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made it back to the pit lane after riding on the scooter of shame
Oakley was touchy in the immediate aftermath of Jeremygate.
“Yeah, that’s because he knows what a whore you are,” I joke, trying to lighten a quickly soured mood. Mark scoffs. “As if you’re any better. Need I remind you of Monza two years ago?” “That was a onetime thing,” I point out. “How can you not expect me to end up in bed with five women after making it onto my first F1 podium?” “You barely got third, and that’s because four other drivers got penalties.”
I’m throwing tomatoes at you in my head. Boo, hiss, get off the stage!”
“What, did you agree to be a professional girlfriend to one of the old-ass team principals?”
And think about how sick that will look on your résumé.”
He even sent me a custom dartboard with Jeremy’s face on it.
“Those colors have no business together unless they’re on a flag or a Popsicle,”
“My sweet, pocket-size demon.”
I’m not saying I have the entire menu—seasonal flavors included—memorized…but I have the entire menu memorized,
“Nothing more American than Mexican food.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if they told the press that a giant whale came out of the ocean and swallowed me whole—but don’t worry, I’ll be fit to race this weekend.
He and I aren’t friends. We never have been. And I doubt we ever will be, since his behavior off the track isn’t exactly what I want to surround myself with. He can shout racial slurs in song lyrics far away from me.
If we’re going to push on with our plans to show other teams why they’d be lucky to snatch him up, we kind of need to be together. Together in the physical sense. Well, not that kind of physical, but physical as in being in the same place. Yeah. That.
We spent most of yesterday sending each other ridiculous F1 memes, which has been our primary method of communication lately.
I’m an immediate goner. Nothing but a pile of goo on the floor.
People really like seeing him in his tight fireproofs for some reason…
“You’re unreal,” I exhale, running my fingers over the grooves, reveling in the way his muscles flex under my touch. “What did they do, make you in a lab?” The sound he lets out is a cross between a laugh and a groan. “If they did, I would have asked them to make me a little taller.”
And that’s when I notice Chava. His grinning face is pressed to the window, his hands cupped over his eyes so he can see in through the tinted glass, watching us like an exhibit at the zoo.
As grateful as I am for the time with Oak, it’s killing me not to blurt out, Hey, man, I’m in love with your sister, and for some bizarre reason, she loves me back. Please don’t break my ribs.
Right now, I need to be the joyful brother of the bride, not the moping lovesick puppy who’s just been kicked by reality.
I’ve been accused of being a romantic. A sap. But how could I be anything different? I grew up on Bollywood movies with men spinning around in fields of flowers, singing about how the girl they love is more beautiful than every daisy, rose, and tulip in the world. How the fuck am I not supposed to tell Willow that she’s brighter than all the stars in the sky? How can I look at her and say, You look nice, when I want to scream from a snow-covered mountaintop that just the sound of her voice could raise me from my grave?
Chava deserves an award for saving me a piece of French toast, because Oakley was right—Dev is a carb fiend when left to his own devices.
