RED CARS | charles leclerc (eng)

11

Charles didn't think the apartment would be this far from the nightclub. She had promised him that it would not be any longer. That it would only take about twenty minutes to get to her house, but now he was getting tired. He could hardly feel his legs. The Frenchwoman hadn't spoken for a few minutes, so the path seemed to take forever. Before embarking on the journey, she had told him which way to go, but he felt like he had passed through the same streets several times. She had told him that they had to cross the main square, walk up a street and get to his yellow building. Alcohol and fatigue were not to help. However, he had passed through the square three times. He definitely didn't understand where he needed to go. He could feel Raphaëlle's breath on the back of his neck, she hadn't been calm at the beginning of the ride, so he imagined she had fallen asleep. For the first five minutes, she had told him about the race. This had led to a deep discussion between the two. She told him that she didn't understand anything, and that even though Emiliano had tried to explain to her how the weekends worked, she definitely didn't like the sport. Charles laughed and asked her to elaborate on what she said, and she began to explain her opinion of the race. He realized that she had paid attention to their stable, and he was very proud of that. Her weekend had been a success, and if she had to come back to enjoy watching the sport, it would be with pleasure. The touch of the dark-haired man had been soothing, relaxing, and all the tension she had accumulated from this long day had been released as she sniffed the Monegasque's perfume. Her hands were barely holding him, at first she had been a little worried, she was worried that he would let her down. Now it was a different story, he even leaned forward a little to make sure she didn't slip. He walked up and down the backstreets of the city, hoping by chance to find the right building. It would be best if it was without waking her up. Bologna had never seemed so big.

"'There it is!'  He had jumped of surprised, she had just shouted in his ear. He didn't know how long it had been since she had woken up. His vivacity had been enough for him to lose his balance. "Thank you Charles."

She had tried to get off, which he had refused. Claiming that she would be too tired to climb the stairs to her apartment. She didn't believe it, she was pretty sure she could get there safely. The Monegasque didn't want to hear anything, he had asked him for the keys to unlock the heavy door to the hall. The slightly dusty tiles had almost made him slip, but he had regained his balance on the beautiful wooden staircase. Some steps creaked, he sincerely pitied the neighbors. The wood was worn, aged, and so noisy. The Frenchwoman was dozing off again, even though she was fighting to stay awake. Charles' masculine smell was restful. It smelled like a strong perfume, the kind she didn't usually like to try in beauty stores. But, it suited her so well that she felt rested. She had no doubt about the pilot's ability to carry her there. The Frenchwoman wasn't necessarily comfortable with her body, she didn't usually appreciate Emiliano wearing it, for fun or even short distances. Raphaëlle didn't really like what she exuded, she knew how to put herself forward but was far from the standards she followed on social networks. The bodies of models that paraded every day on his phone, that had been the case for years. During her studies, they had studied the image of these women, what they did to achieve this dream physique and the image she projected. That's all she'd seen tonight, hundreds of women who looked alike, each as beautiful as the next. But one thing struck him as surreal: they looked alike. To him, it was terrifying. Around all the pilots, there were always two or three women, sometimes it was more than friendly, even Lance had the right to his company. She didn't feel up to it. Even now, she was in no way like these other women. She was not an actress, singer, or model. It wasn't half the weight of the pilots. Quite the opposite. She didn't even know how to stand on her heels for an entire evening. Fortunately, Charles had not given any thought. He hadn't considered his weight, or his first refuses. He had left her no choice, she was in pain, he was ready to help her. She must have been drunker than he was, so he had to do her a favor. Even though his legs were starting to get tired. After yet another walk, which had squeaked under their weight, he had arrived at the Frenchwoman's apartment.

"'Raphaëlle, will you give me the keys?'She hadn't moved, he could still feel the heavy breath on her neck. He'd purposely shaken her a little, she'd growled. "Raphaëlle,... Please...She still hadn't answered, he'd glanced over her shoulder, hoping she wasn't asleep. Which it was in the end. "You're not making my life any easier." He'd pulled it up on his back, which made him growl again.

"'Hm...' He'd bounced her again, she'd woken up. When she saw her front door, she got the message. She had leaned on the pilot's shoulder, leaning back a little to reach for his bag, he had almost lost his balance, despite this, she had managed to grab his bunch of keys. "Lean forward, I can't reach the lock."