Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

The crowd stirs with enthusiasm as pit mechanics prepare for the Chinese Grand Prix. Team members huddle around the cars, conducting engine checks and ensuring everything looks good to go. It’s chaotic yet organized all at once. Hundreds of people help run the operation, from feeding drivers to running electrical tests on Bandini cars.

Noah goes through his solitary pre-race ritual. I don’t blame him for his preference, with the immense amount of pressure during every race. Plus, how draining fans and crowds can be. Santi and I hang out while he signs hats and gear for fans. He likes how I keep him company, telling me it eases his pre-race jitters. Whatever works for him.

I enter the suite area, silence welcoming me since most of the crew work in the garage, making sure the cars are in top condition for the race.

On my way to the bathroom, I slam into a firm body, confirming how running into people is becoming my specialty. A hand grabs my arm and steadies me. My eyes land on Noah’s face, his deep blue eyes piercing mine. His hand remains on my arm while goosebumps break out across my skin.

I sigh at the contact, not liking these uncontrollable physiological responses. “I’m so sorry, I should watch where I am going.” First Sophie, now him.

He pulls down his headphones. “No problem. These halls are pretty tight.” His voice rumbles. Why can’t he have a nasally voice that throws me off, something to take away part of his sex appeal? I doubt it’s too much to ask.

My eyes have a mind of their own, taking a quick peek at his body because I lack self-control. His race suit fits snugly against him, emphasizing his muscular form, the vibrant red color flattering his tan skin. My eyes close in a useless effort to try to rid the image of him. I wish Santi had an unattractive teammate because I’d describe this experience as the worst kind of punishment.

“Have to get used to how busy it is around here on race days. What are you up to in there? You always seem quiet.” I point my head in the direction of his door.

He taps his headphones. “I listen to music and get in the mental state for racing. Give myself a pep talk and work out.”

“You need a pep talk? I can’t believe it. I thought the fantastic Noah Slade could do no wrong, with no feat too scary.” I look up at the ceiling wistfully as I place a hand on my heart.

His smirk falls, but he recovers quickly. “Even the best need to get motivated. We drive cars at super speeds, so it can still be intimidating as fuck.”

His arm grabs mine again and pulls me toward the wall. An attendant runs by, hands full of car parts and bags.

“Gotta be careful around here. You’re small enough to be run over by a cart or something.”

I look up into Noah’s eyes and immediately regret it. His shade of blue easily becomes my favorite, reminding me of Barcelona’s coastal waters.

“Good to know. I’ll leave you to it then.” My hand taps on his headphones before I turn toward Santi’s room. I need distance from him, anything to break his arm away from mine.

“Wait.” A calloused hand strokes my arm again, heating my skin where his touch lingers. Noah’s lack of personal space frustrates me. His touchiness overwhelms me and overrides my brain, making me crave him. My body refuses to follow my brain’s memo about Noah being bad news.

“Uh…” I can’t form logical sentences while his hand lingers on my arm.

Not sure where this is going, a feeling of uneasiness flows through me.

Noah speaks up. “Why do you spend time with your brother before races? It’s distracting.”

I blink once, twice. And one more time for good measure. Okay then, who died and made you king?

His fingers trace patterns on my skin like he didn’t say something rude. I doubt he grasps how his words come across to others. Why would he when he always gets what he wants anyway, and is never told the words no or please. Entitled prick.

Dislike rolls through me at the response my body has toward him, the way my heartbeat picks up at his touch, and how it ignites something inside of me. I stare at his hands and will them away. He has strong hands that look large enough to dominate. Ones I want to feel on me, touching and squeezing.

My physical restraint around him is commendable. I deserve my own trophy and champagne shower, especially when his intoxicating clean scent confuses me. He makes it challenging to think about anything but him.

“It’s not disturbing to my brother and that’s who matters to me. No offense.” My breathy voice doesn’t pack the punch I intend. I blame Noah’s stupid hands for disrupting my brain cells, making me unable to form coherent sentences.

“I can hear you through the walls sometimes, your laughs included. Must be fun in there.”

