Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

He clasps my hand in his, ice pack long forgotten. My pulse quickens at the contact. I tell myself it must be because his hand is freezing from the ice, the cool touch jolting my body. It has nothing to do with our connection. Right?

I try to pull my hand away, but he holds on, his calloused fingers brushing against mine. My skin tingles where his thumb lazily rubs against my hand.

“Listen. Let’s forget what my dad said. No need to give attention to a

piece of shit who gets mad when I don’t place first. He’s irrelevant and barely shows up anymore, that is unless it’s convenient for him and his bank account.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I barely pay attention to what he says. My eyes stay pinned on his tan hand engulfing my small one, his thick thumb brushing against my bony knuckle in a mindless pattern.

The room warms as tension thickens, choking me as it wraps around my head and my heart. His silent confession about the race feels like too much between us. I don’t want to share secrets together, opening myself up even more to him, a point we can’t turn back from.

But he doesn’t need to admit anything to me. He threw his chance at winning today, from a quick gaze and a bob of his Adam’s apple. Label it a sixth sense for bullshit.

Relief fills me when his hand stops caressing mine. I finally breathe easier, gaining the mental clarity to tug my hand away.

“I better get going. I’m going to dinner with my family before the after-party. Maybe we will see you there.”

I lean over him and give him a kiss on his non-red cheek. His breath catches at the touch while my lips tingle at the contact, lingering a second too long.

I bounce out of my seat and reach for the door handle before he can react.

He remains sitting on the couch, unphased, except for a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. If I didn’t know him then I would have missed it. But we’ve spent two months together, and I’ve been learning his ticks, the tells he gives when no one watches him.

“See you later. Thanks…for coming over. And the ice pack.” He repeats the same jiggle I did earlier. I laugh at his ridiculousness, blue eyes lighting up when they land on me.

“No problem.” I don’t bother looking over my shoulder as I softly shut the door.

Noah doesn’t show up to the main after-party. I hate to admit it feels off without him there, missing how he entertains me while Santi and Sophie are busy.

During the party, it hits me how much trouble I’m in. A cardinal sin has been broken.

I think I like Noah Slade.

14

Maya

Monaco. The ultimate racing Prix to attend. Bandini’s week is packed with events before the world-famous Monaco Grand Prix, known as one of the oldest races in F1 history, fueled by wealth and luxury. Celebrities from all over the world come to attend. Yachts litter the sea, glittering under the bright sun as I observe from our hotel room.

The Bandini team schedules a week packed with boat trips, interviews, galas—you name it, they have it. Which means I get to go, too. My supportive sister role has no bounds, and although I usually try to avoid these types of events, I don’t complain about this race week.

Because not even I can resist a party with one of the Kardashians.

Monte Carlo is the coolest place ever. Pictures don’t do it justice; they’re unable to capture the picturesque shoreline and old-world feel. I can’t believe Santi wants to buy an apartment here. We picked one out earlier in the week before he got busy, a modern two-bedroom overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I can tell the stress is getting to him. He seems edgier than usual, getting heated at smaller things, like when I left my makeup all over the bathroom counter. Monaco’s race is a big deal and he feels pressure from Bandini to perform well. It doesn’t help that this Prix happens to be one of Noah’s best, a place where his racing skills shine.

What exactly am I doing on a Tuesday in Monaco?

I’m on a boat.

Bragging isn’t something I usually do. But come on. This is Monaco… By boat, I mean one that is at least a hundred feet long, the white fiberglass gleaming under the hot summer day. But I don’t ask the owner about footage because that’s rude and not high class.

And I want to be posh and proper this week.

My body lies on a lounge chair on the front deck of the McFloating Mansion. I already toured the four different floors, drank a cocktail on the back deck, and did a vlog interview with my brother while breathing in the crisp ocean breeze. Talk about living my best life this week.

I grab a sunscreen bottle out of my bag because my skin is warming under the intense sun. Noah, a man with impeccable timing, decides to plant himself in a lounge chair next to me.