CHAPTER FOURTEEN: ITALY
Sara
Meet me out front in twenty.
It’s a rather cryptic message from Andy. I’m smiling as I read it, the promise of more time together, more of that. Officially, Andy should be down at the track, but I don’t think Steven’s about to go chasing him. Their relationship continues to grow increasingly sour. It’s only a matter of time before things boil over completely.
It’s hot and dry in Monza, the kind of weather that sucks the life from your lungs. It’s no wonder that by the afternoon the entire country seems to be asleep. I select a white and rose floral number, very Milan circa 2014. I forego underwear, the thought of Andy’s hands gripping my ass sending floaty tingles down my spine.
He’s waiting outside the Hotel de la Ville leaning up against a red Ferrari. I don’t know much about cars, but everyone knows a stallion when they see one.
“Funny looking Goodall,” I question from the top of the stairs.
He looks over me approvingly and steps back to open the passenger door. “Fuck Goodall. Besides, it’s not my car.”
I smile, slipping beside him and swinging into the passenger seat-slash-human bucket. There’s barely any padding and harnesses instead of seatbelts. I have to get so low to get in the thing that anyone within a mile radius probably gets a hell of a show. “Who does it belong to?”
“Luigi.”
“He just loaned you a Ferrari for the day?”
Andy crouches down beside me, runs a hand over the top of my thigh. “Not just any Ferrari. An F40.”
I draw a sharp intake of breath at his touch.
“Besides,” he continues, “I’m doing him a favor”.
My voice is choked up with arousal. “How’s that?”
He winks. “I’m taking it home.”
*
I shouldn’t be surprised Luigi owns a property close to the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. It’s Tuscan in style, terracotta and open air.
Andy pulls up to the front door and Luigi comes out surrounded by three Maltese terriers. It’s weird to see him not dressed in red, not that the pink polo he’s wearing is any less subtle.
“Welcome,” he says, as we step out.
The dogs yap and nip around my heels. I crouch down, stroking the back of their heads. “Who are these guys?”
Luigi points. “Enzo, Enrico and Edmondo.”
Andy embraces him. “Wow, you really take this Italian thing to the extreme, don’t you, my friend?”
“We’re passionate people. You’ll see. Come.”
I follow the boys inside.
Luigi stops at a large table by the kitchen. There’s a document on it. “First, business. Your autograph, if you will.”
Andy looks to me.
I nod.
He takes a pen off Luigi and signs. “What did I just get myself into? You’re not taking a kidney are you?”
Luigi laughs. “No, only your soul. But remember, signing with Ferrari is all well and good, but the contract’s void if you don’t win the championship this season, capiche?”
Andy nods. “I understand.”
Luigi claps his hands together. “Now, l’uomo è ciò che mangia, a man is what he eats and I have yet to do so since breakfast an hour ago. Shall we?”
I take his hand. “We shall.”
*
The antipasti is enough, not to mention umpteen glasses of wine. Luigi seems to have a story behind every one. We look out over his vineyard, a hobby he says hasn’t been terribly productive this season—much like his team.
Andy looks oddly refined holding his wine glass, swishing it around just so. He looks through it. “It’s been a tough season. I won’t lie. Carl’s good, but I’m better.”
“I know,” smiles Luigi, “but you can’t let him get ahead here or in Singapore. Monza is the quickest track on the calendar. Use it to your advantage.”
Andy nods, taking it in.
It’s a beautiful place. I could stay here forever, everything forgotten, Andy and I with a checkered rug under a tree on a hill, making love until the sun sets. Liv Tyler had the right idea. Watching Stealing Beauty was the first time I masturbated, dreaming of a dark Italian taking me on the grass. Andy may not be Italian, but he’s no less passionate, no less driven, though he is yet to take me on the grass…
We get a town car back into Monza and can barely keep our hands off each other. We don’t even make it into my room before Andy’s hooking a finger into the waistband of my panties, his lips pressed hot against my neck, but my phone’s having a seizure.
“Don’t,” he whispers, pressing me against the door. “Let it ring.”
It goes again and I can’t take it. I glance down at the screen. “It’s my boss.”
“She can wait,” Andy drones, hand cupping my mound, my clit pulsing.
The elevator dings down the hall but Andy makes no attempt to stop.
I squirm away, reluctantly, and swipe my card, moving through the gap in the doorway, using the door to shield myself. “Clearly, you’ve never met her.”
Andy takes my hand before I close it. “Tomorrow?”
I beam. “Win and I’ll let you take me wherever you want, however you want.”
