chapter 6

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Matthew's tyres were blistering.

He gripped the steering wheel, cursing colorfully under his breath. He could feel the car sliding beneath him. The world rushed past in crimson comets, and he could hear the cheers of the crowd, feel the scorching sun. Bahrain was a tricky racetrack — 57 agonizing laps and some tough corners — but he was in second place, behind Lucas. Only three laps to go.

Matthew tightened his grip on the wheel.

Screw the blistering. He was winning this race, even if all four tyres popped and he had to run the rest of the way.

His radio crackled. "How are the car conditions?"

"Fine," Matthew lied.

There was a pause. Alek seemed to be deciding whether to lecture him. Then again, the Ferrari Team Manager was always lecturing him. "Your tyres are overheating, aren't they?"

"No."

"Box, box," Alek ordered.

Matthew pressed harder on the gas pedal. "I said I'm fine."

"Box, Matthew," Alek said sharply. "That's an order."

Sweat trickled down his neck. "I can make it."

"For fuck's sake, Carr," Alek growled, "you're sliding all over the place. Get in the damn box." Matthew ignored him, and Alek swore fluidly in Norwegian. Something about fucking a hairy Devil, if Matthew's translation was correct. "Listen to me, Matt. Lucas is in pole position. We can afford to box, and it's dangerous to—"

"I'm fine, Alek," Matthew snapped.

"Carr, I swear to god—"

"Enough." Matthew blew out a breath. "I said I'm—"

There was a bang.

The car jerked. Matthew scrambled for the wheel, but it was too late; he careened off the track. Red flashed in front of him. White. The corner of a word. Then he smashed into the sideboard, his teeth gnashing shut with the force of it. The crowd groaned.

His radio crackled.

"Matthew?" Alek asked. "Are you okay?"

"God damn it!" Matthew smacked the steering wheel. "Sorry, everyone. That was my bad. What's the damage?"

"Your front tyre's blown," Alek said flatly. "Left rear puncture, too."

"Shit," he muttered.

"Go to the medic's tent. We'll talk after."

Matthew closed his eyes. "Copy."

Hot shame surged through him. Fuck. He was in for it now, wasn't he? Alek didn't take kindly to idiocy, and especially not the type that cost Ferrari a podium. Matthew unbuckled his seatbelt. He was dimly aware of the Bahrain crowd cheering, of Lucas zooming across the finish line, but he kept his head down, trekking towards the medical tent.

Shit.

He'd blown it. Literally.

Oddly, Matthew thought of Isla. Thank fuck she wasn't here today. Isla was the most risk-adverse person he'd ever met; she'd have an aneurysm if she saw half the crazy shit Matthew pulled while racing.

Or maybe she wouldn't, Matthew reflected, taking a seat as a young medic hurried over. Isla Morris didn't give a rat's arse about him; in fact, Matthew could drop dead in front of her, and Isla would probably finish her coffee before calling for help.

Matthew frowned. Wait. Did Isla drink coffee?

Ah, well.

Something to find out. Boyfriends were meant to know these things, weren't they? And Matthew was supposed to be her boyfriend.

For now, anyway.

Matthew closed his eyes as the medic ran test after test, poking and prodding. A waste of time, in his opinion. Matthew had broken eight bones, sprained his wrist twice, and suffered a concussion so bad that he was hospitalized for it. He knew when his body was hurting.

Today, he'd been lucky.

"Matt!"

Matthew looked up. An Italian driver was walking towards him, a white Alpine baseball cap perched atop his dark, sweaty hair. His cheeks were flushed red. Then again, Matthew thought in amusement, Cedro always seemed to be red-cheeked; it was like he came out of the womb sunburnt.

"Any damage?" Cedro asked.

Matthew shook his head. "I have a thick skull."

"I saw the crash," Cedro said. "Bad luck, fratello."

"My own fault," Matthew sighed. "I pushed the tyres too hard." He kicked his feet up on a stool. "How'd you do?"

"Tenth." Cedro grinned. "First time in the points."

A rush of pride filled him, and Matthew slapped his competitor on the arm. "Fucking brilliant, mate. You'll get more this season."

Matthew meant it, too. Cedro Fontana was a talented driver, although not many people realized it. Or maybe they just didn't care, Matthew thought darkly; maybe most people in this sport were just all snobs. You had to have money to compete in Formula1. Cedro only had talent. Talent, and an Italian mother that had picked up two extra jobs to pay for Cedro's go-karting competitions when he was younger.

Speaking of which.

Matthew grinned. "Your mother must be losing her mind."

"Oddio," Cedro groaned. "You should have seen her face when I told her. I thought she'd never stop crying." He pulled out a granola bar. "She promised to make my favourite cotoletta alla valdostana when I'm home."

Matthew's stomach rumbled. "Remind me to visit you in Italy."

Cedro scrunched up his nose. "You're not invited. I have very pretty sisters. Sisters that you're not allowed anywhere near."

"Haven't you heard?" Matthew rose, shrugging on his jacket. "I have a girlfriend, now."

Cedro snorted. "Very funny." He paused in unwrapping the foil, frowning as Matthew laced up his shoes. "Carr? You are fucking with me, aren't you?"

Sort of. "Nope."

Cedro paused, the granola bar hovering halfway to his mouth. "Caspita! You're really not joking. Who the hell is she?"

