Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1) Read online

  Whatever races he graces with his presence end up being a shitshow. Fans call me F1 royalty, an American Prince because of my dad, the amazing Nicholas Slade. Who is still called one of the greatest racers in F1 history. Lucky me to have him breathing down my neck about everything I do wrong or where I can improve. Yes, he kick-started my career. I appreciate every investment he’s made to help me along the way, but I race cars every weekend, proving to him and everyone else that I’ll be a legend too. The driving world has changed a lot since he raced twenty years ago. Cars I drive today shit on whatever hunk of metal he drove, making the sport into what fans love today. A sport with drama, high speeds, and intense risks.

  My phone pings from a new message.

  Dad (12/24 10:29 a.m.): Booked my flight to Barcelona.

  Merry fucking Christmas to you too, Dad.

  3

  Maya

  Three months have passed since Santiago signed his new deal with Bandini Racing. I am living with him while he gets ready for the new season, making sure to keep myself busy by starting my vlog. I want to share all my travels while I follow Santi around the world. My computer is jam-packed with research on different things to do in each city while he preps for races. Pride surges through me at my foresight to plan.

  I inhale the exotic smell of Melbourne, Australia. All right, the scent lacks the exoticness I had hoped for. A mix of car exhaust and airport fuel wafts through the air since the Outback is a far reach away. Best I’ll get for now. But it seems foreign enough, and I relish in my first experience of visiting a different continent.

  Professionals call Santi’s first Prix a “flyaway race.” I made sure to catch up on all the F1 terms because I don’t want fans to think of me as ill-prepared.

  I say “G’day mate!” to one of the flight attendants as I exit the plane. A poorly executed slip of the tongue. She doesn’t look amused in the slightest at my poor attempt to crack a joke, so I delete the saying off my phone once I step inside the airport.

  I keep a translated list of popular phrases from each country we visit to prevent making myself look like a fool, at least not more than usual. Note to self: double-check what phrases sound stupid.

  I stretch my sore legs after a twenty-hour flight from Madrid, my muscles thanking me for the special attention. Santi grabs my luggage off the carousel while I find the Bandini town car.

  We get dropped off at the hotel where the team stays. I look around the elegant lobby, distracting myself with a funky art piece while Santi talks to the front desk. He texts his assistant to check each accommodation for two-room suites because he tends to be a needy man-child.

  Our suite looks modern and fresh, with a minimalist color palette and a balcony overlooking the track. I throw myself on the living room couch. Comfortable cushions practically swallow me whole like a welcoming hug after a long day.

  “I have to go to a couple sponsor meetings before working out kinks in the new car. You’ll be good without me?” His brown eyes gaze down at me as he places a Bandini baseball cap over his head.

  “Sure. I have plans for the day anyway. Don’t worry about me.” I shoot him a toothy grin.

  “I’ll always worry about you. You are a handful.”

  I send him a mock-offended look. “No need to throw around charged words.”

  He waves at me over his shoulder before exiting the suite. I throw a pillow at the door as it closes, missing my opportunity by a few seconds.

  I take in my surroundings. The suite can’t compare to Santi’s previous digs, our upgrade having a television the size of my bed back home, a dining table fit for eight people, and a large sectional that surrounds me.

  After changing into my bathing suit and grabbing my camera, I check out the hotel. My stomach grumbles during my tour, encouraging me to grab a quick bite to eat before I head to the pool. I relax and doze off on a lounge chair, heat from the sun enveloping me like a warm blanket, tanning my skin. An afternoon nap tempts me, my body giving into jet lag despite the regret I’ll feel later about my decision.

  “I have a press conference today and I want you to come.” Santi walks into my room and plops himself on my bed. His post-practice round makes him a sweaty, sticky mess, with dirty skin contrasting against the white comforter.

  “Oh, please come lie on my bed in your sweaty clothes. Make yourself at home.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

  He ignores me as he grabs one of the pillows. I continue to put on my makeup, keeping it fresh and light, my go-to look. My skin glows in the mirror after my long tanning-session-turned-nap yesterday.

