Page 62 of Spin Control

This is far from the first time a well-connected man has been mad at me. But there’s something about the simplicity of Stas’s words and the way his voice is hushed now that has a chill spreading through my veins.

“Am I in immediate danger?”

“I do not think so,” Stas says. “But he sees you as a threat.”

Not a nuisance. Not a roadblock. A threat.

Chalondra’s words from months ago echo in my head: He seems to be very good at weaseling out of tight spots. On three specific occasions, he’s suddenly had the exact high-profile friend he needs when shit’s about to hit the fan.

I’d say getting arrested, having your shady financial dealings exposed, and being publicly rebuffed and run out of Monaco is more than a tight spot.

“Okay,” I breathe, my thoughts swimming. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome.”

I can feel the conversation wrapping up. But I still need answers. And the only way I’ll get them is if we have another conversation—preferably in person. “When can we meet?”

“We can’t,” Stas says.

“Don’t do that. I’ve already demonstrated that you can trust me. And you know damn well that I’ll come to you.”

Silence stretches, but I don’t rush to fill it. I don’t plead my case or give him some sales pitch. I’ve learned over the years that silence can be a strong ally.

“The week after the British Grand Prix,” Stas says and my heart lurches with victory. “I’ll contact you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Me, too,” Stas says, and I swear, there’s a smile in his voice. “Until then, good luck, Elizabeth Jacobs.”

With that, the line goes dead.

And though that call ended up being a win for me, I can’t ignore the warning Stas gave me.

I stay on that Central Park bench for a long time. When I finally stand to leave, I’ve thought of three different plans—but I have no idea what to do.

26

It’s Fourth of July weekend, and I’m racing in England.

While everyone at home is enjoying barbecues and fireworks, I’m watching my teammate—a teenager who can probably trace his lineage back to the men who passed the Intolerable Acts—enjoy his very first home race at the British Grand Prix.

I know it’s shitty of me to begrudge Freddie this, but I’m feeling extremely petty about the fact that this weekend, at his very first home race, he’s receiving the upgrade I created and a new power unit. The combination had him topping the time table during both practice sessions on Friday, giving people hope that this year’s British Grand Prix might be won by a British driver and a British team.

In addition, the rumors about my seat persist.

During the small break between races, Baz called me in for a meeting. Even though I’m currently fourth in the Drivers’ Championship, I was incredibly nervous as I walked into his sprawling corner office. But Baz got straight to the point. “I don’t normally do this, but after what we’ve been through this season, I think you deserve to know that I have no idea where the rumors about your future with us came from. We are actively in conversation with your agent. So please don’t let the noise get to you.”

Though it’s gratifying to know where the team stands, whoever is fueling these rumors is doing a hell of a job. I’ve considered asking Albrecht and David if they have any idea who might be behind this, but I’ve been burned so badly by team leaders in the past that I can’t bring myself to do it.

I joined Sterling because the team principal and aerodynamicist pursued me doggedly and promised me the world. In addition to a substantial amount of money and a multi-year contract, they swore I would be the priority driver. After hearing that I’d never be number one at Orion, I went into that season with Sterling truly believing I’d be the next world champion. But when I struggled with the car, the team reneged on every single promise and made me believe I was a terrible driver. It was actually a relief when they fired me.

Though I’ve worked very hard to rebuild my confidence, the biggest lesson I learned from that experience was that in this sport, no one can be trusted. So even though I like the people at Martine and want to put my faith in them, I know better than to reveal anything that could be considered a weakness to exploit.

But there is one person here that I trust, despite everything. I just haven’t seen her in weeks.

When Elizabeth didn’t show up at the Austrian Grand Prix, it was as if I’d woken up in an alternate timeline. I walked past the motorhome conference room expecting to see her there, scowling gorgeously at the screen while she attacked her keyboard, bending reporters and media outlets and online chatter to her will. It felt wrong not to have her around—and especially not to be able to talk to her on race day. But more than that, I worried about her. On top of the stress of her job and this scandal, her whole world was rocked by her fight with her sister and then she went viral. Considering the way she needs control, I can’t imagine that’s something she has enjoyed.

Rather than annoying her with questions about how she’s doing or video calling her out of the blue again, I’ve started sending her daily animal facts—just so she knows I’m thinking about her. She never responds, but I did see her start to type once. It was after I sent her the very amusing information that wombat poop is cube shaped. I’m certain she would have laughed if I had told her that one in person.