"Funny story," Matthew said. "She's actually—"

The door opened.

Matthew looked up, half-expecting a medic ready to tell him off for leaving, and then groaned. Fucking brilliant. Lucas Walsh leaned against the doorway, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He clapped his hands together slowly.

"Well done, Carr," Lucas drawled. "Brilliant execution. There wasn't a board in that whole track you didn't manage to smash into."

Matthew smiled pleasantly. "You can fuck right off, Walsh."

Lucas, unsurprisingly, ignored this. He strode across the room, plucking the granola bar out of Cedro's hand. "Heard you placed tenth, Fontana."

Cedro frowned. "I did."

"Not bad for racing with half a car," Lucas said.

"If that's a comment about my team," Cedro said stiffly, "then Matthew's right. You can fuck right off."

"Who knows?" Lucas shrugged. "Maybe one day, a big team like Ferrari will take pity on you. You might even be able to take our car for a test drive." He patted Cedro's shoulder, taking a bite of the granola bar. "Dream big."

Cedro, if possible, flushed an even deeper red. He was reaching tomato-like proportions. Matthew leaned against a cot.

"Ah, dreams," Matthew mused. "So rarely fulfilled. For example, I dream of supergluing your mouth shut every day, Walsh, but it has yet to come true." He snatched the granola bar out of his hand. "More's the pity."

Lucas swiped for it. "Maybe you should dream up some better tyres."

"Did I mention the superglue?" Matthew held the granola bar above his head. "I would need a vat of it. Maybe more." His phone rang, and he chucked the bar back to Cedro. "Excuse me, gents. I should take this." Matthew stepped out of the medical tent, pushing the green button. "Hello?"

"Matthew?" a voice asked.

Matthew blinked. "Benedict?"

Good lord. If his older brother was calling, then the apocalypse was imminent. Or Ted Baker had released a line of equestrian-themed dinner jackets and Benedict wanted all of them for Christmas. Either was a distinct possibility.

"What's going on?" Matthew demanded. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, fine," Benedict said airily. "How was your race?"

"Disastrous," Matthew sighed. "I fucked my tyres at the end. Drove right off the track and into a—"

"I asked Melissa to marry me," Benedict blurted.

"Oh." Matthew blinked. "Er. Did she say yes?"

You never knew when it came to Melissa. Benedict had been dating the swimwear model for six years, and Matthew had only ever seen her smile twice. The first time, Benedict dropped a croquet mallet on his foot. The second time, old Mrs. Simmons was giving Benedict an earful after he backed over her prize rosebush with his car. Neither incident boded well for a healthy relationship.

Then again, Matthew reasoned, he'd never been in a relationship, so who was he to judge? Maybe Melissa was lovely. Maybe they were happy.

He doubted it, though.

"Of course she said yes, you twat," Benedict snapped. "What did you think she'd say?" There was a clink of ice against glass. "Look, Mum and Dad are hosting an engagement party in London next weekend. Can you make it?"

"Probably," Matthew hedged.

"Probably?"

"Yes. Fine." Matthew kicked at the dirt. "I'll make it."

"Good," Benedict said firmly. "You can fly over with Walsh."

Matthew winced. Fucking hell. Saint Lucas was everywhere, wasn't he? Admittedly, Matthew had made the mistake of introducing Benedict and Lucas five years ago when his brother came to watch a race. Now, Matthew was forever seeing photos of their trips on Instagram. Yachting in Monaco. Shooting in tweed jackets in Scotland. Drinking champagne in the Riviera.

It was a nightmare.

A goddamn nightmare.

"Matt?" Benedict asked. "Did you hear me?"

He ground his shoe into the dirt. "About flying with Saint Lucas? No, thanks. I'd rather row across the Persian Gulf by myself."

"Go ahead, then," Benedict said shortly. "Your choice. Just make sure to bring a suit to the party."

"A bathing suit?"

"That's not funny, Matt." He could practically hear his brother frowning. "An actual suit. The kind you get at a tailor. And for god's sake, don't flirt with any of Melissa's friends. I don't want her to get upset."

"What if I'm bringing a date?" Matthew asked.

"Hilarious," Benedict said flatly.

"I'm serious."

"Good god," Benedict said in surprise. "You really are serious, aren't you? Who is she, then? A fan?" His voice dripped with condescension. "A grid girl? Some random that wanted your autograph?"

"A horse, actually," Matthew said mildly. "I'm venturing into bestiality."

"You know what?" Benedict sighed. "Bring whoever you want. As long as it's not any of my ex-girlfriends, I don't care." He paused. "Oh, or Walsh's ex-girlfriend. But I doubt even you would have the balls to bring Isla."

Matthew coughed. "Er, actually, about that—"

"Hang on," Benedict said, and his voice grew muffled. "What was that, darling? Oh. Try turning it to the left. No, your other left. Wait, Melissa, don't—" There was a shattering noise. Benedict swore colorfully. "Matt? I've got to run. Melissa needs help with a lightbulb. I'll see you next weekend, alright?"

"Wait, Benedict—"

"Much love."

The line went dead.

Matthew sighed, staring down at his phone. Well. Everyone liked a surprise, didn't they? Besides, Matthew hated a boring party. And there was no better way to shake things up than to enter the room with Isla Morris on his arm.

Matthew grinned.

He couldn't wait to see the look on Saint Lucas's face.

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