Chapter 1

Motorbikes. The roar, the throaty growls of bike after bike zooming on the race track made it nearly impossible to hearSalihasitting next to me in the stadium.

A child in the row below us had big, over-ear noise cancellers as he cheered when a bike whizzed past.

With the biggest, toothy grin, he was waving a little flag of theCiclatibrand. Three wheels intertwined with a jaguar’s roaring face in the middle.

He reminded me of my brother and I when our dad used to bring us to the races.

“When are they revealing the bike?” I asked, voice raised in the momentary quiet before another bike raced along the tarmac.

Really, I was just curious to see NixonArmasride it. My first look at him that wasn’t on a screen. He’d be completely covered in his leathers and helmet, but still.

Salihapointed to the giant screen across the track. “Armasis just getting on it.”

“Right,” I said with a nod, picking at my acrylic nails.

“He’ll do two laps now, another two after the race and then they’ll put a couple of the bikes on show for when people leave.” Her black hair flipped my shoulder as she turned to face me, a rosy tint of blush on her russet cheeks. Despite the warm tones, she was colder than usual today. My friend of ten years was all business. “Tell me again what you’ve learned about him. One more time. Just so I can fill any gaps.”

“There are no gaps,” I sighed and looked away before glancing back. I didn’t need to be sour to her of all people.

Her eyes narrowed at my sensitive reaction. She took a ravenous bite of the hot dog she’d bought from one of the workers who stalked the aisles. Her stare was unimpressed for the length of time it took her to chew and swallow. “We both know this isn’t going to be easy,Livie.”

Salihaand I had been friends at university and, after everything that had happened in the last seven months, she had reached out. She worked in events forCiclatiSport and managed to get me an interview with the publicist ofCiclatiBikes,NazminMorad. Hopefully, I was going to be the new publicist for their sporting team atStormSprint, the most popular motorbike racing championship across the world.

Salihaknew everything that could touch the brand, including the men she wanted me to start working with.

I’d never expected to be able to work in the racing world my father had loved so much.

His passion for sports was partly what inspired me to become a sports publicist.

“Let’s just recap once more before we head down to see them.”

Today was the testing of the bikes for the upcoming season. Which made it the best day to meet the team when there was very little press and it wasn’t televised.

I’d known this day was coming for a couple of weeks and spent nearly every waking hour researching, distracting myself. It was nice to have a purpose again. A reason to get out of bed.

“NixonArmasis a three-time champion and model with an addiction to doing the wrong thing and is on his last legs with the team director. He has no choice but to make some changes. He’s reckless, arrogant and cares for nothing but motorbikes. And he’s about to be the bane of my life for the next year.”

Salihagave me a wide-eyed side glance, pursing her lips, trying not to laugh.

“Okay,” I sighed. Yes, there might be a bit of resentment. Just a tad. I’d gone from respectable, high-flying clients to this with one article. “He was first noticed when a shot of him winning a race went viral because of his good looks. He’s since had modelling gigs and cameos in Hollywood films. But what’s most impressive is how he’s managed to win three championships in the last four years. He started racing at seven under the number 18 and had such a good season when he joinedSprint3, he skipped the next league,Sprint2, and went straight forStormSprint. He’s that good.”

“Yes, the professional side is impressive,” she said but screwed up her lips and gave me a look as if to say, get on with the scandals.

On-screen, a man in thick leathers and a dark red helmet with bright green stripes down the sides waved at the camera. Eighteen was on his chest and back.

“Personal life isn’t so great,” I said as the commentator explained all of the new details I already knew about the commercial bike. “He’s known to isolate himself for months at a time and when the season ends, there are often stories of him high on cocaine. He has some questionable friends. If he wasn’t so fast, he would have been thrown out. He’s known as a walking red flag.”

If he wasn’t such an asshole — and, therefore, no one wanted to work for him — it was unlikely I’d be here.

She gave another nod. “Your role.”

I took a deep breath. “My role is out of the ordinary. I am basically here for him, unlike most of my previous roles. He’s brought a lot of attention to the sport. Whether it’s the bad boy image, the winning streak, the good looks… it’s probably an accumulation of things. Essentially, you want me to not only control his schedule and interactions with the press but to make it seem like he is an upstanding member of the sporting community.”

Her brow shot up, asking the question she’d already thrown my way.

“I’m prepared for this to run my life for the next year,” I answered. Just one year. Rebuild my reputation. Then I’d try and get on anotherStormSprintteam once I’d proven myself.

