SNEAK PEEK: Hot Lap

(This is a chapter from a work in progress.)

Chapter Four

Las Vegas Grand Prix | Monday Morning

Fuck, Maiken, what the hell have you done? 

Surprise number one was waking with a very handsome man leaning over me. Surprise number two was the impact of my forehead with his.

“Ouch.” I take my hand off the Civic’s steering wheel and gently touch the lump forming there. Christ. Another bruise to cover.

I sigh. I’m on my way home to Henderson.

Surprise number two — wait, no, three (shit, hangovers make math hard) — was that absolute dick of a man storming in and taking a verbal dump on me.

Surprise number… four? — yes, four — is the massive fucking diamond ring on my finger. 

I slow the car to stop at a traffic light and drop my gaze to my hand resting on the wheel. The huge sparkly stone flashes its knickers at me, and I realize this is why he asked what I remembered from last night. 

Holy hell and a half. What kind of craptastic situation did I get shit-faced and stumble into?

Also? I can’t believe what an asswipe Reece’s father is. 

“A dancer, a wedding ring, and an F1 champion walk into a bar…” I snort. “That’s so stupid.”

I reach my apartment complex, park, and haul my ass outa the car. The gin hangover is still raging through my system like an angry bull, kicking the inside of my skull and making the world too bright and too loud.

"Never. Drinking. Again."

My apartment complex isn't much to look at — a collection of two-story stucco buildings from the '70s with exterior staircases and railings that have seen better decades. Its pink paint has faded to a sickly flesh hue under the relentless desert sun, and the landscaping consists mostly of rocks and a few cacti that look as baked as I feel. But it's affordable, and I know all my neighbors, which counts for a lot in a city where people come and go like casino chips. Plus, my mom lives across the courtyard from me.

The concrete stairs radiate cold through my boots as I trudge up the outdoor staircase, each step sending jolts of pain through my skull. I slide my hand along the metal railing. It’s frigid in the desert morning chill, and somehow that small sensation triggers a flood of memories — Reece's warm fingers covering mine on that stupid Mario Kart wheel, cool condensation sliding down a glass, the weight of that thousand-dollar tip notification lighting up my phone.

God, he seemed so genuinely sweet. Nothing like the kind of guy who'd—

"Maiken Lange?"

I freeze halfway up the stairs, jerking around to see a man I don't recognize standing at the bottom. The sudden movement makes me woozy and my head kicks itself like an angry mule. Which I know makes no sense, but I’m really hungover, so a lot doesn’t quite make sense right now.

This guy’s in his thirties, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, and he’s holding up a small voice recorder. "Sorry to bother you, but are you Reece Pritchard's wife? Can you tell us how long you've been secretly dating?"

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The words come out sharper than intended, adrenaline suddenly burning through my hangover fog. 

"We have photos from the chapel last night." He pulls out his phone, his expression shifting from polite to predatory. "Just a few questions about your relationship with—" 

Nope. Nope-nope-nooope. 

I sprint up the remaining stairs, heart hammering against my ribs. My keys jangle wildly in my trembling hands while footsteps pound on the stairs behind me. Finally, the lock turns. I throw myself inside and slam the door, deadbolt clicking into place. 

"Ms. Lange! Just a few minutes of your time!" His knocking turns to pounding. He jabs at the doorbell which, God bless my landlady, has been broken for years. 

"Leave me alone or I'm calling the cops!" I sound braver than I feel as I back away from the door. 

My phone vibrates in my purse like an angry hornet. When I fish it out, the screen is a chaos of notifications — missed calls from unknown numbers, frantic texts from Delilah, Yasmine, and Eddie, and social media alerts popping up faster than zits on a fourteen-year-old boy. 

How the—? Who the—? What the actual fuck is happening?

I creep to the window and carefully part the blinds. My stomach plummets to my feet. The lone reporter has multiplied into a swarm — three, no, four men with cameras, circling like vultures. A chick with TV anchorwoman hair is setting up a microphone, her movements precise and practiced. Behind her, a news van with a satellite dish parks at the curb, its logo screaming a local station’s letters.

