Lex
It sounds like a fire alarm is going off, the shrill ring pulling me into consciousness. My head’s banging like a drum and for a moment, I’m completely disoriented. Groaning, I roll over in bed as the noise continues and I blink against the blinding morning light pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room’s spinning and my mouth tastes like I licked a dog’s arse.
Somehow, it filters in that it’s my phone ringing on the bedside table. I grab it, answering with a croaking “Yeah?”
“You’ve really cocked it up this time.” The sharp, distinctive Scouse accent from Liverpool has me groaning as I recognize Rosalind Pierce. She’s the executive secretary for Crown Velocity Motorsports, and she’s all business and no warmth. “Ms. Patrick would like to see you in one hour.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and rub at my temple. Harley Patrick is the team principal, the person who hired me and the person who can force me out of formula racing all together. “Mind telling me why?”
“Clearly you haven’t seen the tabloid headlines this morning, have you?” Tabloids? Bollocks. “You’ve made a right bloody mess of things again, Lex. I suggest you make haste because I believe she said something to the effect if you were one minute late, you’re fired.”
“Fuck,” I mutter and don’t bother with a goodbye, merely disconnect the call. Rosalind wouldn’t expect niceties from me anyway.
A groan emits from beside me on the bed and I lift my head, frowning at the dark hair sprawled across the pillow, a naked body tangled in the sheets.
Who the bloody hell is she? I don’t remember much of anything last night other than starting at a pub, going to another pub, and then inviting perhaps five, maybe fifty, people back to my flat to continue the party.
Just brilliant.
I sit up—wincing at the pain in my noggin—and run a hand through my hair before looking at the woman again. I nudge her shoulder. “Hey.”
She tries to burrow under the pillow.
“Hey,” I say again, pulling the pillow away. Her head lifts and she stares at me with bleary eyes rimmed with smudged dark mascara. Red tint is smeared across the side of her face and chin, the remnants of lipstick that I’m betting are also on my dick. “You got to shove off.”
“What time is it?” she asks grouchily, flopping over with a huff.
“Time for you to go,” I answer, rolling out of bed and striding naked to my bathroom for a quick shower.
By the time I’m done and pulling on a fresh T-shirt, jeans and trainers, the woman’s gone. My flat’s an absolute tip—bottles everywhere, a cracked glass table, clothes flung around like we had a rave in here. A chair’s knocked over near the balcony. Yeah, must’ve been a belter of a night.
I’m sure I’m going to hear some complaints about the noise—at least based on the state of things, I’m guessing it was loud. South Kensington is posh, expensive, full of wankers like me with too much money and not enough sense, but they do like things quiet. I’m guessing they’re still ruing the day a twenty-four-year-old Formula International race driver moved in.
My place is all sleek, modern and soulless, just like the rest of the neighborhood. Park-view flats costs more than some people make in a lifetime and my own—not park view—knocked my bank account down by two million pounds. Not bad for someone whose only skill is driving fast and not getting killed while doing it.
The flat reeks of booze, smoke and stale air but I’ll worry about that later. I’ve got fifty minutes to get to Woking where Crown Velocity’s headquarters is located, and I still have to find out what the fuck I did.
No time for my normal hit of espresso as I’m going to be cutting it way too close to Harley’s deadline. As I make my way to the underground car park, I navigate my phone and easily find the tabloid article Rosalind was referencing.
I wince as I read the headline: Lex Hamilton in Drunken Brawl with Earl at London Club.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. I don’t even bother reading the article as it includes a color photograph of me holding some man by the shirt collar, my fist cocked back to throw a punch.
I look at my hand, don’t see any marks on it and wonder if I actually made contact. I’ve been in my share of brawls over my life, and it will fuck up your knuckles. My hands are essential to my career and I can’t be doing stupid stuff like risking them.
I get in my McLaren 720S Spider, done in the signature McLaren orange, and rev the engine. My head is still pounding as I hit the A4, which is the most direct route out of central London. Traffic is horrible and I’ll never make it there on time. I dial Rosalind, who’s programmed in my favorite’s list, and she answers crisply on the first ring. “I hope you’re on your way.”
