Page 45 of Overtake
The screenstill glows with her text message.
Darling, we simply must discuss your recent behavior. Drinks at the Fairmont?
Kelley Hayter-Morrison. She talks and writes like she just escaped an 80s TV show and insists on using all three names, as if it’s a royal proclamation. Like she has any fucking right to the middle one.
“Of course I didn’t agree to a fucking TV interview in the garage with her.” I’m on the phone with Dad. “And donotlet her anywhere near the place.” As I stride through the paddock with Rigo, the familiar race weekend bustle makes the cold dread in my stomach feel worse. “I mean it. Not after last time.”
Last timemeaning when she gave interviews claiming I was struggling with “mental health issues” and needed maternal support, then showed up in the Nitro garage on a “rescue mission.” I very nearly proved she was right about my mental health failing when I went ballistic and threatened to shove a wrench up her arse.
Guess who was fined for that incident? Hint, not KHM.
Dad says, “Already handled.” I hear the tension in his voice. It gets tight like this whenever she surfaces. “Security’s been updated. But Pet...”
“What’s she after this time?” I know I’m snapping at him, but I can’t help it. “Why’d she move up her semi-annual reminder that she technically contributed DNA to a successful F1 driver?”
A group of fans calls my name. I manage something approximating my usual wave while maintaining speed toward our hospitality unit. Whatever Kelley wants, whatever chaos she’s planning to unleash, I need to contain it before?—
“Petra!” Richard is striding across the paddock. He wears his usual faded jeans and ancient CalTech university shirt, looking exactly like what he is, an engineer who accidentally ended up becoming a billionaire and owning an F1 team. Shadowing him is Kilian Flores, Jove Morrison Racing’s newest driver. Tattooed and sharp, and missing nothing, Kili reminds me of a galgo, a Spanish hunting dog. He’s got the same sleek appearance and quiet power, and I liked him the moment I met him.
“Hey, Rich.” The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “Bit far from your garage, aren’t you?”
“Wanted to catch you before things get sloppy.” He runs a hand through his perpetually messy silver hair. “She’s in a mood.”
“When isn’t she?”
Kilian hovers uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he should witness this conversation. Poor guy. Half a season into his F1 career and he’s already caught in Kelley’s orbit. “Petra.” He nods. His Spanish accent is heavier than Nico’s. “Your practice times were incredible.”
“Thanks, Kili.” I smile. “You looked good too. Really consistent times. I think you have the Ravns sweating.”
He lights up at the praise, reminding me why I like Richard’s approach to driver development. JMR might be mid-field, but they give genuine talent time and space to find their feet.
“Pet.” Richard’s voice drops. “She’s seen the Singapore footage and is obsessing over online Blue Wall rumors. She’s talking about ‘managing your image’.”
I barely stop myself from snorting. “Myimage? That’s a joke coming from her.” I hate to speak ill of his wife… Oh, wait, no I don’t. And he knows it.
“Darling!”
The familiar voice cuts across the paddock like expensive crystal hitting a marble floor.
I look at my feet and shake my head. “Fucking kill me now.”
Kelley Hayter-Morrison sweeps toward us like she’s entering a Monaco gala rather than a working paddock. Louboutins, white Chanel suit, jewelry that probably costs more than Kili’s yearly contract. The perfect ex-wife of a racing legend, current wife of a team owner, and absolutely nothing like a mother. Also zero fucks given, which I can almost admire except she’s such a piece of shit.
Ihatethat I look so much like her. That’s another reason for the pink in my hair.
“Petrina.” She air-kisses near my cheek. “We simply must discuss this unfortunate situation. The press are having an absolute field day with your moment of passion.”
Richard winces. Kili looks like he wants to disappear into his fireproofs. Rigo shifts closer to me. I’m pretty sure he’d throw her under a bus if I asked.
“Petra. Myfathernamed me Petra.” I step back. “And I have to prepare for sprint qualifying. You remember that, right? Racing? The thing I do for a living?”
“You can spare a moment for your mother.” She manages to make it sound like an accusation. “Especially when I’ve come all this way to help manage this little incident.”
“Kel,” Richard says quietly. “Maybe now’s not?—”
“Richard, darling, please. This is between me and my daughter.”
My daughter.Like she hasn’t spent the last twenty years treating me like an occasional PR opportunity, and the six years before that like an accessory that went out of style quickly.