"Holy shit."

I’m trapped.

My phone rings again. The caller ID says it’s another local news station. I decline the call and check my social media notifications. My accounts are still blowing up with messages and tags.

"Formula 1 champion Reece Pritchard weds Vegas stripper in surprise ceremony"

"BREAKING: PNW Nitro’s Pritchard married in Vegas drive-thru chapel"

"Who is Mai-Lan Rouge? Meet Reece Pritchard's secret burlesque bride"

That last one accompanies a photo of us at the chapel. I’m laughing with that giant diamond on my finger while Reece stands opposite me, holding my hands, and a really shitty Elvis impersonator belts out a song behind us. We look deliriously happy and completely wasted. 

I sigh. If Hector took this pic and sold it, I should be pissed, but fair play. He probably made enough to pay off his car. That's on our sorry drunk butts.

The knocking turns aggressive. Voices multiply outside.

"Maiken, are you pregnant? Is that why the rushed ceremony?"

"How did you and Reece meet?"

"Does your family know about the marriage?"

Shit. Fuck. Piss.

Hands shaking, I try calling my mom, though I know it's useless. Frankie's working her shift at the prison, and she won't see my messages for hours. She might as well be in another country right now for all she can help me.

I look around my one-bedroom apartment. No way out. 

Pounding at the door sends my heart racing. My phone buzzes simultaneously. Christ. Why is the universe ganging up on me? This is such evil bullshit considering how hungover I am. When I glance at the newest text, I pause.

RP11:

Mai, RU OK?

The architect of my misery is checking in? I glare at the message, fury building inside me like air in a balloon and, holy shit, I’m close to poppin’ off. 

I'm gonna kill Reece Pritchard. I'm gonna drive back to the Wynn and choke him with his own testicles. 

Except underneath the rage is something else — a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief that he gives a flying fuck about what’s happening to me. I squash that feeling immediately. This is his fault.

I text back:

FUCK OFF

I get that you're cross. I can explain everything. People found out faster than I expected.

Which means he’s seeing all this shit unfold on social media too. Ugh. I want to hate him so much, but deep down I don’t. Which pisses me off even more.

Expected? You KNEW this would happen??

Not like this. 

Was this all just to piss off daddy? Use the drunk stripper for your little rebellion?

You know that's not what happened.

The thing is, I don't know. I barely remember parts of last night, but I do remember his father barging in, the look of disgust on his face when he saw me, and how satisfied Reece sounded when he called me his wife.

I rub my wrist absently and wince at the deep bruises from that other dude. I also recall how Reece stepped in, and how he looked when he warned the asshole to back off. There was genuine protectiveness there, and rage.

My phone buzzes with another text from Reece, this one with an attachment. I open it to see a photo of a marriage license. 

It's real. It has both our signatures. We're actually married.

“Fuck me.”

Let me send someone to get you out of there. You need space to breathe and think.

Stay the fuck away from me.

As I send that, I’m peering through the blinds again. The crowd has grown to at least a dozen people. Someone is interviewing my downstairs neighbor, Anushka, who's standing there in her trademark pink silk bathrobe, velvet slippers, and full-drama makeup. The retired showgirl looks thrilled by the attention, gesturing dramatically as if she's back on stage. 

Normally, I find it endearing how she never leaves the house without false eyelashes and perfect contouring, even when she's just heading to the casino to play Keno all day, but right now I'm mortified that she's probably telling them all about helping me sew rhinestones on my pasties.

This is insane. I can't stay here, but I also can't trust Reece. Especially not after that encounter with his father. But... shit. Shit! I'm trapped and I fucking hate this feeling.

I'm used to having all eyes on me — hell, I get paid for it — but that's different. When I'm on stage, I control everything: the lights, the music, what I reveal and what I keep hidden. I decide when to make eye contact and when to look away. I dictate every interaction between the audience and me. I’m the one telling the joke.

