes down to in the end—money, who’s scratching who’s back. Sometimes I think it’s worse than the NFL at the top. But what do I know? I’m just a driver.
Sara’s on the balcony in a light blue dress that hugs her waist. She’s got this little sparkly crystal belt on that’s probably by a fancy designer I wouldn’t even recognize. But, damn, she is wearing the fuck out of that dress.
I approach her and desperately want to reach out and touch the bare skin of her arm. “I hate to sound like I’m on a loop, but you look stunning.”
She turns around. “I did some research of my own into Stacey.”
“And?”
“I found your photographer.”
“You did? How did you manage that? I had three guys working on it.”
She rolls her lips together, coral lipstick complementing the color of her dress perfectly. “I can be charming when I want to.”
“What did he say, the photographer?”
“He kept shooting after the kiss. The sequence shows the full story.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I have.”
“So I’m in the clear?”
“Not quite. He wants a fee, a substantial one, but I’ve already talked to Caliber and they’re happy to foot the bill. I have a friend back in New York tight with the press. She’s a real feminist war bringer. Hates girls like Stacey. She’ll make sure the pictures get out to every agency short of Timbuktu.”
“Wow, what can I say?”
Her expression is serious. “Thank you for a start, but you’ve got to be more careful, Andy. She’s a honey trap.”
‘Sweet’ is the last word I’d use to describe Stacey Solomon. “A what now?”
“I don’t think this was her idea. I think someone was trying to do some serious damage.”
“Carl?”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think he’s the type.”
“Clearly you haven’t raced against him.”
“I don’t know who, or why, but you should watch your back. Formula One is far more political than I realized.”
I lean against the railing, look down into the lights of Rue St. Catherine where the real party is happening. “You have no idea.”
“So you’ll be careful?”
I smile. “I’m always careful. Now, about that drink…”
*
I spend the night with Sara at the pop-up bar ordering cocktails. Her ability to handle liquor is impressive, especially for such a small gal.
Hiding it in her curves.
I watch her and yes, she really could be a supermodel. Perhaps she doesn’t have the height, but those legs… I picture running my hands up from her calves to the soft give of her inner thigh.
By my fourth drink I’m well on my way to completely hammered. I’m telling her things I haven’t even told my own mother. I’m disappointed when she helps me up, her lack of balance somehow cancelling out my own so we actually look pretty damn coordinated leaving the party.
We collapse onto a bench outside and a gust of chilly wind makes her shiver.
“I’m cold,” she says, rubbing her shoulders.
I take off my jacket and sling it around her. My hands linger there while she looks up at me with those laser-beam blues that make my cock hard every time they turn my way. That damn look sends my heart into overdrive every single time without fail.
I lean forward and our lips connect, the cold forgotten.