Drive me Crazy, page 5
I click open the first short film. It’s a banal cookie-cutter response from Matt about how he’s “glad to be racing with Arden.” It’s the second clip, however, that makes me want to throw my phone against the wall.
The producer asks him what he thinks about working for me, a woman boss—I hate the question, the question sucks—but it’s Matt’s response that is so . . . disappointing. There is a long, pregnant pause as he appears to squirm in his seat, his mouth straightening into a tight line. It takes several seconds for him to pull himself together, and then he answers as though he’s being held hostage: “It’s great.”
I hit pause and place my phone on the table, picking up my drink and downing half of it in one gulp. It’s sickly sweet and churns my empty stomach, but it’s nice to have something cool in the relentless heat.
“Shithead,” I mutter. “Stinking turd bucket. Misogynistic asshat.”
“Hey there!”
I look up to see my old racing friend Jack Sheppard. “Who are you calling a turd bucket?” he says, nodding at my phone and the image of Matt frozen mid-expression, one eye shut, his mouth gaping. I start laughing, mostly out of embarrassment.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Sure. Hi! Go ahead,” I say, quickly turning over my phone and gathering up my paperwork to make room for him. I wave toward the bartender, but in a bar full of nobody, he’s already on his way over.
Before I have a chance to protest another round of drinks, Jack points at my cocktail and says, “Same.” He smooths his cropped hair back with both hands. I see a few sprinklings of gray at his temples. He’s still that long, lean, elegant handsome. A gentleman who crosses his legs and moves his body with slow intention. Like a sloth in a Panama hat.
Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe Jack was a racer back in the early go-karting days. The son of Mick Sheppard, a two-time world champion and the stuff of legends at now-defunct Honda Racing, Jack had the pedigree but never the killer instinct. I’ve always liked him, though. He was a fun gossip and a hilarious drunk. In a paddock full of bullish alpha males, Jack was reassuringly self-effacing.
“How have you been?” I ask, glancing at the press pass around his neck. “You’re at F1 Daily now?”
“Yup,” he says, turning the plastic card to look at it. “Living the other dream.”
“Ah well, we all had to pivot.”
“Quite,” he says, motioning toward my paperwork. “How is it all going?” Jack holds his hands up as if to say, I’m not here as press, then he pulls off his FIA lanyard and shoves the pass into the pocket of his linen slacks.
“It’s been a day, all right,” I say, grimacing.
“Well, congratulations anyway.”
“On the bad qualifying run?”
“On the new gig, stupid,” he says, chuckling. “Really. I know it isn’t Mercedes or whatever, but it’s F1. You’re in the fucking room.” He smiles a broad, earnest smile and lifts his glass. “Be proud of yourself. It’s an incredible achievement.”
I feel a little warm glow flow through me at this kindness, which I realize I’ve had virtually none of today. The only message I got from my family after the press conference was from my dad, who was thrilled about me working with Matt.
Matt Warner! Great news. Tell him hi from me. Love Dad.
Dad could never get over the end of my driving career. I suppose after all the years, all the money, all the sacrifice on his part, he felt he’d failed or lost something too.
“I loved what you did in F3. I followed the whole season,” Jack says as he takes a sip of his drink. “You were always going to do the best out of everyone in our era.”
“Stop it,” I say, as feel-good hormones flood my every cell. God, I needed a bit of this. Fuck it. I’m having a third cocktail. I deserve to revel a bit in my achievement after a day that feels as though it was purposefully designed just to undermine it.
“There’s a double-page profile on you in F1 Daily tomorrow. ‘Arden Racing’s New Leading Lady.’” He chuckles. “I hate the headline, bloody editors, but the content is great. Your background, your rise through the ranks. Barry says surprisingly coherent stuff too.”
“Thank you, Jack. Really.” Blushing with pride, impostor syndrome be damned, I pick up my drink and take another swig. “I absolutely hate talking to press.”
“I know,” he says, chuckling. “You looked nervous as hell at that press conference.”