“Nazminsaid the analogy is that you’ll be his live-in nanny,” she warned as the screen changed to NixonArmasstraddling the bike and starting to cruise along the track.

“The joys,” I grumbled.

That was the one thing I wasn’t looking forward to so much.

“Tell me about his team.”

“The other rider forCiclatiis his best friend, the only one that seems to keep Nixon on side —”

“Armas,” she corrected. “When you talk about him in public, it’sArmas. We’re not playing tennis now.”

Ouch.

But if I could depend on anyone to be real with me, it was her.

I’d lost so many friends over the last few months, but she had always been there. We hadn’t been the closest since university — in the last few years we mostly sent each other memes — but she’d been a rock recently.

“The one that keepsArmason side isAlvaroMendes. Number 86, the face ofMotorsport. That was, he kept him in line until the end of last season.Armasseemed to go overboard and there was footage of them arguing outside a club. This event — the pre-testing for the season — is the first time they’ll be seen together in two months. Mendes has been racing for the last seventeen years and has a massive fan base. His younger cousin,Luca—”

“Liha!”

She had been nodding away but froze, mouth open, bringing her hot dog to her mouth.

In the aisle, three rows down from us, a man around 40 in theCiclaticolours of red and green hovered and smiled, a slow wave aimed at my friend. “Saliha!”

She waved back and rushed to chew her mouthful. “Abbe,” she said, turning in her seat. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” he laughed, squinting in the French sun that shone on his dark skin. “I’m always here. You weren’t expecting me here .” He pointed down at his feet. “And you shouldn’t be here either. Come on, bring your friend. Down to the pit box.” When she didn’t budge, he sighed. “At least to VIP.”

Abbe. He was a member of theCiclatiteam; an ex-rider turned sports analyst. My dad had been disappointed when he’d crashed and damaged his elbow irreparably. He’d been furious when Abbe received racist abuse across social media for letting his team down.

My dad had adored these men.

And I’d be working with them.

Salihashook her head and lifted her food. “They don’t serve these down in the pit or in the lounge.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to see the reveal through the eyes of the public,” she said, but based on his frown, he wasn’t having any of it.

“Come on, quick. I’ve got to get back beforeArmas.”

Salihasighed, took my hand and dragged me to follow Abbe. Before I knew it, we were in an underground tunnel, the revving of the bikes far away.

Until we started to incline and suddenly, everything was very, very loud.

Cheers, cries, shouts. The petrol fumes were overpowering.

Salihawas smiling next to me. “I love the smell.”

Abbe pushed open the doors to a very different side ofStormSprint.

A large bar of high stools, tables and a buffet with chefs at hot skillets awaited us. The smell of cooked meats and cheeses filled the air, stronger than the fumes.

Thewaitstaffstood with champagne on trays, eager to supply the alcohol to those in the VIP Lounge. The people varied from those in linen suits, cargo shorts and tee-shirts.

I’d worked at Wimbledon and, still, this was impressive. Organised.

Abbe had gone and returned with two red passes that said STAFF up the lanyard.Salihathrew hers on and nodded for me to do the same.

I wasn’t staff. I may have used my lastpaycheckto get here, but the job wasn’t set in stone. Not until the team director gave me the nod.

“Armasis showing off,” Abbe said, jerking his chin towards one of the screens over the bar. There, the motorcyclist pulled the new bike up into a wheelie, waving at the crowd. There were cheers far off in the distance. “I’ll take you down to the pit once the testing starts.”

“It might be nice for Olivia to meet those she’ll work with and see how the testing works,”Salihasaid.

Abbe cocked a brow and looked me up and down. “You a new grid girl?”

I blinked in surprise. A grid girl? The equivalent of a ring girl? He thought that could be me?

“No, PR,” I said and offered him my hand to shake. “Flattered, but not a grid girl.”

“Oh, good luck,” he scoffed, but he had turned to his iPad, not paying me any attention.

“Abbe,” Saliha scolded.

He gave a lazy shrug and gestured to the chefs. “You sure you don’t want some real food before we hit the pits?”

She only took a final pointed bite of her hot dog.

“You, sunshine?”

“Thanks, Abbe, but I’m just eager to get started.” If they’d still employ me once they knew who I was.

“Fine,” he grumbled and led the way down a spiral staircase and onto the road busy with motorbikes, people and tools. The pit lane. The atmosphere was electric, with excitement and cheers all across the tarmac.

