Page 21 of Hot Lap
Finally, I nod and accept the money. "This is a loan. I'm paying it back." It means I'll have cash to GTFO if things get dodgy in Qatar.
“Good. Now we go.”
Still, I hesitate, suddenly aware of what I'm doing. Twenty-four hours ago, I was just Mai-Lan Rouge, burlesque performer. Now I'm fleeing my own home, to a country I know nothing about, with strangers paid by a man I accidentally married.
Is this shit really happening?
I take one last look around my tiny apartment. The chaise where I sleep still has last night's pajamas thrown across it. Half-finished costumes hang in my workspace, sequins catching light like tiny stars. This place is hardly glamorous, but it's mine. Every inch of it earned through years of hard work, tip by tip, class by class.
It’s only a few days, right? Before I know it, I’ll be back here, working on new costumes, new routines, new exercises for my students. This trip is just a temporary work-around.
Yes. Right. Everything will be fine.
I square my shoulders and grab my suitcase. "Okay. I have what I need."
Branca opens the door, and we step outside. The reporters are gone, but there's a black SUV with tinted windows waiting by the curb. Anushka gives me a thumbs-up from her doorway as we pass, the rhinestones glued to her cheeks catching the sunlight.
"We’re heading straight to the airport?"
We climb into the backseat while the driver, some big dude wearing a green and pink polo shirt, puts my luggage in the back.
“Correct. Our flight leaves in two hours. We’ll change planes in Seattle."
"First class?" I joke.
She doesn't look up from her phone. "Of course."
The driver pulls away, and I watch my apartment complex disappear in the rearview mirror. Less than twenty-four hoursago, I was on stage at The Golden Oyster, completely unaware that a Formula 1 driver was about to upend my entire life.
I shake my head. "I don't know a damn thing about F1."
Branca gives me a look that's both surprised and amused. "Well, Ms. Lange, seems like you have a lot to learn about your husband."
"Maiken," I correct her. "Or Mai."
"Maiken.” She nods. "Welcome to Formula 1. Buckle up. It moves fast."
THE SLIPSTREAM
@PaddockPrincess:Ladies! OMG! Did you see the pics of RP11 with some Vegas stripper?! Apparently they got MARRIED after knowing each other for ONE NIGHT. This has disaster written all over it. #GoldDiggerAlert
@ChampagneAndCheckered:Reece has NEVER done anything impulsive before. There must besomethingabout her.
? @FastLaneFinds:Looked her up — Mai-Lan Rouge, aka Maiken Lange. Dancer & dance teacher. Not just some rando fangirl.
@LuxLifeRacing:I give it six months before he files for divorce. Betting pool, anyone?
@FemRaceFan:Yo! Burlesque is feminist as f*ck — reclaiming sexuality on your own terms takes guts.
@RacerWifey38:Did you see Graham’s quote inSports Cars Daily? “No comment on my son’s personal life…”
? @FastLaneFinds:Translation: “I hate this but can’t say so publicly.”
@MonacoMomma:Reece was with PeOnMe for ages and that fell apart. Maybe he’s done playing it safe.
? @PaddockPrincess:By “fell apart” you mean PeOnMe cheated.
? @MonacoMomma:We don’t know that.