I grimace. Damn it. “Ugh. How embarrassing.”
“I take it you didn’t know about Matt?” Jack asks.
“Nope.”
“How is he?”
I scoff. “He continues to meet my expectations,” I say, with mock magnanimity and a wry smile. Jack laughs, stretching back into his chair.
“All the likability of a global famine.”
“All the charm of a dishcloth,” I say, enjoying myself more than I should.
“What a pain. I’d hate to be forced to work with him.”
“Nobody wants to work with him.”
Jack and Matt never liked each other much. The jealousy, I suspect, worked in both directions. Matt had insane raw talent that Jack coveted, and Jack had money and deep connections in the industry. But we waste time being jealous of the wrong things; Matt made it without all the money and the connections, and now he has both in abundance.
“I don’t think he’s happy working for me,” I say, sighing. “I’m no Ron fucking Dennis, but it’s pretty annoying.” I pause for a minute, calculating the risk of sharing the video with Jack. I suppose since they’re going out on socials anyway, it doesn’t matter. I hand him my phone and hit play.
“Christ,” Jack says, as he watches Matt squirm on camera. “Sorry, but I can’t stand the guy.”
I laugh, shaking my head at his brazenness. “Well, we can rectify the situation at the end of the season. I’m not sure I understand why Barry spent all that money on someone so out of form.”
“It’s panic-buying,” he says, shaking his head.
I laugh feebly, but then think on his comment. “What do you mean panic-buying?”
“Well,” he says, tipping his head, his eyes narrowing a smidgen. “Seems like he’s making a final play, don’t you think?”
“Final?”
Jack puts his drink down. “Maybe it’s just rumors.”
“Are you gonna keep me hanging? What rumors?”
He scans the empty bar and then lowers his voice. He looks so fucking serious all of a sudden, the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.
“The word is Barry is running out of money.”
“Explains my modest hotel room,” I quip, as my heart starts to sink.
“You didn’t hear it from me, Chloe, but word is if Arden isn’t in at least the midfield and Matt doesn’t attract a major new sponsor before the Vegas Grand Prix, he’s going to need to fold.”
“Vegas? That’s four or five races away,” I say, aghast. “No. It’s not possible.”
“You know what this sport costs. Barry’s been trying and failing for five long years. He struggles to attract sponsors because, well . . . who the hell is Arden? And who the hell is Barry, really? He’s not one of us.”
I cringe a little at that. Jack, like many in this sport, can come off really fucking elitist sometimes. I sigh. “We actually lost a sponsor less than three minutes after Matt was announced,” I admit, but then I dig deep, sucking in a breath.
“You’ll need more,” Jack says, squeezing his lips together with a pity that embarrasses me. “But I’m sure if anyone can turn it around, you can.”
“There’s only so much anyone can do in a handful of races.” And with a driver who is seriously out of form and unlikely to court any sponsors the way he’s driving. And frankly, the way he’s behaving.
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Jack offers.
I sit for a moment, looking at my drink, my gaze softening as I zone out. A disorienting mixture of alcohol in my veins and the reality of what Jack is telling me makes me feel dizzy. Even if this is an exaggerated rumor, it’s still deeply worrying. I get this big break, and then . . . what? The team folds before we finish the season? What kind of legacy would that be? Could I ever recover? Everyone knows you only get one shot.
The bartender arrives with my plate of chili crab, and the spicy, fishy mix hits my nose and makes my stomach growl with a confusing mix of hunger and nausea.
“It’s just been one thing after another today,” I say, standing, gathering up my things. “Sorry, Jack. I should wind down. Race tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you to your room,” he says, picking up my crab dish and knife and fork, and nodding toward the lift. “What floor you on?”
“Seven,” I say, and he thumbs the button as I hold my card to the reader. I am swimming, exhausted suddenly. “Thanks for writing about me, and for being so kind.”
As the lift rises slowly, I start to dream of crawling into my bed when Jack says, “Just being nosy here, but do you know if Matt has spoken to Stavros since the crash?”