“TheCiclatiteam is just down here,” he said as we brushed past some of the racers and entered the pit box. It was essentially a large garage, with a garage door that led to pit lane where the riders would drive off to the grid for the race. Four bikes stood waiting, the rest of the room in the team colours. There were comfy seats on one side and screens along one of the walls. My dad had loved theStormSprintchampionship. From watching, I knew the rest of the team would watch the race from the screens, their reactions displayed on the TV when their rider crashed or won. Sundays watching the races were as ingrained in my childhood as church the hours before.

Seven men were in the room, some tinkering with the bikes, some watching the screens, some in deep discussion.

Abbe cleared his throat.

The oldest of the men, Hispanic and greying, looked up from the bike he’d been toying with. When he sawSaliha, he straightened with a smile. “Thought you weren’t with us until the first race?”

“Couldn’t keep away,” she laughed and they hugged. “Also, I wanted to introduce your new media manager.”

His smile faltered as he saw me and he released her.

“Olivia Quinn,” Saliha introduced me. “Olivia, this is Cris Bacque. The Ciclati StormSprint Director.”

“Lovely to meet you,” I said, taking his extended, grease-marked hand. My dad had taught me to have a strong grip; I used it now. “Though, please call meLivie.”

He went back to tinkering the bike. “What do you know aboutStormSprint?”

I was ready for this. I knew an onslaught of questions would come my way. I inhaled deeply, ready to share my newfound knowledge. “I’ve researched about the championship, the players, the team—”

“The players ,” he muttered and shook his head, eyes rolling back. A look my dad gave me when I’d been in trouble .

Fuck.Fuckety-fuck. I knew they weren’t players, it was just a slip of the tongue—

“Do you know the difference between a factory and a satellite team?” When I didn’t respond immediately, he asked, “And why we might use soft tyres instead of hard tyres? Do you know how many points you need to be champion?”

My face heated. Two years ago, this wouldn’t phase me. Yes, question me. I’ll prove myself.

But I’d never been desperate like this.

I plastered on a smile. “Satellite teams lease the bikes, so they don’t have the most up-to-date model.Ciclatiis a factory team. I’m sure I still have a lot to learn, but as for your other questions—”

“Who was your last client? A fast fashion brand? An influencer?” The bitter tone in his voice already told me everything he thought of me. I wasn’t good enough. And the only thing he had to judge me on was my appearance so far.

It was ridiculous to assume he judged me for my blonde curled hair, or my pink blazer and trainers. I took pride in my appearance — I was partial to a spray tan, and my nail tech was one of my closest friends — but my job was about public image. To most, image was everything.

Salihaspoke for me. “Olivia worked in the tennis and badminton—”

“The client,” he pressed through gritted teeth.

“VinnyGarvs,” I admitted, nearly all my resolve evaporating.

Saying his name churned my stomach. I avoided any topic of conversation to do with him, to what had happened.

But I knew this question was going to be asked. I’d practised saying his name in the mirror as if it didn’t normally make my voice tremble and my breaths quicken.

I felt my feet on the floor, in my trainers, grounding me. I’d be judged on it for the rest of my life, but it was in the past . Nothing could be done now.

The room quietened. A mechanic dropped a tool that clanged on the floor. There was still the noise from outside, the shouts, cheers and calls over a microphone, but the pit box stilled.

“Shit,” one of the mechanics muttered, ducking back down to examine the bike.

“Nasty business, that,” Cris mumbled, shaking his head.

And that was it. I was about to be asked to leave. My last shot at my career. Gone.

Nazminhad said that if it were up to her, I’d be hired on the spot. But nothing went pastCrisBacque.

“It wasn’tLivie’sfault,”Salihapressed, stepping before me. “She did everything she could. There’s only so much you can do with the UK press. A trial is set to take place over their demeanour, notLivie’s.”

Cris grumbled, “Bastards.”

VinnyGarvswas not my first client. But he was the one I would be remembered by. He was a tennis legend set to go against the reigning champion at Wimbledon when a photo was leaked of him and a woman naked in bed. In the aftermath of the revealed affair, his wife had recorded him shouting at her and called the police, citing domestic abuse.

Something I couldn’t confirm or deny. He had a temper, my own relationship with him had been…challenging and something I would rather forget.

When I heard the audio of him on her socials… my heart pr actically stopped. That he could do that.

But it was nothing in comparison to what unfolded after.

The cheating scandals I’d dealt with. The court case was out of my hands.

He had killed himself after he pleaded not guilty to domestic abuse despite his lawyers’ advice. The UK media went into a frenzy.

