Swerve | 𝑷.𝑮.

Part 43

Italics is French

Francesca had watched the podium with nothing by envy.

Knowing that she should've been on that top step, teasing Max for losing out to her on yet another race win and spraying the champagne right in Charles' face just to annoy him.

Instead, she'd been stood a small ways away with Pierre. Watching as her team celebrated Max's first win of the season even more than they had celebrated her three previous wins. Fists clenching at her side from the anger of watching how much more they appreciated her teammate over her and wanting nothing more than to scream and throw her fist into a wall but having to let those feelings bubble away as Pierre held her into his side, his thumb subtly rubbing the skin of her shoulder trying to calm down her anger.

She was still pissed off three hours later.

Despite her DNF, Francesca was making the most out of the club they were in and all of the free alcohol she was managing to score herself.

Her feet ached in her heels from dancing with Max on the dancefloor - because despite her envy over him getting the win, she refused to let anything come between her friendship with him.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the large intake of alcohol and she'd thrown her hair up into a ponytail, sick of having it constantly in her face or getting stuck to her skin.

"WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"

Francesca and Max stood arm in arm in the middle of the dancefloor.

Their throats were roar from the screaming and as they swayed from side to side, some of the other drivers had gathered around them in a circle and were shouting along with them.

"I'm going to get another drink!" Francesca shouts.

"Get me a vodka lemonade!" Max shouts back.

Nodding her head, Francesca moves away from the Dutchman and ducks underneath the now raised arms of Kevin Magnussen and Nico Hulkenberg as they let her out of the circle.

Her heels clicked against the slightly sticky floor, a soft smile coating her lips.

She passed by Pierre who took her hand and spun her around, she planted a quick unthought about kiss on his cheek before continuing towards the bar.

The beat of the music vibrated through the floor and she couldn't help but laugh at the sound of the screaming coming from the dance floor. She cast a look over her shoulder as she finally reached the bar, letting out a small laugh at the sights behind her and accidently making eye contact with Pierre before she turned back around.

Only to find a very angry looking Charles stood a little bit away.

"If you don't stop gripping that glass like its a writhing animal you're going to smash it."

Charles turned his gaze to her, Francesca almost rolled her eyes at the anger in his eyes but held herself back.

The two hadn't spoken since breaking out into an argument in the communal motorhome post race. In all fairness, Francesca had openly called Charles a cunt to his face and he'd retaliated back. But what Francesca couldn't wrap her head around was why Charles had been being a dick to almost everyone ever since.

She'd have completely understood if it was just her he was being an arsehole to.

But it wasn't.

The second they had gotten to the club, he'd told Pierre to fuck off, called Carlos a dickhead and had ignored his girlfriend, Alexandra, for so long that she was now dancing with Lily and Carmen.