“No,” I say, yawning. “Not heard.”
“Probably not, then,” he says.
“That would be ice-cold, but also another example of Matt blissfully ignorant of the impact he has on people.”
The doors open with a ding, and suddenly, in the quiet intimacy of the hotel hallway, I realize allowing Jack to walk me back was probably ill-advised. Not that he fancies me or anything, but I really shouldn’t have a journalist walking me to my hotel room.
When we get to my door, there is an awkward dance where, because I have no room in my full hands to take the crab from Jack, he slips inside my room and slides the plate on my dresser for me while I lean on the door to keep it open. My room is dark, with only the small lamp on next to the bed, and it feels uncomfortable having him in my space.
“It’s not a terrible room,” he says, grinning as he quickly exits into the hallway.
“Stay in touch, hey?” I say lightly.
“I’d love to,” he replies, his eyes darting down the hallway, toward the sound of another door opening. “See you around, Chloe.”
I watch as he pushes through the door to the stairwell, a little relieved to be alone. But just as I step back to let the door swing shut, a large, socked foot inside a red-and-green Gucci slide appears in the doorframe to block it.
“What the hell are you doing?” says that familiar husky voice.
I drop all the paperwork and my purse onto the side table and pull the door back open, looking up to see Matt Warner standing there—towering, really—his palm high and flat against the doorframe, a black sleeveless T-shirt hanging loose around those strong racer shoulders. My eyes drop to his black cotton boxer shorts and the short tufts of curly hair on his hard thighs. I linger on the taut athleticism of those legs just long enough to make my own feel a little weak.
NO. This isn’t undeniable attraction talking. It’s the three Singapore slings on an empty stomach. Please let it be the booze.
“What are you doing in the hallway, with no pants on?” I ask, snapping my head back up to meet his glare. “Sneaking in and out of hotel rooms seems a little crude, even for you.”
“I’m not . . . what?” Matt snarls at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“The better question is why was Jack Sheppard in your room?” he barks.
“Er . . . none of your business,” I reply, my eyes grazing his stubbled jaw, which is grinding with irritation.
“He’s a reporter.”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s a virus in plimsoles,” Matt snaps, and in my slightly woozy state, I struggle hard not to laugh.
“It’s only Jack. Jesus. Nothing happened.”
Matt’s eyes dart down the corridor as a couple fall out of the lift, drunk, and make their way down the hallway toward us to their room.
Matt pushes past me into my room.
“Quick, shut the door before I’m spotted,” he orders.
Oh, because he’s such a celebrity. I should say no, but instead, I step forward, letting the door close behind me as we are plunged into the dim golden glow of my bedside lamp. The suite, with its rich dark furnishings, feels suddenly very small, and so I shrink myself back against the wall, trying to create as much space as possible between us. Matt peers out the window, then yanks the curtains shut and begins to pace the room.
“We just had a drink. He wanted to congratulate me on my new job. It was nice, you know, to have someone notice that today was a big day for me,” I grumble, kicking off my shoes. Why am I explaining myself to him?
“Jack fucking Sheppard,” he says, before he stops to face me. I feel my heart kicking up a gear under his scrutiny. “You’re not dating him, are you?”
“What? No!” I let out an involuntary laugh, but Matt’s expression remains deathly serious. The little hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. He seems so . . . bothered by the possibility.
“He’s an old friend,” I protest, all the anger and upset of our past in very real danger of bubbling up inside me. “Remember those?”
I swear I see him flinch; something uncatchable passes across his face before he regroups and crosses those strong bare arms across his chest. My god, those thick forearms and rounded biceps. It should be fucking illegal to wield them in public.
I shake my head. I’m more tipsy than I thought.
“Don’t be so naive, Chloe.” He takes a step toward me, and I suddenly feel pinned by his unwavering gaze.