  He lets out a grunt. “Noah’s an ass and you keep me in check. I won’t be an idiot if you’re there. Please come.” His words distract me, and I stab myself in the eyeball with my mascara wand. Shit. Is there a greater pain than mascara on your eye?

  My heart accelerates at the thought of Noah Slade. He’s hot, in a devilishly handsome kind of way. Messy hair so dark it looks black, sharp cheekbones that can shave ice, and lips every woman can envy. I see pictures of him everywhere—ads, commercials, gossip mags. You name it, he’s been on it. Not to mention how my brother has stood at the podium with him multiple times. I may have watched one or twenty times on my TV at home. Hard to resist seeing Noah get showered with champagne on a Prix podium while he beams down at the trophy in his hand.

  I let out a sigh. Noah’s the type of guy you don’t bring home to mom; he’s the one you screw around with before you find the guy you finally take home to mom, ensuring her you’ve moved on from your wild ways. His list of past partners happens to be longer than my grocery list and to-do list combined. Gross yet oddly fascinating how women like that.

  “You do understand you’re an adult, right? How on earth do I keep you in check?”

  “Because I won’t say anything too nasty for my sister’s ears.” He bats his long, dark lashes at me in a ridiculous gesture that softens my heart. Damn him and his goofiness. I fall for it every single time, a victim to Santi’s boyish ways.

  “Your innocent ploy is nothing short of terrible. Is that how you get laid?”

  He throws a pillow straight at my face, smudging my mascara even more.

  “Ugh, you’re messing up my makeup! Fine, I’ll go. But get off my bed. Now.”

  He hops off my bed triumphantly because I fell for his plan. Hook, line, and sinker.

  “See you later. I’ll send up someone to grab you when it’s time.” He taps away at his phone.

  “The things I do for you. I’ll try not to fall asleep on the side of the panel, but no promises.”

  He lets out a deep laugh. “F1 panels are juicy. You’ll enjoy it, I know it.” He leaves with a smile plastered on his face. I can’t tell if he means to be serious when he rubs his hands together like an evil genius. Shady side eye included.

  I wrap up getting ready. An attendant shows me the way to the press conference area where my brother waves at me from the panel table. My grin mirrors his own. Warmth fills my heart at seeing him up there living his dream, wearing signature scarlet Bandini gear—everything he’s wanted since he was a kid.

  I snap a quick picture for my Instagram story. Hate to break it to the thirsty females out there, but I’m his number-one fan. After fiddling with my phone, I glance up at the panel, my eyes meeting Noah’s blue ones—a strikingly beautiful color framed by dark lashes and brows. His plump lips turn down as he checks me out. My body heats at his appraisal, aware of the beautiful human in front of me because I’m dumb not blind. I find it impossible to calm my racing heart, thumping against my rib cage, as I take him in. Fuck me. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of a guy as gorgeous until now.

  He rakes a hand through his thick, unruly strands. His hair looks like he continuously runs his fingers through the locks all day. Corded arms lay on the table, revealing tan skin and large hands, taking my mind to dirty places. Noah’s lean kind of muscular is ideal for racing. Shit, the kind of muscular perfect for fucking against a door, in a shower,
or on a counter. Vivid images fly through my head of Noah in compromising positions. My body hums with excitement at the sight of Noah smirking at me, my lower half clearly not understanding the difference between danger and lust. Turns out press conferences offer more eye candy than I thought.

  I lick my lips at the sight of his arms. Nothing makes a girl swoon quite like a guy dedicated to his gym regimen, but this guy is more likely to commit to his gym than to another girl. He notices my reaction and winks at me. My cheeks flush at his attention, an embarrassing display that makes my attraction noticeable. Can I be any more obvious?

  Frustration rushes through me, washing away thoughts of his lips against mine and his hands in my hair. How on earth will I survive a season around someone who looks like him?

