Page 99 of Flat Out
“Politics. Egos. Bad wine.” She said it so smoothly, she could’ve been reading off a menu. “They’ll argue safety regulations one minute and be swapping stories about yachts the next. It’s a total good ‘ole boys club. They’ll be watching you, Frenchie. Half of them want to see if you’ll last. The other half already think you won’t.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“Stay close to Marco and Callum, but don’t spend too much time engaging. They support you, obviously, but there, they have to be impartial. So do you.”
My lungs burned. A fan leaned forward, pushing a cap across the table, and I scribbled my name on the brim. He stammered a thank you, cheeks turning red before scurrying off.
“You don’t go there to blend in. Speak when you want to be remembered. And don’t flinch if they push.”
I glanced sideways at her, studying the gleam in her pale green eyes. A month. That’s all it had been. Thirty days, maybe less, since she’d swept into my life like she’d been designed to find me. And yet the pull between us felt older, deeper. Both loyal to the bone.
“I never do,” I told her matter-of-factly.
Another pen squeak, another flash of a camera. I scrawled my name on a flag, throat tightening as the girl who handed it over whispered, “You make us proud.”
God. Every sweet word tugged harder at my heart.
It reminded me of how I missed Callum so much I could taste it. I wanted to tell him how every lap felt like a punishment. I missed talking to him, missed curling against him without this heavy silence between us. But no matter how tense things were, this mattered. Maybe, finally, I’d have a chance to fight back.
Ivy’s phone clicked as she snapped another photo. “Smile, Frenchie. Cameras are rolling.”
I smirked, handing the flag back to its owner. “Then let’s give them something worth filming.”
I stepped backout into the paddock after what felt like my hundredth staged clip forOff The Grid. All I felt was the ache in my ribs and the throb behind my eyes.
God, it felt good to be back in the car, to feel it come alive in my hands, to push into corners and test my limits again.
For a few laps, I almost convinced myself I was whole. But the truth was brutal. Every time the G-forces pressed into me, my skull pounded like a war drum. Every jolt rattled through my chest, reminding me I wasn’t healed, not really. I’d grit my teeth, pretend it was fine, because I couldn’t bear to admit how fragile I still was.
I used to think I was indestructible. And now I was just a coward. A man too stubborn to swallow his pride. A man who lashed out at the woman he loved because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her just as much as he couldn’t stand the thought of walking away from the one thing that had kept himwhole his entire life. A man who let silence fester where words should’ve been. I’d told myself it was for her safety, for her future. But what good was her future if I made her feel alone in the present? What good was our future if I wasn’t there to be part of it because I pushed myself to get back in the car before I was actually ready?
The space between us was unbearable. Nights in the same bed but not touching, mornings full of small talk that tasted like ash. And the sickest part? For the first time in my life, the idea of walking away from racing didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like relief. Like maybe if I let it go, if I finally stopped killing myself for this sport, I could be the man she needed instead of the ghost I was becoming.
I’d even started running the numbers in my head, weighing offers, imagining what life looked like on the other side of the wheel. Old friends were whispering about opportunities, about investing in something fresh, something bold. A new team. A chance to stay in the sport without destroying myself for it.
But none of it mattered. Not the car, not the career, not the investors or the pride I bled for.
And then I saw her.
Aurélie, striding through the paddock in her half-undone race suit, braids swaying, jaw set in that don’t-fuck-with-me line. To everyone else she looked untouchable. To me, she looked far away. She had been all week, flashing smiles that were too thin. Her eyes were too guarded, hiding a vulnerability she refused to let me see. In our hotel bed, she curled against me but wouldn’t let me in. No kisses, no whispers in the dark. Just silence. And I hated it.
Every inch of space between us carved me open with a blade so sharp, I was certain this would be the one thing I couldn’t survive.
When she drew near, something in me snapped. I couldn’t let her walk past like we were strangers. I couldn’t take another second of it. Not after the fight. Not after the way her words had gutted me. Not when the ghost of her laugh was the only thing holding me together.
I threw my arm across her stomach, halting her mid-stride.
She stumbled into me, startled golden-green eyes flying up to meet mine. “What the hell are you doing?”
Relief slammed through me the second I felt her under my hand. Christ, just touching her, just holding her to me… it was like air after drowning. Her body heat seared through my palm, and suddenly all I could think about was dragging her into me, fisting her tight little fire proofs until there was nothing between us but skin. My cock stirred hard and fast, the kind of ache I’d been pretending didn’t exist all week, the kind of hunger that made me reckless.
I leaned in, my grip tightening. “Viens avec moi.”Come with me. My voice cracked, exposing how raw I felt as I tugged her away from the flow of people, out of sight of all those godforsaken cameras. They could wait, because right now, the most important thing was reconnecting with her. I didn’t give a fuck about optics or headlines or obligations.
They could still watch from afar. They could watch me fight for her even at the height of a disagreement.
Because at the end of the day, at the end of every single goddamn day,I needed her.
The second we hit the shadows, I pressed her back against the wall of a hospitality building, caging her in with my body. My forehead dropped against hers, my breath uneven.
