Page 9 of Hot Lap
He shrugs. "More common than anyone talks about. Twenty seats only.Twenty."
“Twenty of what?” I don’t follow him.
“F1 drivers.”
“Where?”
He smiles. “Worldwide. Ten teams, two drivers each.”
My eyes widen. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He sips water. He’s pacing himself better than I am. “So, yeah, there’s a lot of anxiety to perform well. Hundreds of millions of dollars, thousands of jobs riding on our performance. Pressure's unreal. You don’t finish well, the team doesn’t earn points, which means tens of millions of dollars they don’t have next year. So drivers get replaced, sometimes mid-season. There’s always a younger, hungrier buck waiting to take your seat.”
“Damn. I didn’t know that.” I finish my second French 75 and order a Gin Ricky. “I’m mostly competing against myself.”
He considers me for a minute. “Is it hard to do?”
“What? Get naked before a room full of strangers?” I get this question a lot.
“Yeah.”
“No. It’s social commentary, really. Burlesque. It’s about having control of my body, how I use it, who can see it and when and how much.”
He nods. “It’s amazing.” Then Reece meets my gaze. “You’re amazing, Maiken.”
I sit back and smile. “Thanks, Reece.”
We finish our drinks before heading back to our waiting ride.
Hector grins as we tumble into the backseat, both of us laughing at some joke I've already forgotten.
"Where to next, kids?"
I direct him to Tin’s Top Hat, a rooftop bar with panoramic views of the Strip. More drinks appear, and by now, everything has that soft-focus glow that comes with being nicely drunk. The night air has a crisp November chill, and the desert sky is a canvas of stars I usually only notice when I go way out past the city's electric glow. Reece stands at the railing, surveying thespectacle of Las Vegas at night, and I take the opportunity to study him.
There's an ease to how he stands, a confidence that doesn't need to announce itself. His profile is strong and perfect — a face that belongs on billboards (and probably is, now that I think of it). What draws me most though, is the way he's been looking at me all night like I'm worth seeing with my clotheson.
He turns and catches me staring. "What?"
"Nothing." I'm smiling. "Just thinking this isn't how I expected my night to go."
"Well. That makes two of us."
We order more drinks — we should probably stop, but neither of us suggests it — and talk about everything and nothing. He tells me more about the pressures of staying at the top of his sport, about his complicated relationship with Wyn, about the expectations they both face as Graham’s sons. I share stories of dance competitions, of growing up in Las Vegas as the only child of a single teen mother, of building a life on my own terms.
The next stop is a basement jazz club. I’m pretty shit-faced now, so everything comes in flashes. Saxophones gleaming under blue lights, my head on Reece's shoulder, his laugh vibrating through my body. Then somehow we're at Jay-Jay's, a sticky-floored dive with Nevada's best jukebox. When did we get here? Doesn't matter. Reece's fingers lace through mine as we share a microphone, bellowing "Don't Stop Believin'" while the regulars cheer us on.
At Sugar Night, we share a warm chocolate croissant. Reece wipes a smear of sweetness from my lower lip, and his touch zings down my spine to my crotch. The world isn't just spinning, it's dancing, and we’ve taken the lead.
Hector waits patiently, scrolling on his phone, occasionally offering us water.
“Final stop,” I announce as our faithful driver pulls up to Midnight Quarters, a 24-hour arcade just past the Strip. The sign’s flickering, the building looks like a time capsule from 1991, and there’s a suspicious amount of neon. “Nothing says ‘wasted Vegas night’ louder than drunk Mario Kart at 3 a.m.”
Reece lights up like I just handed him a trophy or some shit. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious.” I tumble out of the car, almost undone by too much gin. “You game?”
"Haven't touched this since I was a gobby little Yank." He grins and takes my arm. "Born for this, though, no question." His smirk says maybe he’s not nearly as shit-faced as I am.
