Rush: Part One & Two (The Pitstop Series Book 3)

After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight from LA to Monaco, my legs ache, and my feet are throbbing. The latter is not because I spent most of that time sitting, but my brother’s elephant feet stepped on mine as we got off the plane. I scowled at him as soon as it happened, but my childish brother was too busy laughing at a guy whose butt crack was on display. I shoved him off my foot, causing him to lose balance and almost fall. With his eyes wide and in complete shock, he glared at me and cursed. I pointed at the sore area and then flipped him off before walking away.

Now, he’s walking at a noticeable distance behind me, asking why I’m limping. He’s obviously still trying to figure out what happened, but I don’t dignify his questions with a response. I’m too annoyed, and my foot is hurting too badly. After a couple of minutes of me silently walking ahead, I take a deep breath and turn around only to realize he’s disappeared. I frantically search for my phone to call him but quickly give up since it doesn’t have any data yet.

“Adrian!” I hiss, hoping he will hear me. He appears in front of me with a smug smile on his face moments after I first called out his name.

“You look like a child, who lost their parent in a crowd,” my brother says, laughing at his joke.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask angrily, and he cocks an eyebrow.

“I told you I had to go pee, but you were too busy pouting to notice. I’m pretty sure the whole airport knew where I was, except for you, Ms. I’m-limping-for-no-apparent-reason.”

“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” I count down out loud, enunciating each number and probably spitting in his face. When I finally reach ‘one’, I take a deep breath. “So, taxi?” I ask with the fakest smile and chippiest tone in my voice. Adrian wipes my saliva from his face and follows me toward the taxi line outside the airport.Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Grandpa’s house is ten minutes from here,” he informs me nervously for the third time today after telling the driver where to go. I only nod absentmindedly.

A couple of minutes into the drive, we pass the Zoological Garden of Monaco. I vaguely remember my grandfather taking us there once when Adrian and I were still very young. Afterward, we never went again. Adrian detested that the animals were forced into such small cages with nowhere to run. I soon adapted the same mindset.

The Mediterranean Sea captivates my attention next. The landscape is just as breathtaking as I remember it, making me feel guilty for not coming back sooner. I tear my eyes from the water and close them to keep my emotions at bay. The nostalgia is overwhelming.

When I open them again, we are pulling into my grandfather’s driveway, and I suck in a sharp breath. This house represents family. Adrian and I spent most of our childhood here, learning about manners, how to write and read, and who we are.

“Valentina.” Adrian’s voice brings me back to reality, but his hand waving in front of my face doesn’t. I slap it away and glare at him, but he reaches it out again and, suddenly, there is a compassionate expression on his face. My brother wipes away my involuntary tears and forces a smile. “I know. I miss him too,” he admits, leaning toward me and placing a swift kiss against my temple.

Grandfather’s house seems bigger than I remember it. The white columns on the front of the house, including the stone facade, are still the same ones my grandparents had used to build the house. I can feel my heart drop. He left us his home five years ago when he died of lung cancer. Until now, Adrian and I haven’t been able to come back, but half a year ago, we decided to renovate it and move in.

The familiar smell of roses and freshly watered plants hits my nose. The sun burns my skin. I take off my flip-flops before I step onto the lawn and let the feeling of the slightly wet and cold grass envelop my feet. They carry me toward the large front door, which Adrian and the taxi driver patiently wait for me to unlock. We bring the luggage inside and put it in the foyer. Our antique chandelier catches my attention, reminding me of the day my grandfather explained what a ‘chandelier’ is.

“Val, are you okay?” Adrian asks when I don’t move or talk. I nod and feel his hand on my shoulder before he squeezes it comfortingly. My eyes move to the glass doors leading to the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room.

“Are you okay?” I ask him when he studies our house in the same way I am.

“Yes, I’m just feeling a little nostalgic, I guess,” he admits and runs his hand through his dirty-blonde, curly hair.

Adrian and I look a lot alike, too much alike for siblings with a four-year age gap. Our hair is the same color; our eyes are the same combination of green, blue, and a little bit of brown. However, I am pretty short, have a rather large bust and butt, whereas Adrian is pretty much a straight line on feet. Many people think he is too tall to drive in a Formula One car, but he proves them wrong with every race he wins. He and I have the same set of straight teeth, round lips, and small ears. Adrian is a young championship contestant with merely twenty-three years of age. He is a fantastic driver, just like our father and grandfather were.

Formula One is a fast-paced racing sport with twenty drivers competing in the championship. The open-wheeled cars race around unique tracks at a speed of over two hundred kilometers per hour. A specific number of laps have to be completed within a two-hour window for each track, and whoever crosses the finish line first wins. The race weekends are held from Friday to Sunday, with press events and fan meet and greets on Thursdays. The main event is the race, the Grand Prix, on Sunday.

The sport was founded in the United Kingdom, and more than half of the races take place in Europe, making it very Eurocentric. This is why it made sense for Adrian and me to move back to Monaco.

“Want to go out with me tonight? I’m meeting up with some of the other drivers,” he offers, and I smile. As serious as they take their competition, all of the drivers make up a tight-knit community.

“Who is coming?” I inquire with a curious expression on my face.