  God plays cruel jokes on me. Just when I promised to be good, he wants me to fall right into the arms of the devil. Men like Noah are only built for wickedness.

  I force my eyes away and try to find something interesting in the room. Oh look, a middle-aged man setting up his microphone. Riveting stuff. The same man glares at me before he grumbles something about hot chicks not being allowed in the press room.

  Noah’s deep rumbling laugh sends a shiver up my spine. Since when do laughs sound sexy? My body finds it difficult to ignore him, my eyes wanting to pull back to him like a magnet. I refrain because I don’t want to lead him on. But he makes my body stand to attention, my posture never looking better.

  My interest in the reporter appears short-lived once questions come from all different directions. Each journalist reeks of desperation to add their tidbit, enthusiastically raising their hands every time a round of questions wraps up.

  One question makes me pause my Instagram scrolling.

  “What have you two been doing to prevent another Abu Dhabi situation?”

  Ugh, this again? Aren’t there juicier stories to bring up? Noah seems to share my same sentiment, his low groan permeating through the crowd and gaining my attention.

  “Are we seriously bringing up a race from two years ago? That’s below you, Harold. Find fresher drama to bring up because your questions bore me.”

  Turns out Harold is the same reporter I was staring at earlier. My mouth drops open, shocked Noah Slade knows these reporters by name. He has no shame calling them out.

  But Harold refuses to let Noah off easily, especially after a tongue-lashing.

  “One would assume the competition is back in full force. How does it feel to be working closely with someone you publicly announced as a rival on the track?” Harold licks his lips at his own line of questioning. Must be proud.

  Noah’s jaw ticks, accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones. His icy gaze makes my blood run cold. “Seeing as we’re teammates now, his performance is contingent on my own, and vice versa. I wish Santi the best of luck; this year will be competitive between everyone.”

  My brother opens his big mouth, piggybacking off Noah’s last words. “We discussed team strategies and what situations can be prevented. I highly doubt Slade will make that mistake again.”

  Santi, so sharp in racing, so unaware of real life. Noah turns his head slowly toward my brother. I rub a palm across my face like it can rid the image of Noah’s death glare and clenched jaw from my memory. Abort, Santi. Uncertain of who will say what next, the media room remains silent as reporters anxiously wait for a reply.

  Noah faces the camera crews again. “We all learn from mistakes here. The sport is about growth and personal development on the course. Accidents happen. It’s all about what you do after that matters.”

  One point for Noah Slade. He handles the situation like a pro who was well-trained by a publicist. The rest of the press meeting remains mundane after the spur of drama, not as juicy as my brother promised. A blessing in disguise for him since he’s already messed up.

  Relief floods through me when an F1 member announces the end of the media conference. He reminds everyone about the gala being hosted tonight in honor of the Bandini racers, plus information about a few other press sessions taking place after practice rounds and qualifiers. Excuses of how to get out of those pop up in my head. Thankfully for Santi, he can do most of them alone, minus Noah and myself.

  Noah approaches us outside of the press building. My skin prickles at our closeness, his body hulking over my five-foot-two frame, making me feel smaller than usual.

  “I don’t know how your last team worked but let me handle the big-boy questions. You should re-watch the tapes from Abu Dhabi if you think it was a mistake on my end because it sure as fuck wasn’t. That should be your first order of business around here. Well, that and staying the hell out of my way.” His fists clench together and his jaw ticks under pressure.

  “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” my brother says with earnest.

  “Clearly. You’re new to the team and we have a system here. One that doesn’t include stupid answers. You should ask around if you’re not sure how things work.”

  “There’s no need to be rude to him. He said sorry,” I snap, my eyes meeting Noah’s cold glare. I can only take so much of his attitude when my brother’s already said sorry. Santi acts tough, but issues affect him more than most, his emotions swirling inside of him like a slow-moving tornado.

  Noah’s sapphire eyes trail down my body. He licks his bottom lip, drawing my attention toward them, noticing how the bottom is fuller than the top. They look soft and plump. Perfectly kissable.

