[**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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Amelia pressed her face to the car window and tried not to inhale any of Connor's fig-and-prosciutto aftershave, which was — and she said this with all the love in the world — truly a crime against humanity.
Palm trees and designer outlets whizzed by the window, a blur of candy-coloured shopfronts. Two women in silver dresses stumbled out of a casino. A security guard was running a metal scanner up and down a man's body in front of a restaurant. She'd been to Monaco four times before — all for F2 races — but the glitz and glamour of it always amazed her.
"Oh, my god," Connor said. "Is that woman milking a goat?"
Amelia didn't look. "Bullshit."
Connor sighed. "Damn."
This, Amelia reflected, was one of their favourite games: the "made-you-look" game. They'd invented it on a road trip three years ago. The statements ranged from believable ("Is that a one-eyed dog?") to outlandish ("Is that Brad Pitt breaking into Costco at two o'clock in the morning?"). The more outrageous the claim, the more points you scored; at the end of each month, the loser bought drinks.
Amelia shifted in her seat. "Shame. That would have been a three-pointer."
"What's your score again?" Connor asked.
"Twenty-three."
"Damn." He sighed. "I'm at twelve this month."
Amelia turned away from the window. "There are still a few days left in May."
"Not enough," Connor said gloomily. "I might as well order your bottle of whisky now."
He took a swig from his one-litre carton of orange juice. The carton had, Amelia noted, magically appeared at some point during their car ride from Cannes to their hotel. She was convinced it was sorcery.
Amelia turned back to the window; a train of cyclists wove along the glimmering blue sea, their heads bent close to their handlebars. A lump rose in her throat. Her mother had always wanted to go cycling in Monaco; she used to sit on their porch with a glass of white wine, flipping through trail routes and National Geographic magazines. Her legs — tanned from the knees down, her thighs pale from the cycling shorts — would sway back and forth as she thought. Her bike was always nearby. Freshly polished. Gleaming.
That, Amelia recalled, was what the paramedics said her mother had asked first after her crash: how's the bike?
She'd died in the hospital six days later.
Amelia rubbed the tattoo on her neck. Connor lay his head on her shoulder as they pulled up to the hotel.
"Hey," he said. "You okay?"
Amelia ruffled his hair. "Never better. Let's go."
They jumped out of the car. Silver flashes exploded like lightning, and Amelia tugged her baseball cap lower, making a beeline for the hotel. Connor paused to wave. If Noah was here, Amelia thought, he would know the name of every reporter. He would stop to ask them how their new baby was, or whether they'd tried that Thai green curry they were thinking about making last month.
