Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Good.
"Bit too eager," Matthieu’s voice crackles through my earpiece, casual as ever.
"Noted," I mutter.
I don’t need casual observations. I need perfection.
The car dances between the barriers, centimeters away from disaster.
Kiss the apex at Rascasse. Nail the throttle at Anthony Noghes.
Rocket down the straight.
The checkered flag waves, and the leaderboard updates.
P1.
Damn right.
"Bring it in," Matthieu instructs.
The moment I roll into the simulated pit lane, the illusion shatters.
The speed - gone.
The deafening roar of the engine, the high-pitched whine of the turbo, the rhythmic crackle of the radio - silenced.
The visceral, gut-punching force of acceleration that shoves me back into my seat, the rush of G-forces twisting my body through the corners - vanished.
The danger - evaporated.
No risk of slamming into a barrier at 250 kilometers per hour, no walls closing in with every turn, no brutal, split-second consequences for the slightest mistake.
Instead - screens. Machinery. Artificial force feedback.
For now.
I exhale sharply, flexing my fingers against the wheel before releasing it, my body still thrumming with residual adrenaline. The simulation is good - too good, almost. It mimics the weight shift, the grip loss, the perfect imperfection of the Monaco circuit.
But it isn’t real.
The car isn’t really under me. The track isn’t really beneath my tires.
I can’t feel the heat from the asphalt, the texture of the curbs, the way the air density changes at full throttle down the straight. I can’t hear the real engine screaming behind me, can’t feel the vibrations coursing through the chassis, can’t sense the real, living machine responding to my every command.
I rip off my gloves, rubbing at my wrists, the ghost of the steering wheel still imprinted in my palms. My fingers flex from the grip as I roll my shoulders back before tugging at the Velcro of my harness, ripping it free before pulling off my helmet, sweat cooling instantly against my skin.
The real thing?
That’s in ten days.
And nothing - nothing - compares to that.
Matthieu stands beside the sim rig, tablet in hand.
"Good run," he says. "But you lost a tenth in sector two. Your exit out of Mirabeau needs work."
I drag a hand through my damp hair. "Then we run it again."
Matthieu arches a brow.
"You know, most people would take a second to celebrate being fastest on the board."
I don’t celebrate practice.
"Most people aren’t me," I respond dryly, reaching for the water bottle beside the rig.
Before Matthieu can reply, something flickers in my peripheral vision.
A streak of blonde.
It’s gone as quickly as it came, just a blur of movement in the background. Some staff member, probably, moving between workstations.
But my mind snags on it like a hook, yanking me backwards.
To thoughts of a light sundress and sun-kissed skin. To sharp, amused eyes. To pretty, plump lips.
What the fuck?
The memory slams into me, uninvited and unwelcome. I exhale sharply, gripping my water bottle a little tighter than necessary, my fingers flexing around the plastic as if I can physically squeeze the thought out of my head.
I should be reviewing data. Thinking about my laps, about where I need to shave time off.
Instead, I’m thinking about an English girl who stole my car.
An English girl who hijacked it with complete confidence, like she owned the damn thing. Who tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and turned her nose up at me like I was the one in the wrong.
Like I was the one in her way.
No one looks at me like that.
People - women - either fawn over me or act too nervous to meet my eye. She did neither. Just laughed at my suggestion of sharing a ride, accused me of trying to abduct her, and then drove off in my fucking car.
I should be pissed. I am pissed.
So why the fuck is my mind replaying it like some kind of highlight reel?
Why do I keep seeing her smirk, the way her lips curved around words laced with sarcasm, the way her brown eyes lit up with mischief?
Fucking ridiculous.
I set my jaw, rolling my shoulders back, forcing myself out of the distraction.
I don’t have time for this. Not now.
Not ten days before Monaco.
I pop the cap off my water bottle and take a slow, measured sip, letting the cool liquid cut through the heat of irritation creeping up my spine.
But for some fucking reason, those eyes - those lips - refuse to leave me alone.
Enough.
I shove the bottle onto the desk with a dull thud, already reaching for my helmet again. The weight of it in my hands is grounding, reminding me of where I am, of who I am.
I pull it on, the world narrowing around me, drowning out distractions.
One strap. Then the next.
The click of the buckle, the snap of Velcro securing the harness across my chest, locking me back into position.
The weight of the wheel in my hands.
The screens flickering to life.