Fast & Hard (The Fast 1)

Interesting. I make a mental note about this theme of taking in strays, might be one good factoid to help counter the thousand negative pieces on him that exist on the internet.

“So, what’s the real reason, Mallory?” He asks. “This is not an easy business to be in. Has to be more than the paycheck.”

I take a deep breath and think for a moment of how to respond. I’m not naive, or drunk, enough to open up to the childhood friend of my arch-nemesis, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to keep the goodwill going. It’s not like I am failing or quitting at this job no matter what Lennox or Celeritas think.

“Dysfunctional families make us all do strange things, I guess.”

Jack nods at me knowingly and thankfully, does not push the issue.

He lifts his beer mug and clinks it against my glass tumbler, “Cheers to dysfunction.”

We have one more round together and then I excuse myself before I say more things that I shouldn’t. I’m the slightest bit buzzed and don’t want to give anyone room to suggest I’m not professional. Plus, I need to dive into all these Facebook and Twitter and Insta accounts tonight. I have a feeling there’s a lot of damage control awaiting me.

A long hot shower later, I’m camped out on my bed in my hotel room, which I do not have to share with anyone else, thank god. My laptop is out and Sandra sent me passwords to all the accounts today so it’s time to get to work. Sandra’s team at headquarters manages the company’s pages but anyone Googling Lennox Gibbes comes across his personal accounts, too, so those are my first priority.

I log in to his Instagram account which he seems to have had enough sense to lock down to private. Still, there are over 6,000 requests to friend him and the direct message icon simply reads “99+”. Oh, joy.

The last photo he posted was actually almost two years ago, but he’s been tagged in hundreds and hundreds of photos. Photos of him driving on track, those are innocent enough. Then there are photos of him with cheerleaders, random women pressing themselves into t

he side of him for selfies and squealing about getting to meet him. A supermodel he was linked to a while back, hanging all over him and kissing him.

Yep, manwhore.

I spend nearly an hour untagging him from all of the posts I can and try not to read too much into the comments because they’re either girls gushing about how much they want to bang him, or they’re comments from armchair critics who leave messages ranging from constructive criticism to suggestions that he drowns himself in Loch Ness.

Social media can be ugly like that, I know all too well. As much as Lennox is a pig and a bully, as much as my other clients have also screwed up, no one deserves total strangers publicly decrying their value as human beings.

I open up Facebook next, his Public Person fan page. He says he doesn’t have a personal account and Sandra says that’s accurate as far as she can tell, so this should be easier and then I can go to sleep.

There are posts I can tell previous nannies, or Publicity Managers, have left more recently. The number of horny women throwing themselves at him compared to angry F1 fans seems to be three to one. I hide a gaggle of comments that the world is better off without, edit some of the previous nanny posts that I think were done poorly, and I make a new post from today’s watch promo shoot.

“What happens when you annoy a clock? It gets ticked off. #LennoxGibbes. The time has come.”

The attached photo features Lennox in a wide power stance, arms crossed over his chest so the watch on his wrist is prominent, and he is staring into the camera like it’s going to get its ass beat. His eyes are emerald green and he looks intimidating as fuck with his forearms and biceps bulging.

Should appeal to the ladies, assuming they have a pulse. I want to avoid this man like the plague and it makes my lady parts tingly. And I think it might register with the race fans who are demanding a comeback. We’ll see how it does overnight.

I cringe as I open up Messenger, knowing there will be more of the same and I am not disappointed. Pleas of bearing his children. Phone numbers galore, from every phone extension on every continent. I’m scrolling and deleting as I go when I almost delete one from Kate Allendale, the supermodel. It looks like it’s from her real personal account and they’re all unread.

Baby, please answer me.

Please answer your phone, we need to talk.

This is stupid, Lennox. I love you.

Did you block my number? WTF.

There are a dozen or so, all unread and unanswered from Kate the Waif, my new name for her, trying to get Lennox to respond. I knew they were linked a year or so ago because there are photos of them everywhere, but this must have been a relationship gone sour. Or else she’s off her rocker and stalking him, which is also a possibility based on the messages I’ve read tonight.

In any case, it feels gross reading what are obviously private comments, no matter that a tiny part of me enjoys gossip as much as the next person. Aria would be squealing if she could see this, that girl is up to date on every celebrity gossip blog in existence.

I have to assume he cheated on her because, let’s be serious, you can’t throw a rock without hitting evidence of his philandering ways. Who cheats on a supermodel?

Lennox Gibbes, apparently.

Six

Lennox