Page 5 of Not So Fast
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he blurted. Everyone in hospitality turned and stared.
“Xander. Please,” Isabel hissed. “You’re making your life harder when you do things like that.”
He leaned in and whispered. “How does this happen? Can’t the team say something? Revoke her credentials? Make him stop?” Xander jerked back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s doing this to get in my head. He loves that I’m struggling right now. That’s not good for any of us.”
Isabel cast him a pity-filled grimace. “I don’t disagree. But unfortunately, none of us has any say about who a driver invites to a race. You know that. We can advise, but Dirk wants exactly no one’s opinion. That’s how he is.”
Xander exhaled and shook his head, then resigned himself to his fate. “Fine. Then I suppose I’ll have to kick some serious ass this weekend so I can get her to start criticizing someone else.”
“That’s the spirit.” Isabel flashed a grin and knocked a knuckle on the table. “I’ll see what I can do from my end. Dirk’s assistant Heidi is sick. I’ll make a case for me ushering around Mia Neal.”
“Perfect. Yes.” How he loved having a plan ofaction. He’d let Isabel show Mia Neal who was really in charge. “Then I’ll have time to pour hot sauce into Dirk’s driving gloves.”
“You’re kidding.”
Xander managed half a smile. How he longed for revenge on Dirk, but he knew that the real focus needed to be on himself. “Don’t worry. I won’t make any problems as long as you handle Mia Neal.”
Two
What can you do today to take better care of yourself?
I could stop watching F1 press conferences. Xander Bishop said I have no idea what I’m talking about. Okay, it’s kind of amazing that he knows who I am, but still. Ugh! He was so dismissive. So arrogant. I pride myself on being educated and prepared. I would love to give him a piece of my mind. If I get to talk to him. Which might not happen. I just want him to know that he’s underestimated me.
As soon as Mia was on the ground in Miami and took her phone out of airplane mode, she was ping ping pinged with texts from her mom.
Don’t let them intimidate you. You are smart and capable. Just do your job.
Five minutes later:
Not that it’s an actual job. I know you work hard and feel passionate about this, but please be realistic. A podcast is not a career.
Especially not with your schooling and your brain. Shoot for the stars, my love! Don’t just do what’s easy.
Eleven minutes later:
Try to squeeze in some fun if you can. Go to a museum?
Please don’t go parasailing. It’s dangerous. I read an article about it. The industry has no oversight.
Three minutes later:
Remember sunscreen. I’m sure you already know this, but the rays are even harsher in South Florida than in Texas.
Love you. Mom
Mia had to laugh. That was always how she knew her mom was done with a string of texts. Shesigned off. Mia tapped out a quickI love you, tooin response, then tucked her phone into her bag and filed off the plane and into the terminal. Beyond security, a driver waited for her, holding one of those little signs with her name on it. Her stomach fluttered with excitement. This was actually happening. She wasn’t simply going to a race as a fan, like she had more than a dozen times at the Austin GP. Oh, no. She was attending as an invited guest of a driver.
During the ride from the airport, Mia had entirely toomuch time to think. She didn’t know exactly what to expect today and tomorrow, but it seemed reasonable to assume Mega Racing would not be parking her in a grandstand with a bucket of salty popcorn and a soda. Of course, that only left her to wonder about things like VIP lounges and the paddock club. Was she ready for this? Hobnobbing with the wealthy and powerful people who had inside access to Formula One? Probably not. Case in point, very little time had gone into her clothing choices that morning. A T-shirt and shorts might be practical for traveling and the Miami heat, but she was going to impress exactly no one today. What in the hell was she doing?
She took a second to gather herself, but even greater questions barged into her brain. What if she really was nothing more than a pawn in some evil scheme of psychological warfare devised by Dirk? What if she met Xander Bishop and he used his sensational lips to spout British insults at her? What if he called her a wanker? A bloody git. A numpty. She might never recover.
Get it together, Mia.
She could do nothing about her present circumstances other than get on the train and ride it wherever it took her. She had to put on her game face. She pulled out her pocket recorder to document her experience for the podcast. “All right, guys, I’m in the car on the way to the track in Miami and we’re getting close. It looks like we’re pulling up to a security checkpoint. The driver’s rolling down the window and oh yes, there it is…” Mia closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled. “The scent of high-octane fuel and burnt rubber. The smell of hopes and dreams. Who will come out on top this weekend? Will it be another 1-2 finish for Vermillion? Will French driver Florian Laurent have as good a showing here as he did in Japan?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Neal,” the driver said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Mia clicked off her recorder. They were right outside the paddock swipe gates. “Oh. We’re here. Like here-here.”
