Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 30: Seb

Late-night American television isn't much of a distraction. The local news is plain depressing, and the talk-shows just try to spin the same thing with humor. I snap the TV off. No thanks. By now, there's only an hour left. Should I just go? Would Lauren send me away if I were an hour early? I'm so goddamned antsy, I get up from the bed and pace. No, I said twelve, and I'm sticking to it. But that wouldn't happen for—I check my wristwatch again—another fifty-three minutes.

I ball my fists and grunt. What the hell am I doing? Is a girl worth this much frustration? I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, recalling a particular moment in the garage just hours ago. Lauren had just made 3Prix history, but she headed straight for me. In spite of her happiness, she still cared about my disappointment. All the other girls I've known before her were never like that. I may have been treated like a king during times of victory, but it was a proverbial drought when the wins stopped.

I open my eyes and grin. Hell yeah, she's worth it.

Grabbing my laptop, I find a stream of the race. I usually wait a few days to analyze the would've, should've, could haves, but this time I'm less interested in my own performance. Luckily the broadcast director also knew that Lauren was worth watching, and much of the coverage is focused on her. She fell back a few spots at the start, but she maintained her position and held off some pretty solid attempts at being overtaken for the next twenty-five laps.

I fast-forward through the part where I advanced on Diego. It literally just happened, so I don't need to relive how everything went to shit. Two laps later, the checkered flag comes down on Butler. Stopping the feed, I minimize the window and glance at the computer's clock. Oh, shit. It's two minutes past twelve.

I jump out of bed, tap my pocket for the room key and am almost out the door when I turn. Damn, almost forgot something. Running into the bathroom, I rummage around in my toiletries bag and pull out a box. I take out a foil-packed condom and search for the expiration date. It would be just my luck if it had expired. Phew. Still good. Sticking it into my pocket, I look at the box again. What the hell. I pull out two more and put those away, too. Better prepared than not, right?

Leaving the room, I head for the lift, but even after I press the call button, the light is stuck five floors up for what feels like forever. Growing impatient, I look for an exit sign.

Bounding up the steps, the sound of my sports shoes echoes in the stairwell. When I get to Lauren's floor, I have to stop to catch my breath. I'm a premiere athlete. I shouldn't have trouble with two flights of stairs. Is it nerves? Chill out, I tell myself. You've done this before. Then why am I so excited as if it was the first time?

Heading down the hall, I mentally read the numbers on the doors I pass. 315 on the right. 316 on the left. 317 on the right. And finally, 318 on the left. I stop. Raising my fist, I knock three times. At least ten seconds pass with no answer. Maybe she didn't hear? I knock again.

Nothing.

Well, fuck. Did I just get stood up? Sticking my hands in my pockets, I turn and walk toward the lift. It's closer than the stairs, anyway.

Maybe her tears in the garage this afternoon were just out of pity. Maybe she remembered she was still mad at me for something. Maybe she decided that what could very well be a one-night stand wasn't worth it. As I round the corner, I nearly get run over.

"Lauren?" I look down at the girl who bumped straight into me. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a t-shirt and tiny shorts, she looks just as surprised to see me as I her. "What are you doing out here?" I ask the obvious for the lack of a better question.

"Oh my god. It wasn't you," she says with relief, rubbing her forehead. "I accidentally fell asleep then I thought I heard knocking, but by the time I opened the door no one was there. I thought I missed you so I ran to the elevator, but everything was empty so I went all the way to the other end of the floor—"