My body tenses at his admission. He sounds sincere. Maybe even wistful? I can’t tell if I am imagining things, guessing emotions that could be wrong.

“I’ll be sure to keep my voice down and not laugh too much. Don’t want to disturb the Champ and all.” Sarcasm packs a blow this time around. High five to myself.

I confidently gaze into Noah’s eyes again as he lets out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

A little too late for that.

My gaze remains on his face, silently encouraging him to continue. I can wait for apologies.

“I’m not used to you or Santi being here. It’s usually quiet on race days. My old teammate was like me; he typically listened to music and worked out. He took naps too. I don’t mean to make you feel bad about it so please don’t take it the wrong way.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

He comes across genuine at least. His hand runs through his hair, making the dark strands stick up everywhere. A typical look for him. I smile at his state of disarray, aware I’ve found Noah’s nervous tick. Who would have guessed the hotshot had one?

“It’s okay. I don’t want to be distracting for anyone either. I’ll keep it down.” I offer a sincere smile.

“All right, thanks.” He turns toward his door.

“Noah,” His name rolls off my tongue, prompting him to look over his shoulder. “Good luck today.”

“Thank you.”

Part of my heart melts at the sight of him winking before he closes the door.

I lean against a wall and wait for my heart to stop racing. Once I finally relax, I enter Santi’s room again.

Liam leads the group today with pole position. Finally, a change of pace from Noah’s usual P1 spot, with my brother as runner-up, and Noah in P3. A third-place qualifier for Mr. Slade. What a tragedy. Bandini and McCoy outperform other racers every time, which seems unfair since money makes all the difference in a sport like this. Top teams hire the best engineers and crew. A couple others follow close behind, working toward upper grid positions and better cars.

Racers take off down the course once the lights fade from above the grid. The smell of fuel fills the air, strangely calming me. My hands clap as cars drive by. I love standing near the track’s safety fence, feeling the vibrations of the engines as the cars rip past the lane, metal rings trembling underneath my fingers as I clutch the barrier.

On TV, cars may look like they hit normal speeds. But in person, F1 race cars rush past in a blur of colors and a burst of air, the roar of engines rivaling the crowd’s cheers. My dark waves blow in the wind as Bandini’s red cars fly by. The fast pace makes it difficult to tell which car Noah drives versus Santi, making me tune in to the speakers for race standings. Sparks fly as cars brush up against the pavement. Others cruise by, a mix of colors ranging from gray to pink. Race car models vary from sleek to clunky. I film the event from the sidelines today, wanting to stand at a popular turn overlooking the finish line.

No significant hiccups occur within the first twenty minutes. During the twelfth lap, a driver runs into a barrier, his car hitting protective blockades. Water splashes against the road from exploding plastic jugs. The driver unbuckles himself and yells expletives before throwing his helmet. He ends up kneeling next to his wrecked car, his body tense and shaking. Fans underestimate how emotional racers get when they crash. A failure to complete a Prix. After all the hard work and sacrifices from the team, they retire with no points for the Championship.

I turn my camera back toward the racetrack, getting fantastic shots of McCoy and Bandini cars rushing by, metal frames nearly touching as they try to pass each other. The howl of the engines brings a smile to my lips.

Liam and Noah fight it out for first and second place throughout the forty laps. Excitement has yet to wear off after the first hour of watching them compete against each other, the crowd’s still yelling chants and cheers. My legs cramp at standing for an hour and a half. In hindsight, I should have packed a chair and snacks.

By lap fifty, my brother tails Noah’s race car. Santi’s defensiveness keeps me on edge. I grip the fence as they careen down the track, Noah holding his lead. Santi’s car hangs uncomfortably close to Noah’s. Too freaking close. During a straight stretch, my brother speeds up before he swerves while trying to get around Noah.

I gasp as the front wing of my brother’s car hits the back of Noah’s race car. Santi spirals out behind him, both cars trembling as they drag across the pavement. My brother has crashed into Noah at about one hundred and eighty miles per hour. The Bandini cars spin around like two red yo-yos across the track, the drivers unable to do anything about the loss of control. My stomach lurches. The crowd quiets and listens to the grating sound of metal, a path of sparks and smoke trailing behind the Bandini cars. Their cars finally stop near a side barrier. Smoke plumes from both engines and billows up into the blue sky.

