Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

The air in the car is thick with tension, and not the good kind. Bright lights reflect off the car’s window as we pass through the city. Santiago hired a driver to take us to the gala, reminding me how I’m in over my head. A poser surrounded by the rich and famous.

“Why were you walking out of the hotel with him?” Santi seethes.

“He actually came to apologize for what he said at the press event. We chatted and then I came outside. It’s not a big deal, no need to get annoyed.”

Placating Santi has been my job for years. He tends to be a situational hothead, much like other F1 racers. High-stress situations usually call for it.

“You should stay away from him. Hell, stay away from most of the F1 drivers. They’re not here for happily-ever-afters, white picket fences, a dog, and two kids. They fuck around. A lot.” His hands clench in front of him.

“You are aware I lost my virginity like four years ago, right? No need to protect me anymore when my virtue is no longer intact.”

If looks could kill, Santi would have murdered me twice already in this car alone. Wrong joke at the wrong time. Message received.

“I don’t want to be aware. No. Keep that shit to yourself. These guys are different from boys you dated in college. They’re the ultimate fuckboys. Liquor, ladies, maybe even drugs. Who the hell knows. I haven’t hung around them much since I kept to myself with Kulikov.”

“I’ll be careful. But Noah is part of your team now. We’re all stuck around one another and I don’t want things to be awkward with us. At least not more than they have to be.”

No use denying my physical attraction toward Noah, but I can sure do my best for Santi. I owe him that much.

I give him a sweet smile while I pat his hand, hoping to calm him. His lips tip down. He must be concerned because none of my usual tactics are working on him.

“You’re my little sister so it’s my job to protect you. Be careful, okay? I can’t keep an eye on you all the time. Especially with someone like Noah. His bedroom has a revolving door and a waiting list.”

My body tenses. Thanks for the reminder. Nothing like a classic manwhore, one so stuck in his ways he can’t see straight. Good thing those types of relationships aren’t on my radar.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m up to only good, remember?” I shoot him a goofy smile.

He grins at my cute stupidity and tugs me in for a hug, constricting my air supply.

“I love you. You know that, right?” His chest vibrates while he speaks.

I return his hug with a squeeze. “Of course. I love you too. Now let’s go party!”

The swanky event, in fact, surpasses my original idea of a sponsor party. I picture old men rubbing elbows and chatting about their stocks. But it’s all so much more. We walk into a ballroom decorated to the nines with crystals and flowers hanging from the ceiling, waiters walking around with food, and dripping champagne towers on several tables. I grab a couple of fancy-looking appetizers while I walk around the room.

Lots of bigwigs visit to shake hands with the elite of racing. But the scene includes unlimited alcohol, a decent DJ, and silk dancers spiraling from the ceiling. It resembles more of an overdone wedding than a gala for race car drivers. F1 is pretty hip, not going to lie.

Santiago reluctantly leaves me to my own devices after being called over by his agent. He gives me a warning look before walking away, but I brush off his worries with a flick of my hand. I follow his rule of not talking to the other drivers. But he can’t fault me when others talk to me because I can’t control everyone else. Loopholes make life interesting.

I occupy a seat at the bar when He Who Is Definitely Up to No Good shows up and sits next to me. His intoxicating cologne short-circuits my brain cells. Somehow his hair already looks like a disheveled mess and his bow tie lays crooked against his pressed shirt. His unruliness brings a smile to my face. Sturdy hands that caressed my spine an hour ago hold another glass of Scotch. I regret looking Noah straight in the eye, caught off guard by a penetrating gaze, his deep blue eyes framed by thick, long lashes.

A simple smile he sends my way tugs at my lower half. I can’t control my body’s response to him, especially when he looks at me like he wants to kiss me.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone at an event like this?” Noah’s voice has a rough sound to it like he spent the night partying and drinking—sensual and gravelly all at once.

“Aw, you think I’m pretty. How charming. Santi left me alone because he’s busy kissing ass.” I point a pink-nailed finger toward my brother who is chatting with a group of sponsors.

“More than that.” Noah’s megawatt smile makes my heart clench. Well, don’t you have a way with words. “Ah, a day in the life of a celebrity. A tough cross to bear.”

I chuckle. “I doubt I’ll ever get used to hearing that. Can’t imagine my brother as a celebrity. So weird.”

“It takes time. Wait until he’s followed around by paparazzi to the point where he can’t even eat or shit in peace. This place corrupts the best of us, surrounded by endless money, booze, women—you name it. A playground for the privileged.”

I turn toward him and glance down at his outfit. He pulls off a tuxedo, looking roguishly handsome with smooth material clinging to his body. My fingers twitch at the temptation to run through his tousled hair that hints at his rowdiness.

But I don’t because it’ll ruin my efforts to be good.

“Did this place change you?” I try to keep my voice neutral, not giving away any feelings. He’s the last person Santi would want me to hang around with.

His eyes harden. “I was born into it. Son of a legend and all.” He flashes me an eye roll. “So technically, no, since it’s all I’ve ever known. Can’t be corrupted by something that made you.”

I scrunch my nose. “We aren’t like that. We were raised in a small home by modest parents. Santi didn’t even go to college, so he could race to make money. Gave up a lot to pursue a dream. He paid my parents back everything they’ve ever invested in him because it means the world to him to provide for them.”

“Humble beginnings make the best success stories. Your brother signed a twenty-million-dollar contract though, and that’s a lot of money, so with it comes responsibility.” His eyes stare intensely into mine.