“I am, but let Harley know… traffic’s horrible. I won’t make it on time.”
“Then you’re probably out of a job,” she replies pertly.
I scoff at the notion. I’m one of the top four drivers on the circuit and Crown Velocity came in third in the Constructor’s Shield last season. The Shield is the award given to the team with the most points at the end of the season and it translates into lots of money.
Like upward of a hundred million pounds to the winning team.
I’m one of Crown Velocity’s best chances to get there so I’m confident my job is safe. “Just let Harley know,” I instruct Rosalind. “I’m on my way.”
Rosalind hangs up on me but I know she’ll pass the message along. She may be short on words, brusque and a bitch half the time, but she does her job well.
I listen to Arctic Monkeys as I drive to Woking, not as loud as I’d like to, given the persistent pounding in my skull. An hour and five minutes after I left my flat, I pull off the main road and head down the long, winding driveway that leads to the sprawling headquarters of Crown Velocity. The building sits like a sleek, futuristic beast in the middle of the countryside, all glass and steel, reflecting the sky above and the carefully manicured grounds below. It’s more spaceship than office, perfectly engineered, just like everything this team produces.
The entrance is an enormous glass facade that curves with the building’s sweeping lines. It’s set low against the horizon, blending into the landscape with quiet dominance. A pristine lake runs alongside it, perfectly calm, mirroring the silver-gray structure, and I always feel a deep sense of belonging when I see it.
The McLaren purrs as I pull into one of the reserved VIP slots. There’s a space for our team’s owner, Spencer Montgomery, team principal Harley Patrick, the two drivers, me and Ronan Barnes—also a Brit like me—and the last spot reserved for our technical director, Randall Peterman.
While hundreds of employees make up a race team, we’re the crucial five who make it great.
I walk into the central atrium which has a massive fountain in the middle with several of our past car designs sitting on the perimeter. The walls have backlit photographs of past drivers and along one wall sits a massive display case almost two stories high that houses all the trophies won over the course of Crown Velocity’s career on the track.
The entire place screams both elegance and precision, which is a good way to describe our race cars. Even the light here feels sharper, like it’s been engineered to perfection. The place is clinical, sterile, but undeniably impressive.
When I first signed on with Crown, I remember being dazzled when I walked into this building, but after four years of driving with them, it just seems like a home away from home.
I hurry to the elevator, an indoor creation made of glass that smoothly glides to all eight floors. It deposits me on the top where the executive offices are. Rosalind’s there with a dour expression on her face, barely glancing up at me. “You’re late.”
“As I told you I would be,” I reply, moving past her desk and waiting for her to buzz me into the suite beyond a locked security door.
I traverse down one hall, cut a left at the end and head to the corner office occupied by Harley Patrick. The door is open, but I knock all the same.
Harley’s on the phone but waves me in, pointing to a chair opposite her desk. Her long blond hair is tied up in a high ponytail and she wears a pair of dark-framed glasses. Harley’s a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards. She’s in her mid-thirties, American, and takes no shit. She got her start in racing as a stock car driver and developed a reputation for being tough as nails. Everyone in motorsport knows her story as one of the few competitive female drivers before a crash forced her to step off the track and into management. Spencer Montgomery practically begged her to come over to Formula International and she’s been with the team for two years now.
There’s nothing to do but listen in on her side of the conversation, but it doesn’t appear to be private.
“First, let me extend my congratulations on your recent wedding. I’m a huge Titans fan and you couldn’t have made a better move—both on and off the ice—with Drake McGinn.”
And I know exactly who she’s talking to.
Brienne Norcross, American banking heiress and owner of the Pittsburgh Titans professional hockey team. It was announced a few months ago that she bought Excalibur Racing, based in Guildford. There are rumors she’s going to move their headquarters to Pittsburgh but for now, I’ve heard they’re staying here in the UK.
Harley listens for a moment with a smile on her face, but then her tone turns more business-like. “Don’t expect a fully warm welcome from all the teams.” She leans back in her chair. “But I’m personally thrilled to have you in the paddock We need more women in the sport.”
