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The girl was insanely clever, just a little socially awkward. Her hair was a fuzzy red, her skin was so pale she basically glowed, and every time she spoke to anyone, she flushed bright red. But Antony had poached her from VANT Enterprises over to the racing team, and I could understand why. She was a prodigy, that was for sure.
She fanned her face. “Why was that so stressful? No one gives a damn about me, but when they all turned around to stare at you, I thought I was going to wet myself,” she squeaked out. “I’m definitely not doing this again.”
Hell, if I could get out of it, I’d also avoid more of these conferences. “Me too. I was thinking, the percussion of lap sixty at Iowa Speedway is off. By that stage, there’d be a fair amount of marbling on the road, and you want to factor that into your handling through that on both hard and?—”
“Tally Palmer. I thought you’d slunk away into obscurity.”
My spine snapped straight, and I tried not to externally freak out. I looked over my shoulder at Rupert Ballantyne, one of Brick Willtot’s cronies and one of the premier race pundits for NASCAR.
Pasting a tight smile on my face, I turned. “Rupert. What are you doing covering IndyCar? Get demoted? Did they find out you were taking bets on races?” I teased, though it might have been a little too sharp to ever be considered good-natured. “Did they find you jerking off to pictures of Brick Willtot in the garages again?”
Stephie let out a high-pitched gasp. Okay, that might have been too far.
I had no good feelings when it came to this old fuck. Brick might have blacklisted me with the teams, but it had been Rupert who’d ensured that my reputation went into the trash right along with it. He was the one who’d painted me as the distraction to the NASCAR viewers, and he was the reason I was painted as—how had Oscar Ruiz put it?—the Delilah to Buck Willtot’s Sampson. Like fucking me was akin to cutting his hair and losing his ability to drive around the track without crashing.
It had been Rupert who’d insinuated I was the cause of Buck’s death in the media. I fucking hated him.
Rupert gave me an equally sharp-toothed smile. “A new team is big news in motorsport. The magazine wanted to run a story on it.” It didn’t help that Rupert was one of the key writers for the biggest motorsports magazine in the world. “Though, given the professional quality of the drivers, it might be a footnote in the archives rather quickly.”
Hayes snorted. “I’ve always wondered how your career was so long. You never did know jack shit about racing.”
Rupert slid his crocodile eyes to Hayes. “You’re one of the former mechanics for Ryclo, right?” He lowered his voice. “That tracks for the Jezebel of NASCAR, doesn’t it? Were you fucking this one too?” He sneered at me, before flicking his gaze back to Hayes. “At least you only threw away your career, and not your life.”
I felt like I was being stabbed in the heart, but I wouldn’t give this old bastard the satisfaction of knowing that. “How about you go fuck yourself, Rupert?”
“Listen here, you little?—”
“Palmer. It’s time to get back to work.” My gaze whipped to Rocco Passero, who was standing behind Rupert Ballantyne, looking annoyed.
Rupert pasted one of those smarmy expressions on his face. “Rocco, welcome to IndyCar. I’m sure it was quite a coup for VANT to get you. How much are they paying you?”
Rocco gave Rupert an expression that I wanted to take a mental snapshot of, so I could recall it every day just to make myself happy. A little serotonin boost. He stared at Rupert, as if he was somewhere between stinky dog shit and an annoying little fly. He eyed him up and down slowly, then dismissed him as inconsequential as he met my eyes again. “Let’s go.”
Swallowing hard, I gave a tight nod. “Sure.”
Rupert, the snake that he was, couldn’t let it go without one more barb. “Watch yourself, Passero. This one is a black widow.” He curled his upper lip. “I’ll let Brick know I saw you.”
The threat was there. If Brick knew I was working again, he’d fuck my career just as some weird, fucked-up form of vengeance.
I gave him the sweetest smile I could muster. “Sure, tell him I said to go fuck himself too. I mean, if he takes his cock from your mouth long enough for you to get a whole sentence out.”
With that, I spun on my heel and left the room before I did something completely uncool, like burst into tears.
EIGHTEEN
ROCCO
My head was pounding, like a bull was stomping on it, and there were two bikini model influencers asleep back in my hotel room. Well, maybe not asleep now, but waiting for me. Yet, instead of being balls-deep in some golden Californian girl, I was under this glaring fluorescent lighting that was making my head hurt even more.
I entertained some of the bullshit questions from the reporters, but when that fucker brought up Lucia, I wanted to jump the table and beat the shit out of him. I wouldn’t forget the face of Oscar Ruiz anytime soon.
I’d been so relieved that the stupid press conference was over that I almost sprinted from the room. I was already at the door, listening to some fucker praise me as if I was going to become his best friend just because he could repeat my stats, when I spotted the girl in the back.
Something about her body language made me stop. She was smiling, but it was more of a grimace. Her hands were at her sides, but her fingers were curled into fists. She was talking to one of the older journalists, who I didn’t recognize and who hadn’t asked a question.
A little more curious than my hangover warranted, I walked toward the group. I turned up just in time to hear him besmirch the quality of the team drivers, which I couldn’t have given a shit about, as I was used to it. Besides, my skills spoke for themselves.
But whatever barb he threw at the girl next had her rearing back, pain flashing through her expression like he’d slapped her. I didn’t know her, except for the shit she’d given me at the team get-together the other week, but she was still part of my team.
