Page 20 of Spin Control

9

The week after Jeddah is an absolute shit show.

Though the race on Sunday was a success, with Wes coming in third place and Freddie going from 15th to 9th after one car’s gearbox failed and another crashed into a barrier, things quickly went downhill from there.

Wes was finally called in for questioning on the organized crime case. Photographers were camped out in front of the UK’s Home Office to capture images of him walking in alongside his high-powered attorney, and then back out six hours later. Though he smiled as good-naturedly as ever, there was no missing how exhausted he looked—and the photos were all over social media quickly, with both fans and pundits scrutinizing them. During Wes’s debrief with me and David, he said that despite being there for so long, it wasn’t a big deal and they didn’t ask anything surprising. I really hope the authorities see it the same way.

The next day, we received the forensic accountant’s report. We all hoped the news would be good, but no one seemed surprised when the results showed that Elio did misappropriate Martine Racing funds, making four separate transfers to an offshore account. To his credit, he returned the same amount back to Martine several months later—but it’s not like that absolves him. We prepared for this and the news cycle is delivering precisely what we expected. But watching Marcus and Baz deal with this blow isn’t fun.

If that wasn’t enough, I got a heads up about a scoop from Alice Abrams. She’s one of the most talented and trustworthy reporters I know, and she has a particular interest in organized crime. According to her source, there are multiple agencies investigating the story Wes shared about Stas gambling the Bugatti. Apparently cars that rare aren’t hard to track if you know where to look, and it has come to light that Liu Zhenghao, a billionaire who runs a pharmaceutical company in China, is currently in possession of the vehicle—but it was initially purchased by a Russian oligarch.

This is exactly why I was so pissed at Wes for going off script in Bahrain. That little story has now opened a whole new can of worms. At some point, a journalist or the authorities will wonder whether Wes is lying about not being involved. And because my job is to plan for the worst-case scenario, it could also mean that the criminals will want to shut him up. So now I have to make a plan that reinforces his whole himbo persona if it comes to any of that.

Only hours later, news broke that the small but powerful European nation of Druvia claims to have evidence about the origin of Reverie, a designer drug that has been linked to a startling number of overdoses in the last couple of years. According to the press release, Druvia believes the drug is being manufactured in China and will be presenting evidence at the United Nations in August.

It felt like too big of a coincidence, so I immediately got Alice back on the phone. She doesn’t know if the claim from Druvia has anything to do with Liu Zhenghao’s company, but her first thought was the same as mine: Liu Zhenghao could be the common link between F1 and organized crime.

After relaying my concerns to David about where this story could be headed, we agree on what needs to happen next: strengthening the public perception of Martine Racing’s brand so that no matter what happens with the people involved in the scandal, the team won’t be tainted by it.

So I start making calls.

And when I get a surprising tip from a very valuable acquaintance, I walk into David’s office with more purpose than I’ve had since I arrived.

“I take it you have good news?” he asks.

I smile. “Even better. I have a plan.”

10

There’s nothing like your home race.

Though Miami is a far cry from my hometown, it’s the first U.S.-based grand prix on the calendar. And since I’m the only American driver, fans tend to treat each U.S. race as my home race. There’s a crowd gathered outside the paddock on Thursday, and I take the time to greet them before tackling this especially packed media day.

Freddie, of course, does not care that my schedule has no room for tardiness. It takes nearly an hour to film a 30-second video for a sponsor, all because of Freddie’s terrible attitude and refusal to try. After that grueling session, Tate accompanies me to the rest of my PR engagements. I film a segment with the official Formula 1 folks, do on-camera Q&As with ESPN and GQ, and attend a meet and greet with the team’s VIP guests. Then, I report to the track for one of my favorite activities: hot laps.

After giving two corporate sponsors and a beauty influencer a taste of what it’s like to zoom around the track at top speed in a high-performance vehicle, I spy Elizabeth standing next to David, Albrecht, Baz, and a man I don’t recognize—but considering who he’s with, I assume he’s a journalist.

I’m very aware that the news cycle the last couple weeks hasn’t been great for Martine, despite the good race results we’ve pulled in. There have been a surprising number of articles about the audit and team finances, not to mention the headlines about me being questioned by a British intelligence agency. I’ve been doing my part to change the narrative. I’m posting every day, sharing photos from the gym, clips of practicing drills with Lu, and even a photo I snapped of me and Freddie sitting in business class. He’s scowling in it, but hey—I tried.

“Anyone else for hot laps?” I shout, but Tate shakes her head. My gaze returns to Elizabeth. She’s wearing a black sleeveless dress that hugs her body, white sneakers, sunglasses, and her hair in a high ponytail. I suddenly have an urge to sneak up behind her and tug on the end.

I wonder what it’d be like to tug until her back is arching. If she’d like my hand between her shoulders, pressing her down as I—

I blink hard and slam that drawer shut in my mind. “Jacobs!” I shout, appreciating how her ponytail flies when her head whips my way. “Let’s do a hot lap!”

“A what?” she yells, and more than a few people chuckle. She frowns, but then Tate is at her side, handing her a helmet. Elizabeth says something that makes Tate laugh before heading my way. I grin triumphantly.

“What the hell do you want from me?” Elizabeth asks when we can have a conversation at regular volume.

“Get in,” I say, opening the passenger door for her.

She eyes the supercar critically. “That looks like a death trap.”

I shrug. “Maybe with anyone else. But you’re in good hands with me.” She arches an eyebrow and I can’t help but laugh. “I am a professional.”

“That’s what they keep saying,” she quips. “But I don’t think I want to be in a vehicle that requires I wear a helmet.”

“I promise it’s fun.”