“Fuck you. I’m not naive,” I reply, forcing myself to straighten up, step forward, and meet him. I mirror his stance, arms folded. “Don’t talk down to me, you asshole.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t know what it’s like in this league.” His voice is quieter now, as he takes another step closer.
“I don’t need you to help me.”
Matt doesn’t reply, the corner of his mouth twitching uncertainly.
“I’m not that kid anymore, Matt,” I remind him, taking a final, unsteady step closer, head tilting up, defiant. I’m just inches away now, close enough to see those green flecks in his eyes catching the dim light. God, he is so beautiful. I hate him.
Matt’s jaw moves as he drags his eyes across my face. Scanning me.
“No. You’re not that kid anymore,” he replies slowly, his voice deep and gravelly as his eyes trail to my mouth, and then everything stands completely still. The room is silent, except for the shallow hitch of my breathing.
It’s too much.
I close my eyes, feeling my cheeks on fire. It is hopeless. My body is reacting to Matt’s presence like I’m seventeen all over again. It doesn’t matter what happened in the years between, I’m back there, begging for him to notice me as something other than that girl. He can see it, I’m sure of it. I can feel myself starting to shrink back toward the wall and away from him again.
When I open my eyes, Matt is watching me, his eyes narrowed in what looks like concern. Then he drops his arms to his sides, and his body relaxes.
“Everyone watches everything. Just . . . be careful, Bug,” he says, more softly now.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Or I’ll call you fucking Dials in front of everyone.”
Matt’s face immediately breaks into a grin, a twinkle returning to his eyes. He steps back just once, and I allow myself to breathe out, as space finally appears between us.
“See, I never knew why calling my mum was so damn funny to everyone.”
“I think it was the sheer volume of calls,” I say, my body starting to relax. I eye my crab on the dresser. I sure don’t feel hungry anymore.
Then he turns away from me and wanders to the window. He pulls back the curtain a little, the sky outside a midnight blue, the twinkling lights of the Singapore skyline reaching out into the distance. He needs to sleep, I realize suddenly. But I can sense he isn’t done talking.
“Matt, it’s late,” I say. “I know you didn’t come to talk about Jack Sheppard.”
“Yeah. I tried to find you earlier,” he says quietly.
“I did call you at least five times after qualifying.”
“It’s this situation.” Matt puts his hands in his hair, sitting back on the windowsill. I want to feel bad for him, I truly do, but after watching him fumble through that press clip earlier, and now barreling into my room, throwing his weight around like he still has the right, and then calling me naive?
“You hate it,” I say plainly.
“Yes. I mean, no,” he says quickly. “It’s my driving.” He looks suddenly overcome with a different kind of stress. “I need to be able to talk to you. And you’ve been avoiding me. You can’t do that, Chloe. You’re the boss.”
“I am the boss,” I say. I can’t help but take a jab at him. “You want to talk about that? I saw your interview.”
Matt’s face is frozen as it quickly dawns on him what I might be talking about.
“I was hijacked.”
“Gun rammed into your rib cage?”
“Felt like it,” he says.
I cannot help but smirk at him. “The time it took you to answer . . . Wow. You could have done several laps of the circuit. Even in the Arden.”
He stands abruptly. “You being my boss is the least of my worries right now,” he says impatiently.
“You being my driver is the biggest of mine,” I shoot back, and I immediately, completely regret it, as I watch him stiffen.
“I didn’t mean that,” I say quickly. “I don’t.”
“You do mean it. And honestly? You should.” He moves past me and back toward the door, pulling it open, the light from the hallway spilling into the room.
“Wait.” Bad, bad, bad management, Chloe. I need him. I need Matt to drive tomorrow. I need him not to think I’m awful. “Don’t go, Matt. Come on, let’s talk.”
I rush to the door before it closes but he’s already walking down the hall and toward his room. I watch him pat himself down and then kick the door, as he realizes he left his key card inside.
I contemplate calling out to him again, but he pulls out his phone and walks toward the window at the far end of the hall, entering almost mid-flow into conversation with someone.
