Page 47 of Double Apex

Along with a photo of my grandmother’s earrings, I emailed Natalia this message last night:

You win, Nat. I fucked him before Silverstone.

I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. There’s no excuse. I miss my best friend. I promise I’m not saying this to be manipulative, but my dad is sick, and I’m scared. Please call me. I want to apologize in person. (And give you the earrings—they’re yours, fair and square.)

Cosmin had to fly to Bucharest again a few days ago, and whatever the reason was, it had him in a bad mood. He flew in to Montréal yesterday and was completely wiped out aftera seventeen-hour flight with a layover in London. When I saw him, I told him it wasn’t a good idea to meet up for a shag.

“You need sleep way more,” I said. “You look like death warmed over, and frankly, I’m not damaging my product.”

The comment was meant to be lighthearted. But the look he gave me—patting my cheek with a weary smile and closing the door of his room, leaving me awkwardly standing in the hallway—held a bitterness that didn’t seem entirely owing to lack of sex.

The next day, members of the team—Cosmin, Jakob, and a handful of engineers including myself—all do the track walk. The on-foot lap is a Thursday-of-race-week tradition, ninety scheduled minutes allowing drivers and their immediate team to discuss circuit features and changes, track surface, and other small details in a relaxed, hands-on way.

I’ve been nervous about seeming chummy with Cosmin ever since we decided to throw caution to the wind and become clandestine fuck buddies. I study the track with a serious scowl, hands stuffed in the pockets of my team blacks, and allow Engineering Director Lars to walk between Cos and me as we stride around the course.

At the Ponte de la Concorde corner, João Valle passes us, riding a kick scooter. Owing to the tangle at the Monaco GP between Cosmin and Valle, there are still hard feelings. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Valle hadn’t later caught wind of Cosmin’s radio outburst.

When the “halfwit daddy’s boy” comment made it to Valle, several witnesses said he shot back something in Portuguesethat roughly translates to “fuck that motherless nephew of a Balkan thug,” and… yeah. Not pretty. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the thing Cosmin hates most is being mentioned in the same breath as his uncle.

Public apologies were exchanged and we all jetted off to the next continent, but today is the first time the two have been near each other since a grudging handshake in Monte Carlo.

Lars and I glance at Cos, watching for a reaction when Valle wends around us, showing off by doing a tailwhip like some middle schooler.

An impish smile perks up on Cosmin’s face. “Playtime for you, João?” he calls out. “Quite jolly on your little toy. But racing is a man’s game.”

My shoulders stiffen when Valle makes a U-turn and heads back. He’s stupidly good looking, and being absurdly wealthy—the eldest son of Brazilian sugar money—doesn’t hurt his prospects in any sphere. He’s a mediocre driver whose finest asset is the fat checks Papa Valle writes to Harrier. João’s girlfriend is an Italian model who towers over him at nearly six feet. The kid leads a charmed life and is so frivolous that he makes devil-may-care Cosmin look as grim as a mortician by comparison.

“Are we going to have words, Ardelean?” Valle asks.

“No,” I immediately reply for him.

“There have been words enough,” Cosmin says. “We both know what happened in Monaco.”

Valle’s angel face is sullen in a way that would be a sexy pout if I found short, pretty-boy billionaires attractive. “It was a suspension issue,” he grits out, his tan, muscular hands stranglingthe scooter handles. “Responding to adverse situations is your job. Or do you expect only a smooth path? Maybe fairies fly before your car and sprinkle the way with rose petals?”

Cosmin combs a hand through his hair and even in this moment of tension, I remember the feel of it last week when I was riding him and tangled my fingers in it when I came. I hope I’m not blushing.

“Are you offering?” Cosmin returns. “I’ll get you a little pink basket.”

“You’re careless,” Valle warns.

“And you’re boring. Cara-te.” Cosmin dismisses him with a flip of his hand.

He so often murmurs in Romanian mid-fuck that just the sound of it gets me wet now, and my nostrils flare as I huff out a sharp sigh, annoyed at my own weakness.

Lars glances at me—I think he assumes I’m about to say something about how the “suspension issue” excuse is bullshit. The crash was entirely the fault of Valle being a dipshit with no feel for his car.

“Yes, you aresocool,” Valle sneers. “Estás a meter água.” He kicks off to ride away.

“Give my regards to your girlfriend,” Cosmin calls after him, and my stomach drops.

Rumor has it Valle’s not the only man on the grid to have scaled that leggy peak—she and Cosmin supposedly had a one-nighter last year at Monza.

Valle’s foot drops to the asphalt with a bark of shoe rubber and I’m sure there’s going to be a fight.

“Jesus wept, Ardelean,” I hiss. “Lay off before we have—”

Lars puts a hand on my arm, which frankly pisses me off, because not much makes me stabbier than men shushing me.

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