Page 83 of Double Apex

I’m itching to see how she’ll do. She’s delightfully caustic—the only child of an eccentric West Coast dot-com bazillionaire. I can’t wait to watch her crash the sausage party.

Shit just got interesting.

Emerald may not have a woman driver this year, but two-thumbs This Bitch owns the team now, and I have no plans to shake my metaphoric pom-poms on the sidelines like a simpering F1 cheerleader while the big boys go racing.

I text Klaus and tell him I’m coming back.

25

RUSSIA

LATE SEPTEMBER

PHAEDRA

I’m in Sochi for race week, finally with the team again after a month of bullshit dealing with the business-y parts of the transition after Mo’s death. Also Aislinn guilted me into sticking around North Carolina longer, because she was worried Mama would think I have no use for them now that Dad is gone.

Some Russian government muckety-mucks (as Mo would’ve called them) are throwing a bash to ensure there will continue to be grands prix in Glorious Mother Russia. Invited: FIA bigwigs, drivers, team principals, and owners.

While many may assume a fancy ball universally appeals to women, I’d rather get dysentery. I had to go shopping yesterday with Nat, who insisted neither of the skirts I own would work. She bullied me into buying the strappy midnight-blue gown I’m currently wearing.

Even I know better than to pair Converse with this, so I’m in heels, which means I’m about as graceful as some flailing B-movie alien. It also explains why I’ve been parked at a table all evening, poking at a plate of food that probably cost enough to feed a Chechen village.

Cosmin is here, of course. I’ve never seen him in a tux before tonight, and he looks annoyingly fuckable. I’ve had too much to drink to deal with this fact. I’m attempting to enjoy caviar (and failing) when two long, bare woman’s legs stop beside my chair, and my first tipsy thought isWho let in the naked chick?

My eyes travel up. One side of my face unglamorously bulges with a mouthful of caviar and toast while I struggle to swallow.

Sage Sikora is wearing a friendly smirk and a dress that makes her look like a dominatrix—all straps and buckles. She pulls out the chair beside mine and sits, leaning an elbow on the table like a bored kid, and I love her already.

“All this shit they’re serving is nasty,” she says, flicking a hand at my plate. “Personally, I was hoping for tacos.”

I choke down the caviar and take a mouthful of the pricey wine, somehow managing not to swish it before swallowing, like the class act I am.

“Same.” I extend a hand to shake. “Phaedra Morgan, with Emerald. I’m kind of fangirling big time over you right now.”

“Aw, shucks,” she says as we clasp hands. “Thanks. And I know who you are. You’re not ‘with’ Emerald—youareEmerald. Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you.”

My throat tightens with the still-fresh grief, and I worry that a convo about my dad—combined with the bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild I’ve commandeered—might make me weepy and fuck up the eye makeup Nat so painstakingly applied.

I sweep one hand to indicate the crowd. “You figure about half these guys are Russian mafia?” I joke.

She wrinkles her nose and narrows a pair of mischievous, coppery-brown eyes. “They’d better not find out you’re on to them, or someone’ll poison your drink.”

“Ha! Why do you think I’m guarding it like I’m at a frat party?”

Sage laughs. Her dark-rooted, wavy hair is dyed aqua, piled on her head in a messy updo, and she has safety pin earrings. If she weren’t nearly a decade younger than me, I’d want to be her when I grow up. She has aneck tattoo, for fuck’s sake—a life-size peacock feather tipped with realistic-looking fire.

“You know I’m a fangirl of yours too, Boss Bitch,” Sage tells me with a chuckle, squeezing my knee. “You’re eternally my hero for smacking down the Coraggio team boss with that hilarious butt plug shade on social media last year.”

I lift my glass in a toast. “The snark heard ’round the world. It’ll outlive me.”

“And rumor has it you are or were fucking Cosmin Ardelean, and wouldn’t we all love to break off a piece ofthatsnack.”

Her words are like a splash of ice water hitting my gut, but I give an indifferent shrug.

“Oh, you could break off your own piece—he’s historically promiscuous, and you’re like some gorgeous punk rock, racecar driver Bratz doll.” I grab an unused glass and pour her a generous serving of the Château Lafite. “Shoot a well-timed wink in his direction, and you’ll be playing seven minutes in heaven in the coat closet.”

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