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Chapter 1
Thomas
Two months later, November
Las Vegas, Nevada
It's not easy being the most hated man in motorsport.
Some days, I wonder if I'm exaggerating. I know I'm not the most hated, but I'm definitely in the top five for a lot of people-people who are currently here or will be arriving soon for next weekend's Las Vegas Grand Prix. But then there are days like this one when I have the privilege of experiencing firsthand that I'm definitely not exaggerating.
"Fuck you," the red-faced man in front of me spits, skin almost the same shade as the Scuderia D'Ambrosi kit he's wearing, Lorenzo Castellucci's number emblazoned on the front. "You did this to him. You ruined his life."
Considering I literally wasn't involved in the crash that reportedly left Castellucci paralyzed, the man's facts are a little off. There's no telling him that it was all down to his favorite driver's recklessness, though. I'm public enemy number one, all because of something I said.
I take a breath to settle my nerves and glance over his shoulder, searching for escape routes from this unfortunate conversation, but he's standing between me and the place I need to be-a party bus idling at the curb ten meters away. I didn't think I'd have to face down an angry Castellucci fan before joining a stag do, but this is just my luck these days.
As the other guests climb aboard, I'm trapped on the sidewalk outside my hotel as the man continues his ranting. I can't walk away if I don't want another scathing article hitting the press tomorrow morning, but maybe I should just let him think the worst of me. It's not like Formula 1 is a stranger to scandal, from spying and cheating to shady deals and dirty money changing hands. The sport has a history steeped in it, and we drivers are no different. I can't think of a single one of us, past or present, who hasn't had something blow up in our faces.
Take Dev Anderson and his antibiotic-resistant STD for example, which was a rumor started by his ex-social media manager when she quit in a blaze of fury. It took months and a complete image overhaul to fix his reputation and convince sponsors he wasn't a liability-and that he didn't actually have an STD. There are still some "family-friendly" brands refusing to work with him, all because of the lies that were spread. It was a nightmare situation, and he's still climbing out of the ashes.
But I'd take Dev's fake STD any day over people knowing I wished death upon a fellow driver.
The worst part is that I actually did it. There were no made-up rumors by vengeful ex-employees or edited sound clips to make me look bad. I said what I said, even if I immediately wanted to take the words back. They were blurted in a moment of anger after nearly being killed on-track by the man I was complaining about.
Besides, I've been wrapped up in this world long enough to know that someone is always listening. And in this case, someone in our garage recorded every single furious word that tumbled from my lips. I don't know who was responsible for it being shot and uploaded to social media, but within the hour, it was all over the internet.
It got some attention at the time, and I got my fair share of hate, but it wasn't until the crash in Singapore two months ago that I officially became the most hated man in F1.
I understand why, and I can't fault anyone for it. I may not believe in the whole woo-woo be careful what you speak into existence bullshit, but I know some people do, and they blame me and my outburst for the accident happening. I'm the scapegoat who's getting hourly death threats.
I need to give Dev a call and ask him how he fixed the mess he was in. Maybe I can hire the same social media manager he did, the one who shifted public opinion back in his favor. Last I heard, she's working for Reid Coleman, Scuderia D'Ambrosi's number one driver these days, but I'd say I need her in my corner more than Reid does. Although, considering D'Ambrosi was-is-Lorenzo's team, I don't think they'd take kindly to me poaching her.
The people I have in place are doing their best to make me look a little less like a complete twat, so I can only wait until the next scandal is unveiled and the heat moves off me. For my sake, hopefully someone will show up with a secret baby in the next few weeks. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
"I understand your concerns," I interrupt as diplomatically as I can, desperate to get on the bus. "And I will certainly be more cognizant of my words and actions in the future."
He stares at me like I've grown a second head before the raging begins again, starting with me being a fucking pretentious Brit and ending with a stiff finger repeatedly poking into my chest. All I can do is sigh.
As much as I'd like to run, I doubt there's a safe space for me to go in all of Las Vegas, aside from the McMorris F1 Team motorhome with their top-notch security. I've had to tolerate this in every grand prix location since Singapore-five races of pure torture. Unfortunately, it'll be a few days before I can escape to the protection of my team and the paddock, which means I have to grin and bear this.
I shouldn't even be out tonight. I'm not the Maxwell-Brown sibling who's supposed to be here. It should be Andrew, my older brother and the groom's childhood best friend, but his wife is weeks away from giving birth to their first child. There was no way he'd risk missing it, even for this, so I was volunteered as the next best thing, a stand-in to represent our family at tomorrow's wedding since my race schedule happens to align. I wasn't expecting a stag do invitation to go along with it, but Andrew made it clear I wasn't to say no.
I get a much-needed distraction from being screamed at when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from my best mate. Still alive? Joshua's message reads, and it takes everything in me not to snort as I type back, Currently being accosted, actually. To that he replies, As long as it doesn't end up in the news, you'll be fine.
At least someone cares.
"Are you even listening to me?" the Castellucci fan roars, and I glance up to see he's somehow turned a darker shade of crimson.
To save him from the forthcoming stroke and me from having my mental health destroyed more than it already is, I flash a tight smile and take a large step to the side. "I'm terribly sorry, but there's somewhere I need to be. Take care, yeah?"
There's only a brief moment of silence before he's yelling at my retreating back, but I'm not about to turn around to suffer more of his abuse. Thankfully, he doesn't follow, and then I'm bounding up the steps of the bus, taking a moment once I'm inside to let my eyes adjust to the low light and flashing strobes. Once they do, I freeze.