*
Andy explained everything that night in Belgium. The cork that was once bottling him up has been let free. He’s becoming increasingly open, much to my surprise.
I stand against the pit wall watching the teams prep their cars on the track. In his Ray Bans, hair slicked back, Andy is the epitome of a Formula One playboy.
It’s bright and sunny out and we have umbrellas for shade.
There was a certain level of trust extending on his behalf telling me about the thing with Ferrari. If I wanted to ruin Andy I could go to Steven, tell him all about it, but increasingly I’m finding myself siding with Andy, not that I didn’t trust him to begin with. He isn’t imagining the mutiny going on behind the scenes. It couldn’t be clearer, even to an outsider like me.
“I’m Anna.”
I turn, a little shocked to see one of the grid girls standing beside me, her hand out.
I take it. “Um, Sara.”
She’s chewing bubblegum, her black Lycra jumpsuit leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. She speaks with an eastern European accent. “I have seen you at Goodall.”
“I’m working PR, yes.”
She nods to the track. “You could be out there. You have body for it.”
“Not really my thing, sorry. No offense.”
She laughs, pinching the jumpsuit. “It is like sauna in this thing, material riding your ass all day. I make more money doing porn.” She looks to Andy. “You are seeing him, yes?”
“Andy?”
“No need to be shamed. He is solid man.”
I hate lying, but it has to be done.
“I’m not,” I fumble. “I mean, no, we’re not dating.”
“Why?” she says, completely blank.
“Andy Fortes?” I laugh, sounding completely fake. “The guy’s a—” but I can’t bring myself to say it, to call him out to a fellow female.
“A penis in racing suit. Yes, but he is not so bad.”
I’m worried I’m going to get more information than I want here, a sexual tell-all from one of Andy’s former flames. She seems like the type.
Anna puts her elbows on the wall, boobs spilling out of her top. “I would date him, yes, but he never let anyone close. No girl more than a day. He is not marriage man.”
“You’ve… been with him?”
Now she laughs. “Nyet. Nyet. He is probably good fuck, but I need long-term man, you know?”
“You don’t think he can do long term?”
She laughs harder. “Leopard does not shed spots. Nice to meet you, Sara,” pronouncing the ‘r’ like a ‘h’.
She walks off, legs at least a mile long.
A weird encounter to be sure.
So, it’s getting around. Soon the press will be onto it and from there there’s no turning back. Either I make it official or quash it altogether.
*
Andy’s only ever lost once at Monza, but Carl makes twice. Andy’s mood changes, however, when I tell him I want to attend the after-party as a couple.
I help him do up his bow-tie standing outside the party, held near the old track banking.
He looks at me cautiously. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “Yeah, let’s stir things up a bit.”
“So it’s just for show then?”
I wink. “Depends on how you play your cards.”
“We talking poker or blackjack?”
“Go fish.” I take his arm and a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
We’re the talk of the party. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to so many people in my life. The guys nod knowingly at Andy, the girls try to place a voodoo curse on me as they nod and smile. “So happy for you two!” they beam, wishing they were in my place, and I’m kind of proud, weird as that is, to have Andy at my side.
We’re walking to a bar made out of tires when Steven steps in front of Andy, hands in his pockets. His cheeks are red. He’s been drinking. “Nice racing today, Andy. Let’s hope you don’t come unstuck in Singapore. As they say, anything can happen.”
Andy tightens beside me. I squeeze his arm. “Come on. Get me a drink.”
I can see Andy’s still uptight as we sit at the bar. It’s clear that whatever working relationship Steven and Andy has is completely gone. I can’t see any way to repair it without someone getting hurt in the process. They’re not even trying to hide their animosity anymore.
I hold his hand. “You’ve got to let these things go, Andy.”
“That fucker is trying to undermine me. You can see it, can’t you?”
I nod. “Yes, I can, but stewing away like this doesn’t do you any good. Focus on the racing. Forget about that pencildick.”
“You’ve seen his dick?” Andy laughs.
“I can’t imagine it’s much bigger that a gnat.”
“An ant, more likely.”
“Dental floss.”
“Silly string.”
We both laugh, like two teenagers who shouldn’t be at the bar on a school night.
Steven leaves early and Stacey’s nowhere to be seen. It allows us a certain freedom. We have a good time. Who wouldn’t?
“Take me back to the hotel,” I whisper into his ear. “It’s late.”
“And the fun’s just beginning,” he whispers back, squeezing my ass.
From the marble Jacuzzi to the bed and even the kitchen bench, our little romp around Andy’s hotel suite doesn’t stop until I can barely walk.