This? It makes me the joke. I've gone from commanding attention to being cornered by it. These people aren't admirers anticipating my next move; they're predators devouring whatever scraps of my life they can get. They don't care about my art or my performance. They just want to know if I'm pregnant with an F1 champion's baby or if I'm some gold-digging slut who trapped him during a drunken binge.

The thought makes my stomach churn worse than the hangover. That churning builds as another knock comes at my door and more texts chime my phone. I make a break for the bathroom. Bile rushing up my throat, I barely reach the tub in time to puke up last night’s dinner and a shit-ton of booze.

"Ungh." I spit the last of it out. "So gross." My voice echoes hollowly against the porcelain. I fucking hate barfing.

The knocking at my front door continues, distant but relentless, like my own personal horror movie soundtrack. Motherfucking media zombies trying to eat my braaaain.

When I’m done heaving, I rinse my mouth and the tub, then stumble into the kitchen on spaghetti legs. I down a glass of water and chug some Pepto. Chalky, minty, eww, but better than puke and stomach acid.

My phone buzzes on the counter with another text from Reece. God, he’s persistent.

Maiken? C’mon. I got you into this. Let me help you out of it. Zero strings attached.

I chew my lip, but the knocking and messages continue, and I can’t fucking think straight.

Fine, but this doesn't mean I forgive you.

I don't expect you to. Not yet.

How are you gonna get me out of this bullshit?

Just trust me for five more minutes. Pack whatever you need for a few days. Help is on the way.

I'm about to ask what the hell that means when there's a commotion outside. I peep through the blinds again and see the crowd of reporters suddenly opening a path. A petite woman with waves of dark hair and a perfectly tailored cream-colored pantsuit is marching up the stairs. She's not tall, but she carries herself like someone twice her size, and the look on her face could freeze hell.

"Ms. Lange?" Her voice cuts through my closed front door with crisp authority and a thick Spanish accent. "Branca Flores. I work for Reece."

I crack open the door, chain still in place. She doesn't look like a reporter, but I'm not taking chances.

"Let me see some ID."

Without missing a beat, she holds up a business card and an ID badge with some Formula 1 team logo. "I'm his manager. I'm here to get you out of this situation."

I hesitate, then unlock the door. She slips inside quickly, immediately assessing my apartment with sharp brown eyes. She's in her mid-forties with an elegant wavy bob, impeccable makeup, and the kind of “mom” energy that means she can shut down a room of rowdy kids with just one raised eyebrow and, apparently, stun the paparazzi into silence.

"Pack comfortably. We're going to Qatar." Her accent adds emphasis to her already authoritative tone.

“Cutter?”

“Qatar. On the Persian Gulf.”

"What the— No. I'm not going to the Middle East!"

She tilts her chin ever so slightly. "You prefer to stay here with them?" She gestures toward the gathered paparazzi outside.

"No, but I have obligations. Classes I teach. Shows I'm booked for." I cross my arms. "I'm not giving up my life for any man, especially not one who apparently married me as some twisted rebellion against his daddy."

Her expression softens, and she nods. "Good. You shouldn't. Who can cover for you while you're gone?"

The question catches me off guard. I expected her to bulldoze over my concerns, not acknowledge them.

"I... well, Delilah and Yasmine can cover my classes and shows, and there's a sub for the kids' ballet, but..." I run a hand through my hair. "You don't understand. I need the money. I have bills and rent. I can't just disappear to Qatar."

She sighs and looks at me like I'm a particularly dense child. "Your husband will take care of your bills. Trust me, he can afford to cover your rent."

I open my mouth to argue, then remember the thousand-dollar tip. The giant diamond on my finger. The casual way he paid for everything last night.

"Fine." I turn to my workspace. "But only for a few days."

She pivots on her heel and steps out onto the walkway, addressing the gathered press with a voice that somehow fills the entire complex. 

