Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 20: Lauren (Part 1 of 2)

At first, I can't tell if the pounding is just in my head or if it's coming from somewhere outside. Actually, I'm not even sure where I am until I open my eyes. The room is dark, I'm in a bed, and—bam, bam, bam—yup, someone is definitely hammering away at the door.

Door. Room. Hotel . . . hotel in Germany on Monday morning. Monday is after Sunday, and on Sunday night . . . oh god.

I bolt upright as I suddenly remember why my head throbs like it's in a vice. Compared to that, my shoulder—still tender and stiff—is the least of my problems. I was drinking, I hit on Seb, and did I even try to feel him up? Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

"Hey, kid. You up yet?" Dad asks between knocks. I'd almost forgotten someone was out there.

"Uhm, yeah," I croak, my dry tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Blech. I didn't almost kiss Seb with alcohol breath, right? What the hell was I thinking?

"Well, you better get a move on. The airport shuttle is leaving in fifteen," he says.

Clearing my throat, I pile on the fake cheer. "Okay. I'll meet you out front."

He mumbles something I don't catch—do hangovers come with ringing in the ears, too—but I assume he's okay with the plan. After climbing out of bed, I stumble to the bathroom while avoiding the mirror at all costs. Getting the water to soak away my shame proves to be impossible, but the warm shower makes it tempting to linger. I brush my teeth and comb my freshly washed hair before stepping out, all the while trying to figure out whether the copious amounts of alcohol last night made me act out of the ordinary or if it really just brought out feelings I've been trying to ignore. Both are equally embarrassing, but only one has some pretty hefty consequences.

Pulling on my go-to travel outfit of sweat pants and an oversized, long-sleeved tee, I remember deodorant at the very last second before sweeping all my toiletries up into a bag and throwing that in my suitcase. It's probably the fastest I've ever finished the basic routine, but then again, I usually didn't go to bed so late after a race and definitely never drunk.

I can't believe Seb had confronted Diego at the gala without ever mentioning it to me until last night. He hadn't done it to show off, to gain my trust or even to get me to like him. He did it because it was the right thing to do. That just makes it even more cringe-worthy that I threw myself at him, but I can't change the past. All I can do now is avoid all contact with my teammate for the next four weeks.

Sounds legit. I sigh and roll my eyes.

After I gather up the rest of my crap—how did my fave pair of Ray Bans get stuck between the nightstand and the bed—I hurry down to the lobby. I'd give my right arm for a cup of coffee, but of course the first person coming out of the breakfast buffet is the last one I want to see. My grandiose plan didn't even last ten minutes.

"Good morning," Seb says—smiling, rested, and disgustingly chipper—as he walks past.

I give him a quick nod in return and when he's gone, I pull out my phone. It's time for plan B. There are only two people who I'd trust with my confession. It's the middle of the night in California, so that leaves just one.

I did something really stupid last nite, I type and send the text to Shane. I'm hoping he'll be as equally uncritical of my current situation as he was with my public blow-up at Diego. Post race day, he's probably en-route somewhere, so I'm surprised he writes back almost immediately. New phone. Who dis?

Although I feel like a bag of crushed assholes, I laugh. I'm serious.

Unless you slept with or killed someone there's probably a way to make it right, he writes back.