Shit. Noah and Santi climb out of their cars. The safety team ensures that the drivers remain uninjured while a tractor picks up the messed-up Bandini cars with a crane. Noah flails his arms around at my brother. He throws his helmet off to the side while he grabs my brother by the race suit and pushes him. My brother catches his footing before he falls over.

I take in a deep breath, relief rushing through me that they both are safe. The risk of crashing always hangs over the heads of drivers in this sport. Some have died during crashes like today. But most racers get out of their cars unharmed because of all the safety precautions like fireproof race suits, helmets, and the bar above the car that protects the driver from barrel rolls. This crash proves why F1 has safety protocols in the first place.

The broadcaster announces how Noah and Santi will retire for the Prix, the worst news for the Bandini team. A major loss since neither racer will receive points for the Constructors’ Championship. Plus, it’s a strike against my brother’s confidence.

I wait for them in the pit suites, in the same hallway where I ran into Noah earlier. Noah and Santi make their presence known the moment they enter.

“What the fuck were you thinking? What type of reckless, amateur shit are you trying to pull here? That crappy move cost us everything today.”

My body stiffens at the way Noah talks to my brother. I peek around the hall’s corner, wanting to get a look of the scene. Noah’s back faces me while my brother looks furious, a rare happening for him. He has flushed cheeks, narrowed eyes, and pinched brows.

My brother’s eyes flare. “I already said I’m sorry twice, Slade. Do you want to kiss and make up?”

Last-name dropping and the sarcasm dripping from Santi’s voice is never a good sign.

“If you want to prove your worth, try to do it without crashing a million-dollar car. It’ll serve you better in the long run. But if you wanted to ride my cock, all you had to do was ask nicely.” Noah’s hard voice carries through the halls.

“Fuck you. You act like your God’s gift to Earth. Newsflash, I’ll beat you one day and so will everyone else. Get over yourself.”

My eyes strain and I press a hand against my mouth. Noah doesn’t respond. He turns toward my hiding place in the hallway and practically runs me over on his way to his room. His hands grab onto me, stabilizing my body before I topple over.

Dull eyes and rosy cheeks greet me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles before shutting the door to his room.

My heart squeezes at how unhappy he looks. I don’t want to feel bad for him because he acts like a dick to my brother, but I can’t help pitying him. It sucks how my brother made a stupid move that has severe repercussions for the team. Points aside, morale between these two can’t be lower.

I enter Santi’s suite to sit on the couch when Noah’s phone rings next door. He rarely gets phone calls, so I can’t fight my curiosity. I try my best not to listen in on what happens in his suite. And by trying my best, I mean I currently have a cup held up against the wall to try to amplify the noise. All I get are muffled words. A pretty unsuccessful spy mission if I do say so myself, my ears only catching a few words like father and crash.

Santi comes into the room while I google how people use glasses to eavesdrop. He eyes the empty cup in my hand curiously but doesn’t mention anything about it, choosing to ignore my playful smile.

Santi plops himself on the couch next to me and lets out a sigh, the defeated look on his face pulling at my heartstrings. His fingers fumble with unzipping his race suit while his feet toe off his sneakers. He puts his head in his hands. The room fills with the sound of his deep breaths in and out.

I give him a few moments before I probe. “How did the talk with the chief engineer and Noah go?”

I learn from my mistakes, making sure to keep my voice low enough for Noah to not overhear us.

“Noah’s pissed to say the least. And I get it because I fucked up bad. But I apologized to him the moment we got out of the cars and when we got back here. I hadn’t even seen the footage yet, but I knew it was my fault.”

“He shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone, making a scene. It’s wrong and embarrassing for both of you. And not mature when you already said sorry.”

Okay, the volume of my voice has increased a bit. Noah may or may not be listening in on our conversation at this moment, no thanks to me.