"Listen to me very carefully. You are trespassing. Sixty seconds to leave before I call the police and press charges. And PNW Nitro Racing will blacklist any publication that stays." She checks her watch with a flick of her wrist. "The time is running."

The threat is delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that no one even argues. They just start packing up.

"How the hell did you do that?" I am genuinely impressed.

Branca shrugs one elegant shoulder. "They know I mean it. Now, what are you packing?"

"I have no idea. What do I need?"

She looks me up and down. "Conservative clothing to cover your shoulders and knees, nothing too tight or revealing in public. We respect local customs. You'll need to be mindful of appropriate behavior at the track and in public."

"What? Is there, like, a rulebook for racing wives?"

She smiles thinly. "Not officially, but there are expectations. Don't overshadow your husband during race weekends. Avoid social media controversies.” She smiles ruefully and adds, “A little difficult in your case, but we’ll work around it. WAGs support without intrusion.”

“Who?”

“WAGs. Wives and girlfriends. The paddock — that's the area where the teams work — has restricted access, so you'll need proper credentials. And most importantly, remember that everything you do reflects not just on Reece, but on his team, their sponsors, and Formula One."

Great. So I'm supposed to be a perfect, demure little wifey? I bite back the sarcastic comment. Branca isn't the enemy here.

"Do you have a current passport?" She moves through my apartment.

"Yeah." I pull it from my dresser drawer. "Wait, Reece is going to Qatar?"

"Yes. PNW Nitro's jet just took off." She walks into my workroom and picks up an unfinished red satin corset. It’s for my Cherry Bomb routine. "Beautiful work. You're talented." She examines my costumes with genuine interest.

"Thanks." 

"Pack this too." She means the corset. "And anything else you're working on. The hotel suite has a lounge area you can use as a workspace."

I start throwing clothes into my suitcase — a jean jumpsuit, blouses and pants, a cute polka-dotted 1940’s dress, shoes, stilettos, and underclothes. I grab my travel sewing kit, the half-finished red corset, and a blue velvet gown. Branca finds my toiletry bag, chargers, and computer bag before I even think to look for them. Obviously, she’s done this before.

"Reece mentioned you might need this." She hands me a small bottle of ibuprofen and a Gatorade from her purse. It’s the kinda maternal move I’m used to from Frankie.

I take them gratefully, downing three pills and half the bottle. "So, you're what? His fixer?"

"I manage his career and his public image." She taps something into her phone, then looks up with a hawk’s gaze. I’m pretty sure Branca Flores misses nothing. "This marriage is... pues... a surprise. But my job now is to protect both of you from the sharks who would make this into a circus show."

"Too late," I mutter, zipping up my suitcase. "So, are you here to offer me money to quietly disappear?"

Branca actually laughs at that — a short, genuine sound. "If that's what Reece wanted, he wouldn't have sent me. He can clean up his own messes. I don’t wipe his ass or his nose." She looks me directly in the eyes. "He asked me to help you, Maiken, not make you disappear."

I'm not sure why, but I believe her.

"Now, shower and dress in something comfortable, but with coverage." 

For a hot second, I consider telling her to leave, that I'll handle this mess myself. But what would that even look like? Barricading myself in this apartment until the press gets bored? Calling in sick to my classes while my face is splashed across the entire internet and watching all the parents pull their children from my roster? 

I exhale slowly. Sometimes surrender is the smartest move. 

I go on autopilot and follow her instructions. It's easier than trying to make my addled brain figure this shit out for me. 

The shower is quick but heavenly, washing away the stale sweat and lingering bar-hopping-boozefest stink. The hot water helps clear my head, if not my situation. Makeup is minimal — just enough to not look completely wrecked on camera. My favorite wide-leg empire waist trousers and a fitted pale pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar make me feel put-together and almost sweet. Which is good because deep down I'm still leaning toward homicidal. 

