CHAPTER EIGHT: BAKU
Sara
Admittedly, I had no idea where Baku was when I saw it on the itinerary, but so far the city has exceeded my expectations—a kind of infant Dubai or Abu Dhabi with a medieval bent perched right on the western edge of the Caspian Sea. ‘The Paris of the East’ might be taking it too far, but it is beautiful.
Could recent events with one Andy Fortes be influencing your mood, perhaps?
Probably. Okay, definitely. It’s good. He’s good. I’m good. It’s all good.
I didn’t do so well pronouncing ‘Azerbaijan’ to my liaison at Caliber. Poor girl’s probably never been out of Fifth Avenue. “I love those things,” she exclaims to me down the line. “Have you tried shish kabob?”
I laugh quietly to myself. Worldly my fellow Americans are not, except for Andy. Over these last few months I’ve noticed he goes out of his way to get to know the hotel staff, people working at the track. Just this morning a street kid ran up to him in the hotel lobby. Security was on the boy in a second, but Andy put his hand up, spoke to him quietly in a language I still don’t understand. The kid went off beaming.
“What did you say?” I asked him.
Andy smiled back, that slackened smile that always makes me quiver a little. “I told him there would be tickets for him and three of his friends at the desk this afternoon.”
My inner skeptic gets the better of me. “They won’t let him back in here.”
Andy looks over to the concierge. “After the all-access pass I gave him, I’m sure they will.”
He sees me looking at him curiously. He runs his hand over his chin. “What is it? Did I miss a spot?”
“No, it’s… I don’t know. The more I get to know you, the more you surprise me.”
He looks down between his legs. “I’m saving the best surprise for last, you know.”
While we have been darting off into dark places and groping like a couple of teenagers, we still haven’t had actual sex. I always find an excuse to leave and promptly sit alone in my hotel suite wondering why I always looked for a way out. But if Andy really wants it, if he wants me, he’ll wait. I’m testing him.
He walks off leaving me hot, bothered and, for the first time, definitely considering going there.
*
When we arrive at a city square instead of a circuit, I lean forwards and ask the driver, “Formula One?”
He turns, smelling of tobacco and garlic. “Yes,” he gestures to the city around us, “street”.
Baku City Circuit is a new addition to the F1 calendar, yet everyone but me seems to know exactly what’s going on.
My stupidity is confirmed at the team meeting, each team housed in pop-up pit garages smack-dab in the center of town where the Old City of Icheri Shehair is flanked by the distinctive mirror facades of the Flame Towers.
“Now,” Steven addresses the collected, “this is a brand-new circuit.” He looks right at Andy, who’s scratching his chin. “Anything could happen.”
Steven points to the track layout on a whiteboard. “Six kilometers counter-clockwise through the heart of Baku, fastest street circuit in the world. Past Azadiig Square, the Maiden Tower and looping around Government House.” His attention is on Andy again. “It’s a tight one. We want to minimize contact if we can.”
Even I know Steven’s words are direct from a press release.
Andy looks over at Carl. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The rivalry between them has ratcheted up to unbelievable levels. It’s all the press is talking about. In one way it’s perfect for exposure, but Caliber wants the right exposure, not two of Formula One’s biggest stars coming to blows by the seaside.
Steven claps his hands together. I can imagine him doing it in front of a bunch of suits in a Manhattan tower, but it’s odd here, forced. As for taming Andy Fortes… I know who has the upper hand there.
“Steven,” says Andy, flicking his eyes to the back of the tent. “A moment.”
Reluctantly, Steven meets Andy up the back. I can’t resist. I slide into Nancy Drew mode and walk behind the tent, finding a small gap to see through.
Most of the crew heads off to official briefings, Andy and Steven left alone in a corner stacked high with tires. The smell of fresh rubber is ripe.
Steven starts. “Yes, Andy?”
“You know why I’m here.”
Old Steven returns. “You want a pat on the back, a blowjob? How about you get back to work?” He starts to walk away, but Andy blocks his path.
“Team orders. Can’t say you looped me in.”
That gets Steven’s attention. “Who told you?”
“A friend.”
Steven tries to walk away again, but I can see he’s been thrown. “Your ‘friend’ is ill-informed.”
Andy blocks him with his hand. “She doesn’t have any reason to lie.”
Shit.
Steven’s onto it. “She? Only two females frequent the pits and I sure as hell don’t think you’re talking about Katy Perry.”
Andy has to admit it. Don’t, please. But he has no choice. “Fine, so Sara told me. Don’t blame the messenger.”
Steven’s kicks the tires. “Fucking bitch. What did she say?”
Andy slams him hard against the tires, bulging arm up under his throat. I’ve never seen him so angry. “You talk about her like that again and I’ll put you the fuck away, you hear me?”
Steven wheezes, hands gripping Andy’s arm but he’s unable to pull it away. When he doesn’t reply, Andy presses harder.
