CHAPTER ELEVEN: HUNGARY
Andy
Sara holds up her shot glass. “What’s this called again?”
I smash it down. Shit burns, but I’m not about to let on. “Palinka. It’s a fruit brandy.”
“Tastes like rocket fuel.”
I look around. “Given this place, could well be.”
It’s true we’ve chosen a bar from the usual tourist traps, but Sara did want an authentic experience. The taxi driver smiled when we asked him. “I know the place,” he said, a mouth full of teeth more black than white.
It turns out the establishment belongs to his brother, a former Olympic wrestler. He watches us brooding behind the bar. “Another?”
I gesture for one more. Sara passes.
“So,” I announce, “we’re finally on a date”.
“My way of saying thanks for the apology, remember.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
She raises her eyebrows, the lights of the pinball machine behind us turning her hair into a silky disco. “Carl apologized too, you know.”
“He didn’t mean it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Neither of you were exactly sincere, but the message got across. Caliber’s happy—for now.”
I have it on good authority they weren’t at first. I bet it took every trick in Sara’s PR book to pull them back from the precipice… and keep her job.
“Thanks,” I offer.
She nods. “No problem, but tell me, did you really punch Carl?”
I can’t help but smile. “Clocked him right in his cocky pie-hole. Felt fucking fantastic.”
“Why do you have such a problem with him?”
The bartender slides the next shot up. I push it back and forth from hand to hand. “It’s not that I have a problem with him personally, more what he represents.”
“And what’s that?”
“Competition.”
Sara sees my expression. “We’re not talking about Formula One any more, are we?”
“No, we are not.”
She laughs. “You really think I’d go for him, for Heinz?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
She laughs harder. “Have you seen his girlfriend? Just...no. Nopey nope nope.”
“Not even a rub-and-tug?”
“Not even a kiss.”
“But we’ve kissed, haven’t we?”
She nods. “We have.”
Here we go. “Why are you so reluctant to take it further then?”
This is the litmus test. Either she trusts me here or she doesn’t. Thankfully, she chooses the latter. “I suppose I don’t want to be another page in the Andy Fortes fuckbook.”
“I don’t have one, you know, so we’re clear.”
“I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“I know, but you’re wrong. You’re different. You’re intelligent, smart. You’re beautiful. It’s more than T&A—all of which is incredible, I’ll add. Sounds cliché as shit, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
There’s the smallest hint of a smile as she peeks out at me from that disco curtain of hair. “Even on the track?”
“Even on the track.”
“Might explain your losses.”
I place my fingers against hers, the lightest of contact charged. “Or my gain.”
“I like this,” she nods.
“What’s that?”
“The open, honest Andy.”
“As opposed to the arrogant asshole?”
“I’m sure Arrogant Andy’s great in the sack, but at times like these I like being able to confide.”
“Confide? You’ve got something to share?”
She gets serious. “We’ve both got a lot to lose here. I know what the championship means to you, what being part of Ferrari would mean, and I really want it for you, but you’re still trailing.”
I down the shot. “Gee, thanks for the pep talk. And you, what do you have to lose?”
“A career I’ve worked tirelessly for. You’ve got your job. I’ve got mine. We both want to be the best, but we’re tied together in this.”
I smile. “I’d love to be tied to you. Just say the word.”
She smiles back. “Hello, Asshole Andy. Did you see Honest Andy on your way out?”
Her phone goes off. She checks it. “One second. Gotta make a call, sorry.”
“At this hour?”
“New York—the city that never sleeps.”
“Fancy a nightcap?”
“If by nightcap you mean sex, then no, sorry.” She sees the disappointment. “But, keep Honest Andy around and he might get lucky.”
It’s all the jerk-off encouragement I need.
*
The heat of a Hungarian summer is getting to a lot of the drivers, but I’m weather-proof. They breed us hard in Texas. Flip me over and I probably have a brand on my ass.
