Free Web NovelChapter 76: Forty-Two Thousandths
Alaric
Qualifying day in Saudi Arabia had finally arrived. Looking out at the tight, unforgiving walls of the Jeddah street circuit, I knew there was absolutely zero room for error.
Tonight, under the blinding floodlights, it was a straight sprint for pole. Tomorrow, I will win the race. I was ready to make history, and nothing was getting in my way.
Especially not him.
Ever since we touched down in the country, I had made damn sure to avoid Nico. No conversations, no passing glances, nothing that could mess with my head. It had not even been that hard; he had been a ghost around the paddock.
He missed the mandatory media rounds because of some sudden bout of food poisoning, leaving his teammate, Ethan, to take over the press conferences and answer all the questions.
"Alaric, track temperatures are dropping for Q3. Watch the front-left warm-up on your out-lap," my race engineer droned through my earpiece as he adjusted the monitors in front of me.
I nodded, but I was not paying attention to what he was saying.
Beside me, Dorothy leaned in, her voice competing with the hum of the impact wrenches. She was reminding me about the conversation we had the night she came over to my place, something about the sports apparel brand Nico and I collaborated with, and a promotional shoot we had lined up for the Japan race weekend.
Her voice faded out completely the moment I saw him.
Right across the pit lane, heading straight toward his team’s garage, was Nico.
We had been here for almost a week, and this was the first time I was seeing him since that night. No calls, no texts, no Instagram DMs, not that he could anyway, since I had blocked him.
He had just vanished.
I should have been relieved because he was becoming a massive distraction, but every now and then, I caught myself looking around, wondering if he was going to show up to tease me like he usually did or stroll into our garage just to drop some unfunny jokes.
But he did not.
Bastard, I thought under my breath.
I bit my lip, staring at his retreating back, waiting for him to turn around.
He did not. Not once.
"Hey. Let us show them what Ferrari can do today, yeah?"
Dami’s voice broke through my stare. He stood beside me, offering a confident smile as he adjusted his fire suit.
I forced a nod, pulling my thoughts away from the rival garage. It was time to focus.
We headed out to the pit lane, the heat radiating off the asphalt as we got into our cars. I climbed into the cockpit of my number 16 Ferrari, the familiar tight space instantly locking me into race mode.
Right ahead on the grid, Nico’s number 4 Red Bull was idling, and nearby was Kelvin McRae in the Mercedes.
Ever since Bahrain, he had stopped being a jerk, and I wondered what had changed to make him stop throwing shade at me.
Today, I was not settling for top five only. I wanted the first position, and it was going to be mine.
I strapped my helmet on, pulled the visor down, and blocked out everything else.
The roar of the grandstands was deafening, a wall of pure noise vibrating straight through the carbon-fiber chassis of my Ferrari.
Under the massive floodlights, the Jeddah circuit looked like a ribbon of blinding white cutting through the desert darkness.
Tens of thousands of fans screamed and waved flags, their energy practically charging the humid night air.
But inside my cockpit, I was all alone.
Just before I pulled my visor down completely, I looked across the grid. Nico was already buckled into his Red Bull, but he had his visor up.
As if feeling my stare, he turned his head.
Our eyes locked.
Even across the distance of the track, the impact hit me hard.
A sudden, sharp chill raced straight down my spine, leaving my skin tingling despite the stifling heat inside my fire suit. Nico always did that to me. It did not matter if we were in a crowded room or staring each other down on a starting grid at three hundred kilometers per hour; he had this terrifying ability to completely short-circuit my system.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a heavy, erratic thudding that sounded louder than the idling V6 turbo engine behind me.
Get it together, I ordered myself.
I heaved a deep, shaky sigh, trying to force the air back into my lungs, and rubbed my gloved hands firmly against the faux-suede grip of the steering wheel to stop the subtle tremor.
Then the five red lights overhead illuminated one by one.
The engine revs screamed, and then the lights went out.
And so it begins.
I dumped the clutch, and the Ferrari launched forward, the rear tires fighting for traction against the hot asphalt before gripping and catapulting me down the straight. The acceleration slammed me back into my seat.
Ahead of me, the pack blurred into a chaotic mess of shifting aerodynamic wings and glowing brake discs as we hurtled toward the tight left-hander of Turn 1.
Kelvin McRae’s Mercedes was right in front of me, taking the defensive inside line. He had taken second from me in the opening race of the season, and I was not about to let him dictate this one.
We headed straight into Lap 3.
The high-speed sweeps of Turns 4 to 10 were a brutal test of neck strength, the G-forces pulling at my helmet with every violent flick of the wheel.
I stayed glued to Kelvin’s rear wing, using his slipstream to pull myself closer while waiting for the perfect moment.
It came at Turn 13, the sweeping banked hairpin. Kelvin went slightly wide trying to carry maximum speed, leaving just a sliver of space on the inside kerb.
I did not hesitate.
I threw the Ferrari down the inside, braking late, the front tires protesting as they clipped the apex.
For a few seconds, our wheels were inches apart, but I held the line, powering out of the corner and leaving the Mercedes mirrors filled with my dust.
One down.
Now there was only the number 4 Red Bull ahead.
By Lap 15, it had become a pure head-to-head battle. Nico was leading, but I had clawed my way back into his DRS zone.
The gap was under a second.
Every time we hit the main straight, the rear wing of my Ferrari opened, giving me a massive burst of speed, but Nico was placement-perfect, positioning his car exactly where I wanted to go.
It was a relentless high-speed chess game at over two hundred miles per hour, surrounded by unforgiving concrete walls. We were locked together, matching each other tenth for tenth, corner for corner.
Then came the long straight leading into the final corner.
I pulled out from behind him, the air rushing violently around my helmet as we ran side-by-side.
As the braking zone loomed, my mind betrayed me.
The sheer intensity of being this close to him, of fighting him for every inch of tarmac, caused a sudden, unwanted memory to flash violently through my head.
I remembered the night at the penthouse.
The heavy weight of his hands gripping my hips, pinning me down as he bent me completely over, taking me right there on his living room couch.
The vivid, overwhelming memory of how thick his cock had felt filling my hole, stretching me tight until I could barely breathe, flooded my senses.
I could almost feel him driving deep inside me. The breathless, desperate sounds we had made echoed in my ears, blurring with the scream of the engine.
My breath hitched.
The sudden rush of blood and heat between my thighs was dizzying, threatening to break my concentration entirely.
No. Not now. freewёbnoνel.com
Why the hell was I thinking about that?
I forced my eyes wide, tearing my mind back to the track just as the 100-meter braking board flashed past.
Nico and I slammed on the brakes at the exact same millisecond, the carbon discs glowing bright orange in the dark as our cars bucked and shuddered, screaming for grip as we plunged into the final turn side-by-side.
The checkered flag waved overhead, signaling the end of the first qualifying session.
I crossed the line, my eyes darting instantly to the digital display on my steering wheel as the final times for the twenty-car grid locked in.
+0.042.
A mere forty-two thousandths of a second.
"P2, Alaric. That is Q1 done," my engineer’s voice sounded through the static. "Nico takes the top spot, but you are safely through to the next round. Good lap."
I did not answer.
I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the wheel, my chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly began to recede, leaving behind the lingering memory of the penthouse that I should never have let in.
On the cool-down lap, the number 4 Red Bull eased up alongside my Ferrari.
Through our tinted visors, I could not see his face, but as Nico maintained pace right next to me, he offered a slow, deliberate nod before gunning the throttle and pulling away into the pit lane.
Why the hell had I thought about the night at the penthouse?
Was I really that obsessed with him?
