A SECOND CHANCE MAY BE TOO HOT TO HANDLE
They say there are no second chances, and for Lily Onassis, ever since she walked away from Formula World driver Max Becker, she's considered this true. Instead of a glitzy, glamorous life on the auto racing...
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LILY
"I can do this." As I speak aloud, I clutch the string of komboloi, or Greek worry beads. Dad bought the strand for me years ago, a little trinket he'd picked up during a trip when I was having a difficult time with exams in college.
Over the years, I'd nearly loved them to death, the azure blue of the beads shiny and familiar in my fingers.
"I am stronger than I think."
I take a deep breath and stare into my hazel eyes in the mirror. The dark circles underneath are barely hidden by the tube of concealer I found in my purse. I tuck the beads into my purse and swipe on some lip balm. Gah. I look haggard.
"I am worthy just as I am."
I release the breath into a long sigh as my phone lets out a shrill ring in the other room. Back when I worked at the video game development company, I'd said these mantras to myself every morning before I went into the office, in hopes they'd change something, anything, about the terrible working conditions.
They hadn't, but I'd continued to repeat my mantras until the day I was fired. Since then, I'd gotten out of the habit, assuming my mantras were merely rubbish. Now that I'm faced with getting my father back to health and running his Formula World team, I figure I need all the help I can get. So it's mantras and worry beads every morning from here on in.
I can do this.
In the living room portion of the palatial suite, I scoop up my cell. It rings while it's in my hand. Since five this morning, the phone's been blowing up with texts, calls, and emails. Almost all are from reporters wanting to know what's going on with my father, with me, the team.
It's the part of this whole situation that I want to hide from, but can't. Eventually I'll have to give a news conference, but I'd rather do it after talking with Dad and his doctor this morning. Knowing Dad's prognosis will give me the strength to tackle everything else. I'll also need to get the team's PR department on board. Dammit, I probably should've done it last night.
Everything happened so quickly, though. Even now, it feels like a long, bad nightmare.
This call is different, though, because I know the number and the person on the other end. I answer after the fourth ring.
"Anh," I cry.
"Sweetie, are you okay? I'm so sorry. How is Adrian?"
The lilting accent of my longtime friend is a balm to my ears. I'd met Anh de Havilland when I was an intern and she was a grid girl, holding umbrellas over drivers and stunning the world with her Vietnamese-French beauty. Now she's in charge of hiring the grid girls — they're called promotional models now — for all the races, employed by the company that owns the rights to Formula World.
"He's okay. I'm going to visit him. Where are you? I was going to come find you yesterday, but time got away from me."
"Mais oui. I'm in Austin, I had to fly here early because two girls are out and I need replacements. I have a long day of tryouts and interviews. Are you coming? I heard the news that you are in charge of your father's team."
