Page 4 of Out of Control

I nod. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.” If we were in any other country than America, this lie wouldn’t fly for shit.

“Can we take a picture with you anyway?” he asks.

I glance over my shoulder and then back to him. “Nah, man. My girl gets weirded out by it.” That and the last thing I need is you posting that shit on social media and people saying it’s really me. Goodbye anonymity. I’m all for being the center of attention during a race, but not here. Not when I need this escape as much as I currently do. “Have a good time though.”

“Rock on, man.” The guy throws a clenched fist up and the girl giggles.

I lift a fist up to copy him and then turn to wander among the endless stages. Each one plays a vastly different sound from the next. My head dizzies at several points when I’m being hit in one ear with EDM and the other with hip-hop.

Or maybe that’s the alcohol.

Like it matters. I welcome the feeling. The rumble of the bass in my chest. The bumping against my shoulders from strangers as we jockey for positioning to watch the performances. The euphoric—and most likely quite intoxicated—vibe from the attendees.

They’re just happy they’re here.

As am I.

It’s a different high than what I’m used to. The crowds chanting my name. The camera lens in my face anywhere I go. The fans desperate for a glimpse of me.

The high I typically get off on but that lately hasn’t been satisfied.

There’s a thrill in the anonymity here. In being packed in tight beside people and few looking twice at me. In getting to just be one of thousands in the crowd. In the freedom to live my best life without having to think of placing in the points or cardio regimens or any fucking thing beyond getting lost in the music.

There’s no pressure to be Oliver Rossi, Formula 1 driver. No demand that I perform. No doubt over what the fuck I’m about to step into with my new team for the first race of the season, and zero media asking me how I think I’m going to fit in with my new team.

It’s just me. Just the beat. Just myself to please and no one else to give a fuck about.

It’s simply this music set ending and my curiosity urging me to move to another stage where another new artist awaits me.

I move with the throng of people as lasers from various other stages flash across the sky. Dust swirling in the moonless sky gives the appearance of smoke in the lasers, which adds to the laid-back atmosphere.

It’s a cool illusion that makes me stop and stare while the crowd moves on. Maybe that’s why I hear it. The commotion off to my right. The woman shouting. The man growling.

“Stop.” I turn just in time to see her shrug out of some drunk fuck’s grasp. “Just stop.” She pushes against him and makes a disgruntled sound that’s equal parts frustration and annoyance.

Lover’s quarrel.

Seen way too many of those this weekend. Glad I’m single. Glad I don’t have to put up with any of that shit. My mind drifts to Blair for a moment—my ex—but is then pulled back to the couple again.

To the woman who suddenly steps forward in a stream of light. Wow. She’s stunning. At least from this distance she is but, with the addition of alcohol humming through my veins, I’ll reserve judgment for when I’m closer. Or less buzzed.

But for now, she’s the best view I have to look at. Dark hair is peeking out beneath a paisley scarf. Her face is painted dramatically in glitter and makeup reflecting off the lasers. Her lips are a bright pink, and her body is showcased with minuscule clothing. Her curves are accented—a white crocheted sweater-type thing over a bright red bikini top, denim shorts, and boots that go just over her knee.

“Jesus,” I murmur. I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s as simple as that.

And maybe that’s a good fucking thing because as she goes to walk away, the man beside her yanks her arm back, the force making her land squarely against him. Her yelp is smothered by his forced kiss.

Go for it, buddy.

But my thought dies quickly as she thrashes her head back and forth. As she struggles against him. She’s not playing. She’s terrified.

It’s not my business. Not my situation. But no one acknowledges what’s going on in front of them. It’s more like they’re ignoring it.

I cover the distance in seconds.

Chivalry isn’t exactly my strong suit, but I know right from wrong, and something’s most definitely wrong here.

I hesitate. Does she know him? Does it really fucking matter? She said all she needs to say. No.