[**ON HIATUS**]
Noah Wood is a Mercedes driver. Scrappy, charming, and far too handsome, Noah is one of the best drivers on the grid. But a newcomer is threatening to steal his seat, and Noah must win this year's Grand Prix - or risk being booted ou...
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Amelia Cartwell stared at the burning heap of rubber and wondered how her life had fallen apart quite so rapidly.
She crouched down, inspecting the tire. Minor degradation near the top. Puncture to the left side. And — if Amelia was completely honest with herself — the truck that it was attached to was a pile of shit. A lovable pile of shit, in her opinion, but a pile of shit nonetheless.
As if it had heard her, the Vixen let out a high-pitched whining noise. Amelia patted the side of the lime-green truck.
"Sorry," she muttered.
The whining noise stopped.
She rose, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her phone buzzed: three missed texts from her Alpine teammate, Cedro. The first one was sent thirty-two minutes ago.
Just arrived. Meet you outside?
Ten minutes later.
Okay. I'm going inside.
Just now.
Where the hell are you? Trek's getting tetchy. I'm talking "shouted-at-an-intern-to-find-doughnuts" tetchy.
Amelia sighed. Trek was their Team Manager, and he had the patience of a CEO stuck in a Starbucks queue at 8:59 am. He also wore sunglasses indoors, ate powdered peanut butter with a spoon, and thought that Top Gun was the greatest film of all time. Nobody knew if Trek was his first name or his surname, and Amelia had never been brave enough to ask.
Coming, she wrote back. Flat tire.
A ding.
Unflatten it, Cedro had written. And quickly.
She pocketed her phone, shielding her eyes against the March sunshine.Rural Oxfordshire was a blanket of green fields, broken only by the occasional stone house and winding road. It would take ages for a tow truck to arrive. Even worse, the tow truck driver might recognize her, Amelia thought grimly; the BBC had plastered her face all over the Internet with headlines like, First Female F1 Driver Makes History.
A lovely sentiment.
But it meant that if the tow truck driver sold her out to the tabloids, then she was in for one hell of a media storm. She could see the headlines now: Female F1 Driver Can't Change Her Own Tire, and The Irony is Killing Us.
Amelia hopped into the driver's seat, trying to ignore the way the flannel interior smelled faintly of burning rubber. She'd normally ring her father for a lift. Or even one of her three brothers. But they were all out of town on a spa holiday, which left only one option.
