Off the Track Series, Book 1
Amelia has a last name that opens doors. A last name she didn't ask for, but can never shake. A legacy. Legacy be damned, she wants to make it on her own. And she has. After years at EPSN, she lands the job of a lifetime...
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I'm up to my eyeballs in tequila. And why shouldn't I be? The dream I've been working to achieve for well, my entire life came true today. The second I got the phone call, I called Carmen because this damn well deserved a party and if I knew anyone in Monaco that knew how to bring the party it's her.
I met Carmen years ago in the paddock. She stuck out like a sore thumb in between laps - Because she was working. Most the women in the paddock bar couldn't tell you the difference between ETF and DTF, but Carmen? A certifiable finance genius and all while looking like she just stepped out of the pages of a Ralph Lauren magazine.
Which is how I find myself clad in a celebratory way too little leather black dress I made my way through the floor to the private area I was told meet at where I am bound to know little to nobody present. Thank fuck I pregrammed.
"Hi! Amelia Ferrari" I greeted the security at the door and he skimmed his list.
"Ferrari?" I cut him off, immediately knowing where this was going.
"Sure am." I wink and brush past the door he's pulled ajar.
A last name like Ferrari always opened doors.
But tonight I don't want to think about that, I just want to party. Carmen is nowhere in sight, but she didn't disappoint. Our room is open and overlooking the throng of dancers illuminated by strobe lights below us and it's an absolute crush of people on both sides.
With the pre-season testing starting in a matter of days, this was the perfect time for most involved with formula one to blow off that last bit of steam before the season. Eyes floating over the room I recognize a handful of people, Lando, Max, Charles and Pierre. That means George wasn't far. To the bar then!
The two shots of tequila I downed before the Uber arrived are fueling my confidence as I saunter up to the bar in a room full of strangers. I'm going to need at least one more before I can convince myself to start talking to strangers or escape to hit the dance floor.
"Three shots of Patron, no training wheels." I ask the darkly bearded bartender with a smile. I have a thing for tequila, and odd numbers. But hey, we all have our quirks right?
"Sure thing hon. Pull that little dress of yours down and I'll put them on the house." His response wipes the smile right off my face. The last two years in New York City hardened me to many kinds of creeps, but this guy was taking it pretty far at first glance.
"I'd rather pay." I keep my voice cool and even. It takes more than one slimy comment to shake me.
He's back in seconds with glasses, the bottle and a mischievous glimmer in his eye. "Fine then. For every drink a question," He doesn't ask, he demands and slides me my first shot "What's your name?"
"Piper." The lie rolls off my tongue with ease. Papá taught me at an early age to never give your real name when you're up to no good. People don't sell pictures of drunk Piper to the press. But Amelia Ferrari they do. And my papá never took kindly to bad press on the family.