“I said,” continues Andy, teeth clenched, “did you hear me?”
“Yes,” croaks Steven. “Yes.”
Andy lets him go and backs away. Steven crumples in half, coughing and clutching at his throat. “Are you screwing her? Is that it?”
“If I was it would be none of your fucking business.”
Steven tries to assert his control. “Everything that happens in this team is my business.”
“Not any more. You think I give a shit about your team orders? Fuck you, fuck Carl and fuck any idea you have of me gracefully accepting second place.”
I expect Steven to lash out again, but he remains quiet as Andy walks off.
My skin’s prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. The whole situation is extremely uncomfortable, Formula One’s top team breaking apart from the inside. I never knew the sport was so cut-throat. It’s House Of Cards with five-hundred horsepower.
Still, I couldn’t help the way my heart swelled with pride when Andy came to my defense.
He’s the one who ratted you out.
True, but he was juiced up on testosterone, too busy thinking with his dick instead of his brain.
His dick.
I press my legs tighter together, the sound of pneumatic tools and clanging metal mingles with the song of the busy city just outside and it’s intoxicating. My nipples are diamond hard and I’m wet—standing here in the middle of Baku with the crotch of my panties soaking and one person responsible.
I close my eyes for a moment and he’s there, no Caliber suit or shirt, no anything. His hands run up my sides, my blouse fluttering away on the breeze like a lifted feather. He kneels before me, presses his face between my legs, tongue probing into my moist flesh.
My eyes snap open and I lean against one of the tent poles for support, suddenly breathless. I place a hand over my chest, my heart running its own, rapid race.
Andy fucking Fortes—what have you done to me?
*
Although Carl poles again in qualifying, Andy placing second on the grid, Andy remains largely upbeat during the press conference. The young brunette closest to him is leaning forward when she asks her question, her cleavage on display, her eyes swimming with stars. I’m surprised she doesn’t simply hand over her panties right then and there.
“Andy,” she begins, a second away from shedding her top or flinging her panties at him, “what do you think of,” she leans forward, the movement jiggling her breasts practically in his lap, “…the circuit?”
He puts on ‘the smile’, turns it right up and leans over the desk. “It suits my style.”
“And what’s that?” she presses, falling for it.
Andy’s smile deepens and I know what’s coming next. “Fast, dirty and held in close quarters—I’m going to make it mine today. Watch and see.”
He gives her a wink and I straighten up like someone’s shoved a lightning rod up my ass. I almost don’t know why until it suddenly strikes me: My god. I’m jealous.
I avoid pressing the flesh in the VIP area and join the crowd trackside. I’m sure I spot the street kid. He’s with three other boys his age, all of them dressed in suits three or four sizes too small and ratty in the extreme, but they’re here and clearly loving it.
True to Andy’s words, the racing is tight and dirty. The layout of the circuit allows little room for error. Before long there’s carnage on the track, one of the Brabus cars totaled as it’s jammed up against the barrier in a shower of sparks and metal.
There’s contact everywhere, even between Andy and Carl as they fight for first place.
In the end Carl manages to squeeze Andy out in a ballsy move through the final kink past the Maiden Tower. It elicits a gasp from the crowd, the elderly man beside me shaking his head in disbelief.
Carl’s car clips Andy’s at the back ever so slightly. Andy fishtails, but pulls the car under control to snake across the line ahead of a Ferrari in third. I can’t imagine he’ll be happy.
And he’s not.
I make it to the pits in time to see the two of them circling each other, Steven stuck in the middle trying to push them apart, Carl’s bimbo girlfriend clutches his arm crying “Babe! Babe!”
“You’re a fucking dog, Heinz,” Andy jabs.
“Calm down,” Steven shouts.
So the wrong thing to say.
I’m sure this will send Andy right over the top, but he starts stepping back. He points at Carl. “Watch your back, my friend. I’m coming for you. I fucking invented dirty.”
Andy starts to walk towards the crowd.
I try to catch up with him, Steven casting me the evil eye.
Screw you.
“Andy!” I shout, just as he’s lost in a thunder cloud of camera flashes.
*
I pace around my hotel suite in bare feet, the carpet of the JW Marriott soft and luxurious. I call Andy not really knowing why, but he doesn’t pick up. I haven’t been summoned by Steven either, not that he’s about to bite the hand that feeds him. He should be more careful what he says when he thinks nobody is around.
I take a shower, toweling myself off when my phone buzzes. It’s Andy: How about that drink?
Automatically, I start typing an excuse, stopping mid-sentence. Why don’t you? What’s the harm?
I see headlines in my head, scandals and disgrace, but my libido plows past all that. Private jets, hotel rooms—it’s a life of luxury, for sure, but it’s a lonely one away from the track. I picture Andy sulking by himself, slowly falling apart. It’s more than him now. I can’t let Steven win, not after what he called me.
Give him a shoulder to cry on, says Libido. Hell, give him everything.