Qualifying’s a walk in the park. It’s a slow track, but it’s physical. I pole easily, Carl slipping to third after running afoul off Turn Two. It’s a rookie mistake.
It would have been interesting to race here behind the Iron Curtain. Even today the track offers a no-compromise approach. It’s narrow, twisty and usually dusty, real desert-racing stuff even after the Hungaroring was modified in 2003 to allow more passing.
With the PR storm blown over and Sara nearby, I feel invincible. Carl tries countless times to pass, but I manage to hold him off. We both share the same pit strategy, vital to winning the Hungarian Grand Prix, which means it’s down to driving—pure and simple. I remain bullish, aggressive, holding position.
On the last lap, a slow runner blocks Carl’s path. I see him caught in the rear-view, uncharacteristically missing the chicane and sent almost parallel to the track. He pulls the car under control, but it’s more luck than skill. Poor bastard has to settle for third. Ferrari takes second. I’ve never been so happy to stand beside an Italian.
Sara smiles on from below the podium and I’m tempted to drop down there and sweep her up in my arms. Fuck what the press thinks.
Problem is, I still trail Carl by three points. It’s not much, but it means he’s on top. Still, if I can keep this form up, I’ll be untouchable. Andy Fortes is fucking back, baby.
I head to the pits expecting to find Sara, but Steven’s the only one waiting out back. “Congratulations.”
“Like you care.”
“Enjoy the win, Andy. It’s going to be your last.”
Asshole. I grin. “Like I said before, let’s see, shall we?”
It concerns me Steven is still smiling as I walk back into the garage. Something’s up. I can usually see these things coming, but I can’t tell with Steven. The fucker wants me gone. Question is, how far is he willing to go?
*
There’s quite the collection of characters at the after-party, everything set in a ballroom that would make Putin himself proud. Russia, Hungary—after my third drink I’m starting to lose track of where the hell I am.
Even inside it’s hot. I kind of wish I’d hit up that water park at the track. I get lost daydreaming about Sara in a bikini—maybe just the bottoms.
She’s notably absent tonight. Without her I feel afloat in an ocean of sharks. Steven’s over to the left, Stacey to the right, hungry journalists waiting behind me. I’m stuck in the Bermuda Fucking Triangle. Thank god there’s a bar in the middle of this ocean.
I order another, the bartender happy to help—maybe a little too eager to help given the way he’s looking at my chest underneath this sand suit.
I text Sara: Where are you?
No response.
I won today, yes, but I don’t feel elation. I’m not leading the championship. Carl’s snatching my dream right out of my hands, the dream I’ve slaved for, gone up to bat for and brushed off a dozen wannabes for. Formula One might seem glamourous on the outside, but dig deep into its core and it is as corrupt and political as any other organization.
By the time Sara does arrive I’m six drinks down and seeing people in threes.
Holy fuck she looks hot tonight. I think I tell her this.
“You okay, Andy?” she replies.
I lean against the bar, the ship I’m on suddenly tilting to the side. “Never been better.”
I turn to my bartender friend, but he holds a hand up. “Sajnalom, my friend.” He and Sara share a look. They’re cutting me off.
I turn back to Sara. “I’m ready to take you three to bed. Just say the word.”
“You’re drunk, Andy.”
I reach down and grab my dick. “Hey, I can still get it up, baby.”
You’re killing this, I tell myself. You’re in.
Sara comes closer. She smells like flowers, a summer garden. “Andy, you won today. Celebrate, sure, but this is taking it too far.”
I point at her face. It’s so pretty. “Did I win? Who is the real winner here? The Illuminati? They control the racing, you know. Little green men.”
She’s trying to stifle laughter. I honestly have no idea why. I’m dead serious here.
She takes my arm. “My god, we’ve got to get you out of here before you drop your pants or something.”
I start to unbuckle my belt. It’s a damn good idea. Carl, Steven, and I can have a cock-off.
She grabs my hands, pushing me up against the bar and looking around nervously.
