Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 3: Lauren (Part 1 of 2)

Thursday, September 5 – Phillip Island, Australia

My pants are so tight, I can hardly breathe. The wind is also whipping into my face, and if it weren't for the scarf the stylist tied over the hot-rollers on my head, my hair would be a mess. Sitting sidesaddle on a scooter and balancing behind a Cadmium staffer whose name I didn't quite catch, I'm pretty sure this wasn't how I had imagined my first time on the Phillip Island Grand Prix Circuit. Then again, this guy probably thought he'd have a glamorous career in motorsports engineering, but instead has the distinct pleasure of ferrying me around the raceway. So it sucks to be both of us right now, I guess.

Of course I hadn't asked for—nor expected—the royal treatment. I would've much rather preferred to get behind the wheel even of this non-performance machine while my race bike was being unloaded from the shipping containers with the rest of the team's gear. Hell, I would have been happy to review technical specs with my crew or even to use the time working out. But apparently spending the last hour in hair and makeup before squeezing myself into the most uncomfortable pair of jeans known to man is a more suitable use of my talents, at least for today.

"I better be getting paid a shit-ton for this," I yell into my cell phone as we putter into the second corner's hairpin turn at a tragically slow pace.

"Acceleration Denim is a team sponsor, so you're contractually obligated to do a campaign for them," Celia says from halfway around the world where technically, I guess it's still last night. "Nobody enjoys the hassle, but it's a necessary evil," she adds.

Up ahead, a half-dozen or so people are gathered in the middle of the asphalt strip around strategically placed lights and reflectors. In spite of the glaring sun, only a few are lucky enough to enjoy the shade of the nearby awning tent.

"I have no say in it?" I try one more time, looking past the bustle of the photoshoot to admire the ocean just a couple of hundred feet away. Only Tasmania stands between this part of Australia and the South Pole, and it's a hella beautiful spot.

"They pretty much have you by the balls on this, kiddo." Celia goes all Godfather on me.

I sigh, sensing defeat, but my mouth won't stop talking. "And you and Dad agreed to this?" The question is more or less rhetorical because I know they both want the best for me. Celia is also a respected sports agent, so she definitely knows what she's doing. As a former youth rider in her day (she hates it when I refer to her past like that), she only missed going pro because of an epilepsy diagnosis. She has her seizures mostly under control now, but I think managing the careers of her clients lets her vicariously live through us. It's also why she understands my passion for this sport.

"We weren't in much of a position to negotiate, Lauren. Start placing well enough to earn points, make some new fans, and we'll have more leverage next season, if they still want you." She's switched to her stern agent voice usually reserved for the conference room, and I know we're done.

"Yeah. Gotcha." I pout as we pull to a stop. "Listen, I gotta go."

"Call me when you're finished," she says, and I hang up.

Hopping off the scooter, I don't even have time to slip the phone in my back pocket before Nicola is at my side. "I'll take that, thank you." With wide eyes and a huge grin, she's holding her hand out for the device like some sort of telecoms narc. "Can't have it sticking out on camera, you know."

"Right," I mutter as I give it over. "Where should I—?"

"Seb's almost done, so just park yourself in the shade and someone will get your hair sorted. Tommy will shout when he's ready for you." Tapping her clipboard, she motions for me to lean closer. I'm no Amazon, but there's at least a good six-inch height difference between us. "Tommy Miranda is a cracking print photographer. We're chuffed to bits to be working with him," she whispers.