“I screwed him out of a good amount of points. It’s going to take time to recover from that loss. I would be angry too if it were me.” His hands pull at his hair while his face stares at the floor.

“You both are teammates trying to figure each other out. The two of you have different styles of racing, and you need to find your groove and work together.” I root for both of them. For the sake of Bandini and the Constructors, they need to put aside this rivalry between them.

“F1 Corp will make us do a post-race conference together to represent Bandini.” He looks up at me finally. His red-rimmed eyes lack their usual shine, and his sadness makes my heart hurt for him.

I take a deep breath, knowing what I have to do. “I’ll join you. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like you can crash again.”

Famous last words.

The press meeting is not the same as watching Santi and Noah crash in real life. On the racetrack, you can’t see or feel the tension between the drivers. Except for the team radio, but not many people listen in unless the videos end up on YouTube.

See, in a press meeting, all the emotions hang around like unwanted female groupies. Reporters salivate at the idea of these two guys sitting on a duo panel. Tension fills the room like a dense cloud, my brother shifting in his seat while Noah’s gaze focuses on the bright lights in front of him. I cringe at the awkwardness between them. The guys have many cameras on them, making it hard to hide anything.

I take back my previous comments about press conferences being yawn-worthy. I’d take snooze fests over train wrecks any day of the week.

Noah’s jaw ticks when the reporter asks Santi a question.

“It shouldn’t have happened today. Our team lost a lot of points because of it.”

The reporter doesn’t let Santi off easily because good answers don’t sell magazine covers.

“Is it true that the team engineer told you to brake the car and pull off of Noah’s tail, but you didn’t listen?”

My brother moves around in his seat. “I don’t want to discuss it. The team already lost today. It’s bad for us. Do we need to harp on the logistics of how I messed up?”

Noah subtly shakes his head before his sharp eyes look straight ahead. He replaced his tight race suit with a sponsor polo shirt, his hair pressing smoothly against his scalp with not a single dark strand out of place yet. I prefer his charming wickedness over this sad state any day of the week. His arms cross against his chest, bringing my attention toward the ridges of muscle etched into them, tan skin gleaming under bright lights.

I check out reporters around the room, searching for any distractions, but my eyes drift back to the press table and roam over Noah again. Ugh. Why does he have to be my brother’s racing rival?

I shift on my feet, my sneakers scuffing against the slick tile. My attention snaps back to my brother, choosing to ignore my attraction toward Noah because I don’t want to accept those feelings. Instead, I list off all the reasons Noah’s bad news in my head.

It’s way too soon.

I barely know him.

He’s my brother’s teammate. Rival even.

He’s a manwhore with more hookups than all the Bachelor seasons combined.

He looks like he’ll screw with my head as well as he’ll screw me in bed.

Working out all of the reasons why Noah Slade is a bad idea is a useful distraction, keeping me away from the drama ensuing in front of me.

I tune in again when the reporters decide to move their attention to Noah.

“Noah, tell us your thoughts on the situation.”

These reporters decide today is the day for such open-ended inquiries.

“It’s a shitty situation that should have never happened. Santi’s apologized and we are sorry. Our racing team has to fix our mistake and we’re appreciative of their efforts to get our cars up and running for the next race. We love this sport, bad accidents aside. We’re not in it to retire early from the race and go home empty-handed. This is the worst-case example of teamwork, but we’ll work on it.”

He handles questions like a professional. Not bad.

My brother visibly relaxes in his seat, relief evident in his eyes.

My expectations for today didn’t include Noah acting like such a pro. He pushes aside his earlier bad mood in front of the cameras, presenting himself as the ultimate teammate. I can see why Bandini keeps him around besides his talent behind the wheel. His appearance makes it obvious why women gravitate toward him, with him being such a smooth talker, willing to put on a show.

The rest of the conference is dull. I sneak glances at Noah because what is a girl to do during the rest of a boring meeting. He catches me staring at him, making my cheeks flush.

And that wicked smile he sends me when the cameras stop rolling? The one promising more? Yup. I see it.

Oh man, I’m in trouble.