Page 118 of Hot Lap
She smiles. “Hell yes, I’m coming.”
Reece sets down his coffee cup and studies her face. "You’re sure? Yesterday you were ready to fly back to Vegas."
"Yesterday I came under fire." She picks up a strawberry and pulls off its leaves, then meets his eyes. "Today I've got a flak jacket. And a few fully-armed allies."
He reaches across the table and takes her hand. "We're a team, Mai. Whatever they throw at us we’ll take together."
"I know." She squeezes his fingers. "I'm done letting them make me feel like I don't belong here, Reece."
"You belong everywhere I am, Maiken. You belong with me."
She smiles. "Good, because I'm not going anywhere. If they wanted a fight, they're gonna learn what happens when you fuck around with a Vegas girl who gets naked for a living and who’s momma sticks band-aids on murderers." She pops the strawberry into her mouth and says, “FAFO, motherfuckers,” around it.
He grins. "Christ, I love you."
"I know. Love you, too." She steals a blueberry from his plate. "Now, what's the plan for today, speed demon? Besides you going dangerously fast in a car that costs more than most people's houses?"
"Actually, standard Wednesday. It’s rather boring. Sim work, meetings with engineers, probably some media obligations." He pauses. "Want to spend the day in the hospitality unit? You can meet the team as they come and go."
"You mean the people who worship you and will probably judge me for not knowing what a differential is?"
"The people who'll protect you like family because you're part of mine."
Her expression softens. "Yeah. I'd like that."
Two hours later, the familiar rhythm of race week settles over Reece like a second skin. Coffee becomes water becomes protein shakes. Casual conversation shifts to technical briefings. And through it all, Maiken watches, learns, and finds her place in the controlled chaos.
The paddock is quieter on Wednesdays — the calm before the storm. Still, there's movement everywhere. Teams hauling gear, engineers adjusting settings, mechanics installing upgrades. The hum of preparation is constant, but it hasn’t yet turned manic.
Reece steps away from the small sim, sweat on his brow, and data sheets clutched in one hand. He aches after a hard workout with Ona that included boxing, her favorite way to make him burn away pissed-off energy. Then he spent four hours running simulations. But his mind aches more. Half his attention is locked on aero balance and tire degradation, the other half on the woman curled up in the Nitro hospitality unit.
Maiken’s tucked into one corner, cross-legged on the sofa like she owns the space. A half-empty espresso sits on the table beside her tablet, and her bag is open just enough to reveal a swath of midnight-blue velvet. She’s completely absorbed in hand-stitching a ring of soft indigo feathers around the hem of a floor-length gown, focused and serene.
She looks like art. Or war prep. Probably both.
Seeing his wife centers him. Her hands move with the same precision he brings to racing — every stitch deliberate, every feather placed with purpose. She's building something beautiful in the middle of chaos, and he's struck by how much that reflects who she is.
Reece watches her for another minute before stepping closer. “You settling in okay?”
Maiken glances up, needle paused mid-stitch. “I’ve got espresso, feathers, and no DBJ. So yeah, these are five-star accommodations.”
He chuckles and sits beside her, scanning the progress on her gown. “This the next act?”
“Mhm. I was halfway through it before some git waylaid me in Vegas. Figured I may as well bring it along.” She brushes the velvet gently. “It’s for a piece calledBlue Dahlia.Sort of noir glam meets existential crisis.”
Reece smirks. “Sounds like me during every pit stop.”
“Exactly.” She grins and tugs a tiny feather tighter. “It’s about transformation. Decay into power. You know. Light stuff.”
His gaze drifts to the cuffs, where she’s already layered downy feather trim in navy and cobalt. “You’re seriously talented, you know that?”
She shrugs, but her expression softens. “Thanks. Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to be proud of it.”
He reaches out and runs his fingers along a line of stitching. “You should be.”
She scans the quiet space around them. “You sure it’s okay I’m here?”
“Absolutely. You're in Nitro family space now, aren't you? Nobody's going to mess with you here.”
