Off the Grid (Full Throttle, #1)

by K. Bromberg

If I’m ever in an accident, watch my hands, son. If they’re moving, that means I’m okay. They’re not moving. I stare at them. Waiting for them to move. Then the fire erupts. Then my world changes forever.

I bet he never would have thought his father, my great-grand nonno, making a fortune selling off his olive oil businesses would result in starting and owning an F1 race team that has stood the test of time.

And then I approach the pictures of the year that I stopped caring about racing. The summer that made me never want to be around F1 again.

I could tell you a thousand times how proud I am of you, but it will never quantify just how much.”

“What did Nonno used to say? Fresh tires, untouched walls, and skilled drivers are all we need.”

“But I do work at home. In Italy,” I say reflexively, talking about my position at the original family company—Moretti Olive Oil.

The last thing I want to do is to step into a role and fail the legacy left to me.

don’t want to feel like a monkey in a zoo with everyone watching me in a cage and waiting for my body to show a sign of it. I don’t want to be coddled. I don’t want exceptions made. I don’t want to be the topic of articles so someone can use this as a way to say F1 is inclusive or the like. I just want to be me for as long as I can.”

This circuit runs solely on money. And when you don’t have it, it’s nearly impossible to win.

Love because, how can I fucking not? Hate because, I can have all the talent in the goddamn world, but it’s hard to be seen when you have subpar shit—cars, engines, support.

And your girlfriend gives great blow jobs. Especially how she does that little twist of her hand and flick of her tongue.

“I don’t like when you have ideas,” she jokes. “Mostly because they’re crazy or daredevilish or are bound to get me in trouble.”

“Besides, is jumping out of a plane with a parachute strapped to my back any more dangerous than me going two hundred miles per hour?”

“Try to not get yourself killed, okay?” “Isn’t that the goal every day?”

I’ll make you proud, Dad. It’s been a long damn road—a grind—but I’m not stopping until I can make you proud.

Sometimes loving someone means sacrificing yourself for their benefit. This is one of those times.

“Oh, our apologies, your royal highness. We don’t mean to interrupt your globe-trotting and self-importance tour.” “Whatever.” Isabella waves a dismissive hand our way, completely unaffected by our comments. “You guys know what I mean.”

“So grab it by the balls—or whatever man you find”—Gia winks—“and take it for a ride.” “In all respects.” Isabella laughs.

“Why here though?” “I’m manifesting something.” “Right now it seems you’re manifesting how to get a woman back to your flat.” “Is it working?” The look I give him in response—shoulders sagging, eyes looking up from beneath my brows, lips pursed in chagrin—tells him all he needs to know. No.

But when we part, when we step back and our eyes meet, it’s obvious he’s as staggered by my kissing him as I am over the way the touch of his lips made me feel. I stare at him. Astounded. Dumbfounded.

Or at least that’s what I think it is until I turn it over and see the bright blue DARE printed in fancy font across the top in bold letters. And then the following words written beneath: Find the woman least likely to be hit on and get her phone number.

An ambush. An accidental meeting. An arousing kiss. An abject disaster. Isn’t it just like me to find the only man who made my body feverish . . . yet I was the butt of his jerkish, testosterone-laced joke? Screw him.

“But hey, we all can’t be good at everything, right?” I say with a shrug and a fuck you smile. “Lose my number.”

“It was a bloody game.” “I know. And that says so much more about you than it ever could say about me.” I look at him. The shame turning to astonishment. The hurt morphing into anger. “I don’t want your apologies. They’re not accepted.” I take a step back. “I’d say it was nice knowing you . . . but it wasn’t.”

Men aren’t fucking worth it. They’re just not. And the rare times that they are? It seems that’s when they can do the most damage.

Nothing is ever good enough, ever fast enough . . . we’re never satisfied. And the sport either rewards us with a win or punishes us with a crash. The in-between is just as unsatisfying.

New city. New job. New you. Here goes nothing, Camilla.

“As far as I’m concerned, when you step on that grid for the first time as an F1 driver, your slate is wiped clean. A fresh start. We don’t look in rearview mirrors at Moretti. We only look forward. If we all had our pasts held over our heads, not a single person would ever get the chance to move forward. Mistakes are made so we can learn from them.”