I sigh, aware of Santi’s most recent financial gain. He may surround himself with pompous people, but he isn’t like most of these greedy and egotistical guys.

Noah takes a big sip of his drink. I copy him, chugging my champagne—a dose of liquid confidence to dull my nerves.

“What was it like being a kid around here?” I look across the room, imagining a young Noah hanging out with these people.

“While growing up, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. And I still do. But my dad isn’t exactly father of the year. Nannies took care of me while my mom was off yachting the world. But woe is me, the hard life of someone who has it all.” The sadness in his voice betrays his attempted nonchalance.

“Do your parents come to see your races?”

“Every now and then. Dad’s coming to the Barcelona one. My mom’s another story, occasionally popping in when it’s most convenient for her and her friends.” He tips his glass and clinks it against mine before we both drink to that notion.

I sense parent issues with this one.

He looks at me with bright eyes. “What about you? What brings you to the crazy life of F1 racing?”

“Do I need a reason besides my brother competing?” I smile at him.

“Well, I assumed you were here for me, but now that you mention it, that sounds plausible.’ He hits me with a playful grin that sparks something inside of me.

I shake my head at him. “I just graduated, and I wanted to travel the world.” I hold back on mentioning my vlog because I don’t want to be judged by someone like him—a man who thrives and succeeds.

“Well you picked the right year to join. You get to see exotic locations with a bonus of me kicking your brother’s ass. You can’t Pinterest that shit.”

I throw my head back and laugh. His cockiness has no bounds, but I like the way he teases, uncaring with a glint of mischief in his eye.

“How do you fit your head in your helmet? I’m worried it must expand the more people stroke your ego,” I say with fake concern.

“I have one custom made to avoid that issue.”

We continue our banter until someone calls him away. He looks unenthusiastic at the interruption, his feet remaining planted to the ground.

“Duty calls.” I tilt my empty glass to him.

He sends me a smirk and mock salute as a goodbye.

I explore Melbourne on Friday since Santi has a busy day with practice and press events. As interesting as his plan sounds, I decline his invitation to join him.

I spend the day taking photos and discovering the city. A local street-art tour gains my interest, and I enjoy the ability to fade into the group while surrounding myself with fellow tourists. When I hang with Santi, it feels like I’m on display. The attention he receives stifles me. People always take pictures, ask questions, or request autographs. And I hate feeling watched. He tells me everyone eventually gets used to it and I won’t notice them after a while.

That type of complacency scares me.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. Newfound privacy comforts me so much that I eat lunch alone, at a table for two no less. My solo day seems short-lived when an old man sits in the chair across from me. He eventually gains the courage to strike up a conversation after fifteen minutes. I politely engage in the discussion of his arthritis, nodding along like I understand the struggles of chronic pain. He even shows me about one hundred photos of his grandkids.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for never saying no, because how can I look that poor older man in the face and decline seeing photos of his little tater tot? His words, not mine. I can’t. So I end up spending an hour entertaining a man named Steve, even offering him a signed Bandini baseball cap as a parting gift along with a promise to text him a picture of the Prix track on race day. I don’t know the risk of giving a grandpa my cellphone number. But he seems sweet, so I give in.

My mom calls me while I’m walking down a side street.

“Cómo estás?” My mom follows my vlog religiously, commenting on all my posts with encouraging messages and quotes. She’s cute like that. I even get texts with gifs as a way for her to express her feelings.

“I’ve been having fun so far. Santi’s pretty busy with the business side of things. I don’t know how he finds the energy.”

We stayed out late and he got up at the crack of dawn to go drive on the track. Meanwhile, I hit the snooze button about five times before I finally got up.

“He lives for the sport, so he puts up with the social side of things. Keep an eye on him because he works too hard.” There goes my mom, always the worrier.

“I’ll try my best. I can’t do what he does, schmoozing and boozing. People here are snooty and full of themselves.”

“I’ve been reading gossip about those different drivers. Men like Liam Zander and Noah Slade pop up all the time, and you should see what women say about them. Don’t get me started on Jax, that man has trouble following him like a bad smell.” Her voice fails to hide her disdain. I don’t ask for more information because gross details don’t interest me.

“Be careful what you read. They can start spinning stories about Santi one day. Reporters are aggressive. And they love an interesting story, whether it’s true or not.”

“Have you met his teammate?” She can’t conceal her curiosity about Noah, and I can’t blame her.

“Yeah, he’s not as terrible as stories claim. But he’s still the ass who thought I was Santi’s girlfriend.”

“Que bruto. Someone should’ve raised him better, given him extra love and attention. That must’ve been embarrassing for him.”

“I think that’s his problem. It must be such a lonely life for him, screwing around with whomever and having no one to celebrate wins with. His own family barely comes to the races. Like his dad visits a few times a year, his mom even less. Makes me wonder if there is more to this show he puts on. I doubt he even realizes it though, especially when people like him always think they’re happy until they aren’t anymore. But who knows, I’m speculating, and it’s not fair to judge.” Unfiltered words rush out of my mouth.

“Cuídate. Behind the glitz and glam, people live with lies and unhappiness.”

I change the topic, not wanting to talk about Noah anymore. It feels wrong to expose the small truth he shared with me last night about his parents. My mom and I catch up on plans for the weekend, and not soon after, I hang up the phone and go back to the hotel.