Page 14 of Tipping Point

I look out through the floor-to-ceiling windows over the cityscape of Sakhir with the desert glowing golden in the morning light. The suite, with its Arabian architecture and richly decorated walls and floors, has an intoxicating effect on me.

Bahrain is about as good as it gets.

I leave the hotel to head to qualifying and I can see the shimmer of the heat above the road as we make our way to the track.

I still haven’t spoken to Erik, and I haven’t gotten over the elation of the last drive, the placement and the point for Delta Victor.

The media speculated about it heavily.

When I get out at the lane to walk down to the paddock, I’m accosted by a journalist.

“Finn!” he shouts at me, hurrying over. “Finn, any idea why you placed so well in the last race?” He holds a recorder towards my face but snatches it back almost immediately to fire his second question. “Is it because now that your contract isn’t being renewed, the possible loss of income is driving you back to your roots, displaying the signature drives of calculated risk you were notorious for when you came on the scene?”

Journalists always fire questions like that, a long winded set up that writes its own headline with a simple nod or shake of your head. It’s suggestive, and you have to do your best to avoid it.

I know this journo. He writes fluff pieces, and he’s after gossip more than facts. I ignore him completely as I keep walking. He gives a frustrated sigh and sets his sights on Alejandro, who’s walking ten paces behind me.

Good riddance.

We are all earlier than usual today. We need to gather on the grid so that WebFlix Max can film us as a group for promo shots. We’re doing the thing where we line up and walk towards the camera. Something they can show in slow motion to make us look hardcore.

I get dressed and manage to avoid Erik. Jack, however, is a whole other beast.

“What the fuck are they wasting your time for on this?” He’s standing trackside with his arms crossed, a frown on his face. He’s taking in the film crew and the other drivers who are already standing around, waiting for the action.

I shake my head, striding out to join Reuben. His hair is freshly cut, and he has a small slit in his eyebrow.

We’re in full garb and I carry my helmet under my arm as we stand around making small talk.

Rheese is off to one side, and he narrows his eyes at me. I heard he contested the stewards when they made him give me his spot on the last race after his foul last week.

I know Rheese Knox very well. We came up together. He got a driver’s spot for Ainsworth-Sinclair while I was still holding out on accepting contracts.

Velocity gave me my first gig the following year, and we were head-to-head since then. He was angry because he missed out on Velocity. If he hadn’t signed with Ainsworth-Sinclair, he would have been their first choice. He resents me to this day, even though I’m now with Delta Victor.

It’s sweltering in our gear, and we wear our suits unzipped, the top half dangling from our hips, wearing the thin long sleeved fireproof shirts in the open.

The little makeup artist is running around trying to powder our sweaty faces.

“Casey, don’t bother.” It’s Curls. She’s standing with the filming crew quite a way off. “They’ll be wearing helmets for the shot.” She runs a tired hand over her face.

Casey gives her a radiant smile and with a toss of her red hair, she trots over to stand behind the filming crew. They have set up a small track, and the cameraman is seated on a small cart, which they will reverse as we walk up to them. Curls walks over to talk to Rheese and then she’s clapping her hands, and we need to zip up and don our helmets.

The crowd is loving this. We get tons of cheers and jeers as everyone waits for us to finish up so that we can get to the qualifying.

“Man, that is a great body,” Reuben observes as we are on take two and walking in a row, following the camera down the track.

I glance at Curls. She’s wearing jean shorts and a strappy blue top, the straps of her black bra showing underneath. The women I usually fuck won’t wear it like that. They wear bras discreetly, so you’re wondering if they’re wearing one at all.

“I’d love to take that sundress off her and see what’s going on underneath.”

“What?”

“The girl.” Reuben jerks his chin at Casey.

“You were talking about her?” I grunt.

“Who else?”