Page 4 of Crash Course

“Wow. Okay.” Megan looks as if she wants to press but relents. “Well, going late to class is worse than skipping, so we might as well clean that up. I’ve got Neosporin.”

She ushers me down the hall and into a huge bathroom. “So, I can already tell you’re an overachiever. It’s your first day and I saw you talking to an Ashford outside.”

“Technically, I’ve met two.” I extend my right hand over the sink, hissing at the sting of the cool water rinsing away the gravel. “Nice guys.”

Megan’s lips twitch as she rummages through her bag for first aid supplies. Everything inside is pink. I even glimpse a pink torque wrench. “Theo, maybe, but not Jameson. They’re used to people falling over them. Everyone in this building wants to fuck an Ashford. You might have a shot with Theo.”

His grin flashes in my mind, along with those dimples, that athletic body, the warmth of his hand in mine when he helped me up.

“I’m not interested.” I ignore the little shiver that runs through me as I lay the gauze pad she passes me across my palm. The sting of pain is sharper than I expect.

“If your heart or panties are set on Jameson,” she misreads my comment, “you’re out of luck. Unless you’re driving at least a V8 engine, big brother won’t give you so much as the time of day.”

Ice blue eyes appear in my mind without permission.

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of their way.” Megan grins. “Tell me you’re a smart girl, Shay.”

“Can I get back to you?”

She laughs and hooks an arm through mine as she leads us back into the hall. “I knew we were going to be friends.”

Surprise has me blinking. Her easy acceptance throws me nearly as much as getting hit by the Porsche.

It’s politeness, not interest, I decide. People are not my strong suit. I’ve always had trouble reading them, understanding what they want, what I should want from them in return. Cars are predictable. They feel like home.

“I’m going to walk you around the building. Then we’ll grab terrible coffee and I’ll get you to your second class. Thank goodness you’re technical track, like me,” Megan says. “I can tell because engineers look at a car like it’s a puzzle.”

“And the drivers?”

Her eyes sparkle, or maybe it’s the blue eyeliner. “They look at a car like it’s an animal to tame.”

There’s nothing subtle about Formula 1. It’s a sport that pits the twenty fastest drivers in the world against one another in ungodly fast cars. Picture teams of the most brilliant engineers, designers, and mechanics, all financed by the deepest pockets.

They do it at demanding tracks in glamorous locations, with millions of fans.

Still, every one of those drivers and engineers had to start somewhere.

Ashford Academy is exactly that kind of place.

The building is somehow even more beautiful inside than outside. It’s shiny and modern, full of glass and pale wood. Doors off the main hallway lead to classrooms and labs, most of which appear to be occupied.

“We’re one of the only schools that has both drivers and engineers. PR touts it as a new model of education blending science and sport. Really, though, it’s a talent incubator for ARI’s empire.” Megan launches into tour guide mode.

“Ashford has a racing-federation-sanctioned track at the ARI F1 garage about ten minutes west of campus.” She points out a massive window cut into the side of the hallway toward the manicured greens outside.

“Driver candidates get their licenses through sim hours, safety exams, and races.” She sounds like she’s reading off a brochure as we pass another open door with a dozen new, state-of-the-art sims inside.

“What’s down there?” I ask. The hallway intersects another wing, this one even wider with lockers flanking either side.

“Garages. For mechanical classes and special projects.”

Megan shows me how to find my classes and tells me where to park once I get my pass so I can skip the awkward bus trip that let me off eight blocks away.

She walks me down the garage hallway to another that doubles back in the direction we came. We wind up in an open space that’s huge, round in shape, and taller than the rest of the building.

“This is the atrium. It’s an F1 fan’s wet dream,” she says.

It’s definitely mine.