I gaze down. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Work me.”
“I don’t think you could even work yourself at the moment.”
I lay the charm on thick. “Is that what you like, to watch? I can arrange that.”
I’ve got to get these pants off, I think.
I sway a little and correct myself. Damn swell’s picking up, this boat’s really rockin.
“You want to know something, Sa-ra,” I tell her.
She looks to the roof. “Help me.”
I run my hand down her arm, a little clunky but it will do. “I could marry you. You’re marriage material.”
She’s smiling. Boom! “You’re proposing to me now?”
“You want me to tell everyone?” I’ve always wanted to stand on a bar, make a big public display of affection like my man R. Gere.
Best idea you’ve ever had.
I start to hoist myself up, but she’s pulling me back. I go to shout out my undying love when she places her hand over my mouth.
“We’ve really got to get you out of here. Come on.”
She starts to drag me through the crowd. I smile at people but they’re giving me the oddest looks in return.
It’s a little cooler out of the ballroom, the hallway no less stable under my feet. I hold the wall for support. I kiss it. “I love you, wall.”
Sara’s muttering something beside me, tugging me towards a taxi out front.
I think the car’s moving. Can’t be sure. Sara’s talking. I can hear the words, but I’m not really listening. I’m busy thinking of all the ways I’m going to charm her panties off when we get to the hotel.
And them, bam, the taxi turns into another hallway.
“You know what,” she’s saying. “If you weren’t completely hammered I may have actually considered sleeping with you tonight. Might have even been a blowjob in it for you.”
My ears prick up. “You’re going to blow me?”
“Blow you over perhaps. You can barely stand. You won’t remember any of this in the morning, which is just as well. So, let me tell you this.” She’s talking to the elevator doors. I reach out and brace myself. The fucking room is moving.
“I think,” she continues, “god knows why, I’m developing feelings for you.”
I ignore her, the walls closing in. It’s fucking terrifying.
“You’re out of control, a complete asshole most of the time and I’m seriously going to get burnt, but still.”
Incredibly, we’ve somehow teleported into my hotel room, but we’re still wearing clothes. What’s up with that? I tell Sara as much.
She runs a finger down the front of her dress and draws a figure eight around a breast. “Sorry, but all this is off limits tonight.” She’s enjoying this. “I left all that drunken fumbling behind in junior high.”
I reach out to touch her, but she’s not there.
I stagger backwards. “Holy shit. You’re a ghost!”
She laughs. “Demi Moore I am not, and I’m going.”
I step in front of her. “Ah, no.”
“Ah, yes.”
I block the hallway with my arm.
“Stop,” she says, two hands against my chest.
I take them by the wrists and draw them away. It feels good to touch her again. “Let me pass.”
She darts around me, but I manage to get in front of her. My senses are slow and sluggish, my head watery and muddled. All I really want to do is lie down.
“Why don’t you go get some rest?” she tells me.
“Rest?” I laugh, but it’s not a bad suggestion. Way back in that caveman brain it drums against my skull: Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
I know I’m drunk, but I’m hard. I could take her right now.
You can’t even find your way to your hotel room let alone her hole.
Something’s speaking sense inside me, but it still doesn’t stop me blurting out a single sentence of all the things I’d like to do to her.
“Whipped cream?” she laughs. “Really? Maybe later. For now, follow me and try sleeping this off. The last thing I need is Goodall’s star driver slurring his words at the morning press conference.
I jump on the spot. “I’m a star!” I don’t even know what I’m saying. “I point to what I think is my chest but is probably my eye. “But I’m hot right, like really, really sexy, yeah?”
“Whatever you say, big boy.” She spins me around, pushing me forward. “Walk.”
The last thing I remember is her trying to pull my pants off, lifting my legs into bed. I’m sure she kisses me on the forehead, like a mother would, before whispering in my ear things that would make even a hooker blush.
I may be drunk, but I’m still headboard hard when my eyelids close over.