We’ll fuck for you—” “Whoa! I can still fuck for myself, fuck you very much,” I shout out and get a roar of cheers from everyone in the room. “I volunteer as tribute,” a voice yells out toward the back of the room causing another round of laughter to sound off.

“That’s the hope. Thanks. But today’s lethargy is more due to an obnoxious neighbor with no courtesy.”

OH NO THEY'RE NEIGHBORS TOO????

Is he the villain or the hero, Camilla? Or maybe a little of both?

His presence is like a feather skimming over my skin. It creates chills at the same time I want to brush it away. Or a better comparison would be the static electricity in the air before a lightning strike. It’s there. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It makes my entire body take notice, react. None of the reactions are wanted and yet they happen regardless.

“We have Moretti boxer briefs?” I ask dumbfounded. Why? Just why? She laughs. “No, but I’m sure we can have some made up quickly if need be.” “Of course, we can.” I roll my eyes, hating that I’m picturing him wearing just those. Picturing him and liking what I see.

Yes. I probably already do. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting him know that yet. Where’s the fun in that?

The truth will scare the shit out of him. Because it’s the track on which my dad died. Because if I can master the one place that terrifies me more than any other, then I know I’m ready.

Proving that a Riggs can once again sit in the seat of an F1 car and not kill himself is what I need.

attack in the bathroom?” He narrows his eyes at me. “I wasn’t. I—” “Save it, Camilla. I’m highly acquainted with what they look like. I know them firsthand because of my mum. You were having one. No explanation needed.” He shrugs. “All I need to know is if you’re okay now.”

“Because we all have that one secret we keep close to the vest. The one we think might ruin us but hope it won’t. The one we hide in bathrooms having panic attacks over. And then add another layer of hope that maybe one day it’ll get better.”

But this? This feels like something I want but know I shouldn’t have. Like something I desperately need, as if I’m drowning and Camilla is the only thing that can revive me.

“Then again, you’re pretty damn fuckable, so we might even have to go for a round three.”

As I admit to myself, I’ve long since forgiven him. Dare I say, I’ve started to like him. Talk about creating problems for myself. Especially when my job requires me to be face-to-face with the man I’m fantasizing about.

“But you left with him. From the event. Out the door.” The way he says out the door is hilarious.

“So where’d you go with him?” It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. A part of me thinks it would serve him right if I just shrugged and walked away—leaving him wondering. The other part of me is finding this way too amusing and endearing. It’s yet another side to Riggs that I never expected.

I wait until he gets to the entrance of the building before I yell, “I was taking him over to find his girlfriend. That’s where we went.” Riggs pauses. One foot on the pavement, the other on the curb. He hangs his head and his laugh carries to me. And then he walks inside, leaving me to wonder, what the fuck was that?

“There is no telling the lengths one will go when they’re exhausted and someone’s preventing them from sleeping.” “I can’t agree more.”

“Riggs. Neighbor’s here to complain.” “Fuck, man,” he says, but then turns around and jolts to a stop when he sees me standing there. I’m pretty sure we both have the same expression on our faces—shock that we live next door to each other.

“C’mon, Gasket,” Riggs says. “Gasket?” I laugh the word out. He nods emphatically. “You blow a gasket so easily. Get so angry at the drop of a hat—especially when it comes to me . . . so I officially name thee Gasket.” He grins and waves a pretend wand at me, clearly proud of himself for the nickname. “You’re crazy.” “Guilty as charged.”

“The man has jokes when he’s drunk.” “Baby, I got jokes all the time.” He takes my hand and holds it casually in his. “Is this the day you finally did it?” “Did what?” I ask above the crowd. “Draw the hearts on the calendar for me? I mean, you’re here and so very excited to see me . . . I figured it was. Were they pink? Or blue? Oh. Wait. Moretti red, I bet.”

“I’ll be here waiting for Moretti-red-colored hearts to be colored on the calendar over me.”

“Spencer.” “Ooooh, I’m in trouble now. She’s using my first name,” he says to no one in particular.