  Skin heats wherever his eyes roam. I feel betrayed by the way my body acts around him, like I can’t control the draw I have toward him.

  He opens his mouth. “Side pieces don’t come to these types of things either so she can stay away. Maybe you’ll be less of a dumbass.”

  My head snaps up, waves of attraction replaced by anger. All at the flip of a switch. He did not insinuate what I thought he did.

  Before Santi or I can get a word out, he continues. His blue eyes gaze into mine, dancing with delight. “If you ever get bored of being with him, I’m always free. With age comes more experience.” He shoots me a ridiculously smug smile, and I can’t wait to knock it off his face.

  I start toward him, wanting to get uncomfortably close because death stares look better from inches away. Santi grabs my hand, halting my attempt to get up in Noah’s space, but he can’t stop my mouth. Oh, no. My mouth has a mind of its own because words flow without a second thought.

  “He’s my older brother, asshole. Can’t you see the family resemblance? Or is the cloud of superiority around you so thick that you didn’t notice?”

  I imagine the wheels turning in Noah’s head as he makes the connection. His eyes dart between Santi and me, looking at our dark hair, olive skin, and same honey-brown eyes. My head tilts to the side and I shoot him a smirk.

  His jaw drops open and his cheeks tinge a light pink color. I gloat at his embarrassment, mentally dancing around at my sassiness. Everyone knows what they say about people who assume.

  “I’m sorry, I clearly shouldn’t have spoken to either of you like that.” His voice has a hint of regret. I shrug, ignoring the tug on my heart at his remorse because I get petty when mad. Assholes don’t do it for me, no matter how pretty their faces are.

  My brother offers a handshake because he acts like a real man. I try my best to disregard how good Noah’s ass looks as he walks away, but I take a peek because a woman can only have so much restraint. He gives me one last look over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner of the building.

  I sigh softly, my heart slowing down for the first time in an hour. Santi gives me a quizzical glance before we take off in the opposite direction. Looks like tonight’s gala just got a lot more interesting.

  4

  Noah

  I mull over the conversation with Santiago and his sister while I eat lunch in the Bandini area. Santi has a sibling I had no clue existed. Where was she throughout his racing debut? I feel like I would’ve recognized her.
Instead, I made myself look like an asshole on the first day. An image of her brown eyes boring into mine like she wants to skin me alive has singed itself into my brain. She’s a stunning woman even when mad with flared nostrils, flushed cheeks, and waving hands.

  I need to come up with a plan for the Bandini gala. It was never my intention to get off on the wrong foot with Santiago already, or his sister for that matter. Looking like a dick before the season begins doesn’t make me happy. Santiago and I will spend countless hours together doing press tours and going to sponsor meetings, which means his sister will be around just as much.

  I snapped when he blamed me for something that wasn’t my fault. Let this be a lesson for him to not open his mouth without thinking, a prime example of what can go wrong in the public eye, shitty consequences included. But it’s not right how I took my anger out on his sister.

  During our earlier walk-through of the course, I apologized to him again because I was ashamed of what I’d said. I’m not above cornering people to get what I want. He begrudgingly accepted my apology, his jaw tight as his fist squeezed my extended hand.

  I spend the rest of the day sitting through more press sessions, the less desirable side of F1.

  I make it back to my hotel room with enough time to get dressed for the event. Santiago and his sister plan on attending the gala, my thoughts confirmed when I discreetly asked around. No need to draw attention to myself.

  The poorly lit lobby bar welcomes me as I order a Scotch from the bartender. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman sitting in a booth, twirling a straw in her drink. She looks vaguely like Santiago’s sister. I head on over to her, confirming she is, in fact, the Alatorre I need to speak to. Perfect timing. Getting an apology out now sounds like the best idea because I don’t dance around problems to avoid confrontation.

  Some people scurry at trouble. Me on the other hand? I drive my car straight into problems at two hundred miles per hour. Fuck the consequences.