My hair looks like absolute shit, so I pull it into a low bun, then cover it with a dark green turban I bought while thrifting last month. Fixing my do properly would require time and patience, both of which are in critically short supply this morning. The last touches are lip gloss, a skinny brown belt, and my matching brown and white t-strap Mary Janes.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Branca evaluates me with a critical eye, her gaze methodically assessing my appearance from head to toe. After a moment, she nods. "Good. The car is waiting. Are you ready?" 

"Yes, except I need cash."

"No." One syllable, flat and final. 

"But—" 

She shakes her head. "You're worried about the wrong things. Anything you need, Reece or the team will cover it."

Uh. No. No fucking way am I gonna be dependent on a man I hardly know in a country I can’t even find on a map. 

“Branca, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I’m not flying to a foreign country without cash. My mother didn’t raise me to be an idiot, current circumstances aside.”

She laughs. “I want to meet her someday.” She checks her watch, then pulls her wallet from her handbag. “Here.” She fishes a handful of colorful foreign currency and a black credit card from her wallet and offers them to me.

“I can’t take your money.”

“This is Reece’s money, which means it’s yours.”

I stare at it and sigh. “I don’t want to be indebted to him.”

"Indebted?" Branca makes a dismissive gesture. "You are his wife, not his debtor. This is how marriage works, no?"

Still, I hesitate. She handles this too easily. “I take it this happens a lot?”

Her brows arch and she shakes her head. “No. Not with Reece. He is a careful man.”

I chew my lip and debate. Am I really doing this? Flying across the world with people I barely know? If it wasn't for the vultures outside my door, I'd think I was walking into some human trafficking nightmare. Except Reece's life is too public for that. Apparently, the man can't scratch his ass without someone documenting it. 

So what are my alternatives? Hide in my apartment while reporters camp outside? Watch my students' parents pull their kids from my classes when they realize their ballet teacher is a "Vegas stripper" who married an F1 driver? At least in Qatar, I can figure out my next move without cameras in my face. 

Finally, I nod and accept the money. "This is a loan. I'm paying it back." It means I'll have cash to GTFO if things get dodgy in Qatar.

“Good. Now we go.”

Still I hesitate, suddenly aware of what I'm doing. Twenty-four hours ago, I was just Mai-Lan Rouge, burlesque performer. Now I'm fleeing my own home, to a country I know nothing about, with strangers paid by a man I accidentally married. 

Is this shit really happening? 

I take one last look around my tiny apartment. The chaise where I sleep still has last night's pajamas thrown across it. Half-finished costumes hang in my workspace, sequins catching light like tiny stars. This place is hardly glamorous, but it's mine. Every inch of it earned through years of hard work, tip by tip, class by class. 

It’s only a few days, right? Before I know it, I’ll be back here, working on new costumes, new routines, new exercises for my students. This trip is just a temporary work-around.

Yes. Right. Everything will be fine.

I square my shoulders and grab my suitcase. "Okay. I have what I need."

Branca opens the door, and we step outside. The reporters are gone, but there's a black SUV with tinted windows waiting by the curb. Anushka gives me a thumbs-up from her doorway as we pass, the rhinestones glued to her cheeks catching the sunlight.

"We’re heading straight to the airport?" We climb into the backseat while the driver, some big dude wearing a green and pink polo shirt, puts my luggage in the back.

"Harry Reid International Airport. Our flight leaves in two hours. We’ll change plans in Seattle."

"First class?" I joke.

She doesn't look up from her phone. "Of course."

The driver pulls away, and I watch my apartment complex disappear in the rearview mirror. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was on stage at The Golden Oyster, completely unaware that a Formula 1 driver was about to upend my entire life.

I shake my head. "I don't know a damn thing about F1."

Branca gives me a look that's both surprised and amused. "Well, Ms. Lange, seems like you have a lot to learn about your husband."

"Maiken," I correct her. "Or Mai."

"Maiken," she repeats with a slight nod. "Welcome to Formula 1. Buckle up. It moves fast."