Again, she listens… nods her head in agreement to whatever Brienne Norcross is saying on the other end and it’s fascinating to me that I’m listening in on a conversation between a pioneer in racing and one of the richest people in the world.
“I’m happy to talk to you, of course,” Harley says graciously. “Your choice of team principal and technical director are the two most important hires you can make. Even more than your two drivers.” Harley’s eyes cut over to me in a pointed stare that if I didn’t understand the message, I should know I am very much expendable. “When will you be flying in?”
Harley scribbles something on a pad. “Okay, I’ll have Rosalind shoot you some information and I look forward to meeting you.”
She hangs up and finally turns her steely gaze on me. I take the advantage, nodding toward the phone. “Brienne Norcross? Helping the enemy?”
“You keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Harley says blandly, clasping her hands on her desk. “But let’s talk about you and your most recent foray into the tabloids.”
I shoot her a charming grin. “I never landed a punch. That photo is out of context.”
“That man who it looks like you’re about to clobber is a royal. He’s Spencer’s cousin, to be exact.”
My stomach rolls and if I could see a mirror, I’m guessing my face pales a little. “I don’t even remember the fight—”
“That’s the fucking problem,” she cuts me off, slamming her fist onto the desk. “You drink too much and get into this type of trouble all the fucking time. And now you’ve gotten into it with Lord Edward Montgomery, who I understand is a fucking earl. Now, as an American, I don’t really understand this royal hierarchy, but do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm that’s created? Spencer had to cool things down and he’s not happy.”
Fuck. This is bad. I rub my hands over my face.
Spencer Montgomery, the team’s owner, is technically a member of the peerage himself—far down the royal line, but enough that the media eats it up. He’s a savvy businessman who made his fortune off tech investments and real estate, but his royal connection adds a whole new layer of PR headaches. Scrapping with his cousin wasn’t just reckless, it’s idiotic.
“You’re a goddamned PR nightmare, Lex,” Harley continues, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve had enough of it. We can’t keep covering for you. Spencer’s already on damage control and he’s commanded me to fix the problem… or else.”
I open my mouth, ready with a sarcastic retort, but she’s on a roll.
“You think you’re untouchable because you’re good on the track?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. “Well, guess what? The next best driver’s contract is up, and I can replace you tomorrow.” She puts her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “You’re this close to getting dropped.”
I swallow, the cockiness draining out of me just a bit.
“You’ve got one chance,” she continues. “Shape up or ship out.”
I grit my teeth. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
“Damn right you will and I’m assigning you a babysitter to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow.” She stands, towering over the desk. “I’ve got an American reporter who wants to write a piece on Crown Velocity and needs the behind-the-scenes tour of everything. She’s going to do a hype piece to get more Americans interested in FI—particularly females—and it’s publicity we can’t pass up. She’s going to shadow you for the next few weeks, up through the opening race at the Bahrain Global Prix.”
My jaw tightens. “What exactly does shadow mean?”
“She’ll be with you for everything. Your day-to-day activities, training, team meetings, marketing and PR activities. Essentially, if you’re not in bed sleeping with your latest paddock bunny, I want her with you so she gets the full flavor of what it’s like to be an FI driver.”
“And what’s the point of making me do this?” I ask through gritted teeth, because this is going to be a severe cramp in my lifestyle. I sure as hell don’t want to babysit a bloody reporter, or worse, have her babysit me.
Harley’s smile turns almost feral as she leans her hands on her desk. “Here’s the best part. If she writes about you in glowing terms, you get to keep your job. If she writes an article that reflects pretty much the way you’ve been behaving lately, you’re fired. Easy as that.”
My jaw tightens. “Is this a bloody joke?”
“Afraid not.” She smiles sweetly at me. “You screw up and it’s over. No second chances.”
“When’s she coming?” I ask, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
“She’ll be here in about an hour,” Harley says, sitting back down, her tone calm once again. “Don’t go too far away.”
Harley puts her glasses on and leans forward to peer at her laptop. I’ve been effectively dismissed.
I don’t say a word. I stand and walk out, stewing over this unfortunate change in my circumstance.