My brain does its best to compute what I'm seeing. If this is a stag do . . . why are there so many women here? Jesus Christ, why is the bride here?
The answer hits a second later. This isn't just a stag do-it's a combination stag and hen do.
"Sit down, mate!" someone calls over the booming music, and I look down at a man who's glassy-eyed and grinning, a drink clutched in his hand. "Party's starting!"
Looks like it already started. I briefly consider stepping off the bus, weighing whether I would be better off here or on the streets, but the closing doors decide for me.
Just as the bus lurches away from the curb, I squeeze in beside a few other tuxedoed men. I thought it was odd when Ron, the groom, asked us to wear them tonight, and it appears the bride has requested that the women wear white dresses. With the wardrobe choice, any one of us could be the happy couple, although they've accessorized with silk sashes and crowns to differentiate themselves.
I dare to glance around to see if anyone else is as thrown by this turn of events as I am, but everyone seems to be having the time of their lives. Well, no, that's not quite true-there's one woman near the back who looks like she'd rather be run over by the bus than be on it. But even while miserable, she's stunning.
I'm forced to look away from her when a glass of champagne is shoved into my hand and I'm met with chants to chug it down. I do as I'm told, mostly to get the noise to stop, but also because I have a feeling I'm going to need the alcohol to get through tonight.
Guess I'm along for the ride.
Chapter 2
Stella
Joint bachelor and bachelorette parties should be illegal.
The Canadians call them buck and doe parties, but as an American, I just call them a waste of my fucking time. I must have been drunk when I agreed to this, because in no world would I soberly choose to subject myself to sitting on a party bus with a bunch of leering men and screeching women, watching the bride- and groom-to-be paw at each other while leaning against a stripper pole.
I'm barely keeping the grimace off my face as I take it all in, upper lip twitching every few seconds before I press it firmly against my bottom one. I'd be worried about my lipstick smudging if I didn't already know it's practically bombproof, put to the test through rounds of recipe development and tastings. If it can withstand buttercream frosting dolloped on top of a cupcake that you practically have to unhinge your jaw to take a bite of, it can hold up to my sneering.
God, I shouldn't be here. I should have been just stepping off a flight from my honeymoon, glowing after days spent in a Maldives over-water bungalow and getting my back blown out by the love of my life, but that plan went to shit when he left me at the altar. The man literally ran away when it came time to say his vows while I stood there like a mannequin, watching him burst out of the church like a bat out of hell.
Instead, I'm here: on a party bus in Las Vegas, surrounded by forty-odd people I barely know and wishing I could throw myself out the doors and into the street-wishing I'd never brightly agreed when my favorite cousin convinced me to come along to get my mind off my runaway fiancé.
Yeah, I was definitely drunk when I agreed to this. For the first few days after my failed wedding, wine was my best friend. I haven't been much of a drinker lately, so those bold pinot noirs and piss-adjacent chardonnays went straight to my head.
Who knows what else I agreed to during that time. It's a good thing I don't handle the day-to-day business at my company, or else I might be staring down the face of financial ruin. Although, shit, I think I do remember emailing my head chef at an ungodly hour to ask if we could put a red wine-flavored macaron on the menu at Stella Margaux's.
And then there was that little viral video . . .
"Stella!" a high-pitched voice crows from across the bus, dragging me out of my sulking.
It's Daphne, another of my cousins, a woman I wish I could physically remove from our family tree. Her blunt chin-length bob barely shifts when she reaches forward to grab my hand, her bloodred nails perfectly done. She looks like a Black Stepford Wife whose hobbies include witchcraft and eating the souls of children, and if she didn't annoy the ever-loving shit out of me, I'd adore her vibe.
Unfortunately, she's a gossip-hungry monster who I'm pretty sure leaked all the gory details of my wedding-gone-wrong to the press. I would have thought a thirty-five-year-old mother of two and renowned plastic surgeon would have better things to do with her time than talk shit about a jilted bride seven years her junior, but hey, I guess we all have our vices.
"It's so good you made it!" Daphne gushes, dark eyes boring into me. "How are you feeling? Doing okay after . . . everything?"
That seems to be everyone's favorite question these days. I'd love to say that in the two weeks since my fiancé left I've been the best ever. It's what they'd rather hear. But I can't lie, considering the evidence of my despair is splashed all over the internet.
Someone should have taken my phone from me, or at least changed the passwords to my social media accounts. Maybe that would have stopped me from going live on Instagram and drunkenly raving to the world that love isn't real, men are trash, and the French can get fucked.
"I'm getting through the days," I shout over the music. "Super glad to be here, though! So happy for Janelle and Ron!"
She stares at me like she doesn't believe me for a second, but then she flashes a wide, fake smile. Her teeth are so startlingly white and straight that they have to be veneers. God, they look amazing. "Good for you, being out tonight. Gotta get back on that horse!"
"That's right! Just call me a cowgirl!" I quip back, and I immediately want to shoot myself.
She drops my hand when the bus shudders to a stop and excited shrieks go up around us. At the front, Janelle taps on a microphone, trying to get everyone's attention. The sound makes me wince, and I'm tempted to cover my ears, but I don't want to look like that much of a party pooper this early in the night.
"What's up, wedding squad!" Janelle shouts into the mic. "How we doing tonight?"
There are hoots and hollers, and I have to dodge getting elbowed in the face by the woman sitting next to me, who has already gone a little too hard on the champagne. In comparison, I'm still nursing my first glass, despite wanting to grab the nearest bottle and chug it.
"Well, now that I know y'all are enjoying yourselves," Janelle continues, "I thought we'd go over the itinerary for the night."