He answers for me: The pits. Got a Bud with your name on it :)
I throw my hands up and let my dressing gown drop to the floor. Naked Me looks back in the floor-to-ceiling windows and I have to admit I’m looking half-alright. I recall what a guy once said to me when I refused to sleep with him on the first date: “What’s the good of having a Ferrari if all you do is keep it locked up in the garage?”
*
Lord help me. I find Andy lying underneath his car, one wheel jacked up. He’s got a spanner in hand, Caliber distressed denim jeans and nothing in the way of a shirt, the muscles in his arm flexing as he works. He could bend that spanner like a spoon if he wanted.
“Hi,” I offer.
He sits upright, knocking his head on the underbody of the car.
He slides out on the trolley, greasy, sweaty and irre-fucking-sistible. He rubs his head, eyes running up from my bare legs, over my chest and up to my eyes. “Didn’t see you there, sorry.”
“Am I that easy to miss?”
His eyes fall again as he sits, abs crunching together. “Dressed like that? Couldn’t miss you if you were stationed on the moon.”
I run my hand down the front of the dress, a cotton sheath, one of my personal favorites from the Caliber summer collection. I had a subtle hand in the design, even helped choose the fabrics. “This old thing?” I reach down and scoop up a beer from the ice chest, tossing it to Andy. “For your head.”
He catches it with one hand, flicking the top off and taking a pull. “Thanks.”
“Getting drunk isn’t going to make you drive any better, you know.”
He leans forward, beer clutched in his hands. “Maybe not, but it will sure as hell make me feel a lot better.”
He’s putting on a brave face, but I can see the losses are getting to him, slowly wearing him down. “Why are you here all alone anyhow?”
He glances behind himself. “Thought I’d check out the car personally.”
“You found something?”
He shakes his head. “Sadly, no.” He taps the side of his skull. “Guess that means the problem’s in here.”
I glance down to his crotch. “Or there.”
He smirks but doesn’t laugh. “I can assure you there are no problems down there, though it could do with a good oil and lube.”
I raise an eyebrow, reaching down and picking up my own beer, opening it with one hand like he did. “Getting a little worn out, is it? Overuse?”
He ignores me. “Where’d you learn to crack open a beer like that?”
I take a sip, close the lid of the cooler and sit down. My poor pussy could do with a temperature drop. “College. I was a beer pong champion amongst other things.”
He slides on the trolley lightly back and forth. I imagine myself below him. “No way. You’re shitting me.”
I run my finger around the rim of the beer. “No lie. Three years in a row. Sigma-Phi for life. Yay.”
“You were a Greek?”
“Of course.”
“Cheerleader?”
“No.”
“Pity,” he says, eyes glinting. “Prom Queen?”
“Some skank named Stephanie took that one out. Dialed in the pity card because her dog died or something.”
“Harsh.”
“I’m tougher than you think.”
He places his beer down and slides forward between my legs, hands hot on the top of my thighs.
I choke and splutter. He’s inches away from my pussy. “What are you doing?”
He reaches up and pulls me down to him, lips against my own hard and fast. I taste the beer, smell the manly scent his body is giving off, feel his stubble as it brushes against my lower lip.
I fall into the kiss, hands gripping the side of the trolley as he kneels forward and deepens the kiss, like he’s starving for it, unable to contain his hunger.
A hand runs up over my breast, the arrowhead of an engorged nipple below pressing into his palm as it fills his hand.
I spread my legs wider, push myself closer to his body. Oh god.
My hands actually start to shake, a deep vibration starting in my core and spreading out to my extremities, my whole body thrumming and alive.
His hand grips my breast tighter, kneads it, the other swimming through my hair, clutching it with possession.
What the hell are you doing, Sara?
I don’t know. I can’t think. I can’t respond. All I can do is allow myself to be swept away.
But the more he gropes and moans into my mouth, the more I burn and crave his touch, the stronger the familiar voice of reason becomes, a rapid-fire string of excuses snapping out.
Don’t become a conquest.
Don’t mix business and pleasure.
You’re better than this.
You’re strong.
I never thought I would, but I want this more than anything. If he doesn’t touch me there, things are going to get crazy. I’m talking serious, self-combustion shit.
I shift forward, the crotch of my panties pressing against the corrugated board of his abs, the light pressure exquisite.
I’m just about to take his hand and guide it between us when everything suddenly becomes vivid and real, the illusion lost.
I snap away.
He looks confused. “What is it? Do you want me to slow down?”
I look down and see he has a raging hard-on, a zipper pull away from being revealed, from sinking deep into the wet channel of my pussy, but I’m awake—wide awake.
I’m not in control of myself as I push away and stand, stumbling over the box, my beer spilling across the floor.
He sees I’m torn. “Wait,” he pleads, eyes fraught.
“I’m sorry, Andy—” I start, unable to elaborate further before fleeing into the night, the LED-screened lights of the Flame Towers falling in rainbow ribbons across my path.