Page 42 of Cross the Line
I force a lopsided grin to my face, determined to navigate the conversation away from the topic of Willow. ‘You think my reputation’s recovered enough to make that happen?’ I ask, trying to infuse the words with humour, even though all I feel is cold sweat dripping down my spine.
‘The only reason it hasn’t yet is because you’ve been too in your head.’ Apparently, Mark is done playing nice. ‘And now you’re using it as an excuse because you want someone you can’t have.’
The truth is a punch to the gut. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I snap.
‘Yeah, I do.’ He gives me a once-over, not bothering to hide his discontent. ‘If the almost guaranteed prospect of ruining our friendship with Oakley isn’t enough to convince you to stay away from Willow, then think about what it will do to her. Think about what being linked to you like that will do to her career. If you get involved and the public finds out, no one will hire her after you’re done with her. They’ll think she goes around fucking athletes to get ahead. You really want that for her?’
Ice spreads through my veins, freezing me to the spot and making it impossible to respond. Of course I don’t want that. She deserves nothing short of the best. That’s part of the reason I offered her a job in the first place – to make sure she was set up for future success. The last thing I want is to destroy it all.
‘Don’t do it, Dev,’ Mark murmurs. ‘Don’t ruin this for all of us.’
——
I go to bed alone.
If tonight is any indication, my reputation with women is improving. Unlike the past few months, a handful were brave enough to approach me, and I didn’t hesitate to let the charm fly. But when I finally snuck away for another drink and to check on the notification I’d received, my desire to sleep with anyone else hit the negatives.
Willow had posted a photo from the meet and greet. In it, I had my head tilted back in laughter as a group of Desi girls held up a Photoshopped banner of me as the shirt-billowing hero of a Bollywood movie, with the rest of the drivers as my background dancers. I got a massive kick out of it and posed for several pictures with the girls. I didn’t realize Willow was capturing the moment too.
The text under the post readIf racing doesn’t work out. . . which is word for word the joke I cracked then. But with the roar of the crowd and the distance between us, judging by this photo, there’s no way Willow could have heard.
Had Jani been responsible for this post, she would have written something cheesy, something I would never dream of saying. But Willow understands my humour and what fits my brand.
She knowsme.
I left the party soon after, done flirting with women I had no interest in. Mark shot me a disappointed look when I said my goodbyes, but I didn’t care. Why waste my energy on something I don’t really want?
But even if I shut down that idea, his warning lingers in my head.
I don’t want to ruin Willow’s career before it gets off the ground. The world is cruel to women in a way I’ll never fully understand, but if she got involved with me, it would follow her for the rest of her life. I can’t jeopardize that, no matter how much I want her.
Oakley’s opinion alone isn’t enough to stop me, but the risk to Willow’s career combined with the other consequences – like probably dealing the death blow to our remaining friend group – is.
Maybe. Fuck, is it?
It’s not like I plan to break Willow’s heart if we got involved, but I’m not a fortune teller. I can’t read the stars or predict the future. But if I had to choose between hurting her and never racing again, I’d walk away from F1 in a heartbeat.
Cringing, I press a pillow over my face in hopes that it will suffocate the idea out of me, but I’m still breathing, and all I can see is Willow’s coy smile from this morning. My not-so-innocent girl.
I’ve known I was in trouble since Oakley’s birthday last year – but now? I’m deeper in it than I ever thought I’d be.
——
The result of my restless night is a terrible practice session. It carries over into Saturday too, and I end up coming in thirteenth in qualifying. That alone isn’t unheard of, but Nathaniel slotted himself into twelfth by two thousandths of a second, and that fucking stings. Buck is happy, and the entire garage has released a sigh of relief. But me? I’m trying not to be a sore loser before the race even starts.
In my driver room, Mark is pushing me through reaction-time drills while Chava and Willow sit on the small couch, each working on keeping my life running smoothly.
‘Reid has space on his jet if you want to fly private tomorrow,’ Chava says as soon as I smack the last illuminated light on the panel. ‘He says we’re all welcome to join, and he’s going home this week, so he’ll be flying to Dallas anyway.’
Reid Coleman is the third American driver on the grid. If Scuderia D’Ambrosi hadn’t snatched him up from F2 first, I’m sure Argonaut would have wanted him. He’s the quintessential all-American boy – golden-blond hair, blue eyes and ivory skin, though lately he’s been sporting the kind of tan that hints to a winter spent somewhere warm. He’s nothing like my brown ass. Some days I’m pretty sure Argonaut only brought me on because they wanted diversity points, but that’s a conspiracy I’ll never speak aloud.
Reid and I shared an apartment in Monaco shortly after we were signed to our teams. We were nothing more than boys barely out of our teens who found themselves living the dream of driving at the most elite level of motorsport. I can without a doubt credit him for keeping me sane that first year. Without him, I might have let my nerves get the best of me.
We’ve drifted a little since. It’s the nature of being on different teams, and just a part of growing up, I suppose, but we still look out for each other.
Adjusting my race suit where it hangs around my waist, I nod. ‘I’m in. I’d rather not fly with the team again.’ Especially if they find a way to fuck me over today. As always, I’m trying to look on the bright side, but Argonaut makes it harder with every day that passes.
Willow clears her throat. ‘When you say we’re all welcome,’ she begins, brows raised, ‘does that include me?’
