Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
I’m sure I’m going to hear some complaints about the noise—at least based on the state of things, I’m guessing it was loud. South Kensington is posh, expensive, full of wankers like me with too much money and not enough sense, but they do like things quiet. I’m guessing they’re still ruing the day a twenty-four-year-old Formula International race driver moved in.
My place is all sleek, modern and soulless, just like the rest of the neighborhood. Park-view flats costs more than some people make in a lifetime and my own—not park view—knocked my bank account down by two million pounds. Not bad for someone whose only skill is driving fast and not getting killed while doing it.
The flat reeks of booze, smoke and stale air but I’ll worry about that later. I’ve got fifty minutes to get to Woking where Crown Velocity’s headquarters is located, and I still have to find out what the fuck I did.
No time for my normal hit of espresso as I’m going to be cutting it way too close to Harley’s deadline. As I make my way to the underground car park, I navigate my phone and easily find the tabloid article Rosalind was referencing.
I wince as I read the headline: Lex Hamilton in Drunken Brawl with Earl at London Club.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. I don’t even bother reading the article as it includes a color photograph of me holding some man by the shirt collar, my fist cocked back to throw a punch.
I look at my hand, don’t see any marks on it and wonder if I actually made contact. I’ve been in my share of brawls over my life, and it will fuck up your knuckles. My hands are essential to my career and I can’t be doing stupid stuff like risking them.
I get in my McLaren 720S Spider, done in the signature McLaren orange, and rev the engine. My head is still pounding as I hit the A4, which is the most direct route out of central London. Traffic is horrible and I’ll never make it there on time. I dial Rosalind, who’s programmed in my favorite’s list, and she answers crisply on the first ring. “I hope you’re on your way.”
“I am, but let Harley know… traffic’s horrible. I won’t make it on time.”
“Then you’re probably out of a job,” she replies pertly.
I scoff at the notion. I’m one of the top four drivers on the circuit and Crown Velocity came in third in the Constructor’s Shield last season. The Shield is the award given to the team with the most points at the end of the season and it translates into lots of money.
Like upward of a hundred million pounds to the winning team.
I’m one of Crown Velocity’s best chances to get there so I’m confident my job is safe. “Just let Harley know,” I instruct Rosalind. “I’m on my way.”
Rosalind hangs up on me but I know she’ll pass the message along. She may be short on words, brusque and a bitch half the time, but she does her job well.
I listen to Arctic Monkeys as I drive to Woking, not as loud as I’d like to, given the persistent pounding in my skull. An hour and five minutes after I left my flat, I pull off the main road and head down the long, winding driveway that leads to the sprawling headquarters of Crown Velocity. The building sits like a sleek, futuristic beast in the middle of the countryside, all glass and steel, reflecting the sky above and the carefully manicured grounds below. It’s more spaceship than office, perfectly engineered, just like everything this team produces.
The entrance is an enormous glass facade that curves with the building’s sweeping lines. It’s set low against the horizon, blending into the landscape with quiet dominance. A pristine lake runs alongside it, perfectly calm, mirroring the silver-gray structure, and I always feel a deep sense of belonging when I see it.
The McLaren purrs as I pull into one of the reserved VIP slots. There’s a space for our team’s owner, Spencer Montgomery, team principal Harley Patrick, the two drivers, me and Ronan Barnes—also a Brit like me—and the last spot reserved for our technical director, Randall Peterman.
While hundreds of employees make up a race team, we’re the crucial five who make it great.
I walk into the central atrium which has a massive fountain in the middle with several of our past car designs sitting on the perimeter. The walls have backlit photographs of past drivers and along one wall sits a massive display case almost two stories high that houses all the trophies won over the course of Crown Velocity’s career on the track.
The entire place screams both elegance and precision, which is a good way to describe our race cars. Even the light here feels sharper, like it’s been engineered to perfection. The place is clinical, sterile, but undeniably impressive.