“James, Leonard Tick, Cameron, and Gabriel.” Gabriel Biancheri… My heart beats faster against my ribcage, but I hide my excitement. Gabriel Biancheri is the goofiest, most compassionate, and most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen. For three years, I’ve had the biggest crush on the Monegasque. He is kind, intelligent, and an incredible racing driver. “Oh, and Gabriel’s girlfriend is also coming,” he adds, and I am no longer excited. I don’t want to see him with that annoyingly beautiful actress girlfriend of his, Kira Delgado. They have been dating for three years, about as long as I have known Gabriel.

“Okay, what time?” Adrian cocks an eyebrow at the change in my mood, but I simply ignore his inquiring look and focus on opening the glass doors to the living room.

“Seven o’clock,” he replies and follows me into the kitchen. The tiles feel cold under my feet.

The kitchen has a modern electric stove in the middle connected to an island, which has three brown leather chairs standing against it. There are brown, wooden cabinets all over the walls, and an oven and a microwave are on the left. My eyes drift to the clock by the oven, and I see it’s only two in the afternoon.

“What do you think we should do?” I look up at my brother and think about his question.

My stomach growls uncontrollably at the thought of food. “It may be better to go grocery shopping,” I tell Adrian, and he winks knowingly at me. A grin spreads over his face, and I furrow my brows.

“Excited to see the cars?” Realization washes over me, and I jump up and down in excitement. We walk to the garage, and my heart explodes into a million pieces. A black 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air stands at the front of the garage, followed by a blue 1973 Ford Mustang. However, Grandfather possessed more than just classic cars. He also bought a white 2014 Audi Q7 and a grey 2014 BMW X6 before he died. I love those cars, both classic and new, although nothing will ever come close to the adrenalin rush I feel when I see an F1 car. “Which one?” Adrian asks, and I point at the Mustang.

With a simple smile, he gets the key and throws it to me. Thanks to years of reflex training to prepare for racing in Formula One, I catch them with ease. Without wasting any time, I get into the baby blue car. My fingers run over the black leather steering wheel, and I sigh when my eyes drift to the air refresher hanging from the inside mirror. It’s the first one my grandfather had ever gotten. He always kept it there as a good luck charm, even after the scent faded. My heart is pounding, and my knees are weak when I turn on the engine of the first automobile I ever drove.

After our trip to the grocery store, I head upstairs and unpack my things. The walls in my old bedroom are a soothing, light blue. My curtains are thick and dark, and my golden-brown wooden bed stands in the middle of the left wall.

I finish unpacking within an hour, making sure to put all my pictures on my nightstand, and sit down at the foot of my bed, staring at the art Grandfather chose not too long ago. The painting of the last Formula One car Dad drove, a much smaller version of Adrian’s Ferrari, stares at me, and my mind drifts to him. A memory I have been suppressing since the day he died appears in my head, and I let it consume my thoughts.

“Daddy, how fast can you go?” I look up at my father, and a bright smile appears on his face. We are walking past tall people, who wear all different kinds of colors. I see blue, yellow, and green. My dad says all teams have a different color, but my favorite is the one he is wearing: red.

“Very fast. At our fastest, almost 300 kilometers per hour,” Daddy explains, and I stare at him, completely mesmerized. My six-year-old brain has no grasp of how fast that is. My daddy stops walking, and someone starts talking to him.

I wait impatiently for the woman to leave him alone so I can ask my next question. “Can I drive one?” He only shakes his head. His blonde hair hides underneath a hat, which has a picture of a black horse on it. Dad calls it the Ferrari symbol, but I call it ‘Champion’, like my daddy.

“It’s too dangerous for children. When you’re older and become the strong woman I know you will be, you can drive one,” he assures me, but I pout anyway. I want to drive one at this moment.

My dad leads me to the bright-red-colored car, and he allows me to touch it. My tiny fingers run over the smooth metal, and I jump when I feel how cold it is. I lift my eyes to look at Dad again, but he is talking to another man. Even though it is very cold, I leave my hand on the car and tilt my head to the side. It is much bigger than the one I sit in when Grandpa takes me karting. It has a long, pointy nose with a mustache at the front, reminding me a bit of my grandpa. It gets bigger where the cockpit is. Adrian calls it the belly, but I like the word ‘cockpit’ better because my daddy and all his friends at work use it. Another word I like is ‘wing’, and it is behind the cockpit. It is the tallest part of the car, a lot taller than me.

I pull on my daddy’s arm. “Not now, Valentina,” he scolds, and I frown. He does this to me a lot. My eyes go back to the car, and I smile. It’s very loud here. I barely heard my dad yell at me before. People run from one side to the other, screaming at each other. Almost everyone has a serious expression on their face. They look like Adrian when he concentrates really hard on coloring inside the lines. I always tell him he can’t do it, and I’m always right. I don’t think he likes my coloring books very much.

I bring my eyes back to the car. It must be a lot of fun to sit in it, but I’m never allowed. Dad doesn’t want me to break anything, which is why I’m only allowed to touch the nose and mustache. I’m not sure what it’s actually called. My dad’s best friend stands next to me, and I poke his leg to get his attention.

“What is that thing?” I point at the mustache. At first, he seems confused, but then he gives me that same weird smile many adults give me.

“That is called a front wing. It makes sure the airflow is redirected so the car can go faster. With the shape of the car and its lightweight, it needs a-” He stops, and I blink cluelessly at him. “Uhm, how can I explain it to you? The air goes… swoosh.” I nod, although I still don’t get it. My eyes stay on the car.

“I’m going to drive you one day,” I whisper right before my dad pulls me away.