Inquiries had started into how the media handled the situation as he had not been found guilty in a court of law, even though they treated him like he was. There was the issue of what you could say about someone when a trial had never taken place.

I’d been in contact with an MP,OluchiEkubo, about changing the law when it came to what the media could and could not share about ongoing cases. The onslaught of abuse he’d received. The constant hounding that, in the end, had broken him.

WithOluchi’shelp, things were moving in the right direction. She was pressing for debates in Parliament over newspapers reusing information they had not investigated themselves.

Reporting on reporting.

Crisstood straight and released a long breath. “Our case isn’t as complicated as that. We have a man adored by the masses who plans on retiring — which is confidential — and a man who has taken his bad boy impression so far that it is no longer charming.”

The last article about Nixon detailed an apparent cocaine addiction he was struggling to kick before the season started. In the article, the head ofStormSprintsaid there would be more rigorous drug testing throughout the weeks and before every race.

“That said, we have a lot of change within our team whenAlvretires next year and there are often hiccups during the season. You prepared to go frompreppyscones at Wimbledon to the fumes of the track?”

“Prepared and eager,” I told him with a nod.

His mouth was in a tight line as he glanced from me toSalihaand back. “Fine,” he sighed. “You know this isn’t a job for the weak-hearted, don’t you? It’s not a normal publicist job.”

I nodded again.

“This isn’t a permanent contract until you’ve proven yourself. That is also for you. The men here are far less proper and charming than you’re used to, and if you want out… it will make it easier.” He groaned as his eyes locked on something in the background behind me. “ C’estquoicebordel! Nixon estunpetitemerdeux! ”

My French hadn’t been used in conversation for about four years, but when I knew this job was possible, my twin brother and I had practised to prepare me.

What is this mess? Nixon is a little shit, was what he said.

On the screens, the new motorbike was doing wheelies along the track and, as the noise of a speeding bike approached, it was clear he was coming our way.

A deep laugh came into the box. A man of about5’10with a bright smile wearing theCiclaticolours on his leathers and a large 86 on his back applauded slowly, looking up at the screen before clappingCrison the back. He only grumbled in response.

To most, he was just a middle-aged man.

To my dad, he had been his sporting hero.

To me, he was forever embedded in my memories when it came to my father.

“Give him a break,”AlvaroMendes said, Italian accent less strong than in the post-race interviews I’d watched. “This is his first bike reveal.”

More grumbles from Cris.

“Saliha!” 86 shouted before greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

She smiled and held him tight. “Alvaro!”

When she let him go, his attention turned to me and I swallowed. I’d known I would have to interact with this man if I got the job, but… I had no idea what to say to the seven-time championship winner.

“There are two beautiful young ladies in the room,Cris, and you’ve been swearing your mouth off?”

Crissnorted and turned back to the screen as the roaring engine came to a screeching halt. I couldn’t look away fromAlvaro, despite all the cheering outside.

“AlvaroMendes,” he said, giving me his hand to shake.

My dad would lose his shit if he could see me now. I could imagine him listening to my story, on the edge of his seat on the sofa, mouth hanging open.

But that wouldn’t happen.

I felt honoured to touchAlvaro’shand. His greying blonde hair was pushed back, ready for the helmet to go on his head.

My hand took his and clasped tight. “LivieQuinn, PR.”

He nodded and, over his shoulder, looked toCris.

Crisonly said, “On a temporary basis.”

A year ago, I would have laughed at being on a temporary contract. Now, I was desperate to take anything.

It didn’t stop me from chewing my bottom lip.

Temporary would do in the short term. I’d prove myself .

“For now,”Salihaadded with a wink. She had always been awful at winking, somehow screwing up half her face in the process, but it had never stopped her. Not at university, not on dates, not at her job.

“Well, you’ll have no problems from me,”Alvaroadded with an easy smile as people shuffled through the garage door to the track. “I’m a golden boy.”

Leaving the pit box, Cris chuckled.

“I’ve heard,” I laughed.

“Two teams out for testing before ours!” one of the men in the pit box shouted as number 18 walked in from pit lane.

Nixon Armas.

Behind me,Alvaroleaned down to my ear as I watched the second team member approach. “He’s the one you need to watch out for.”

As if in slow motion, he lifted the helmet from his head.

I’d seen photos and interviews of him as I researched, but nothing compared to seeing him in the flesh. His strong, square jawline tensed as he swallowed, his blue eyes narrowed in anger as he looked around, hugging his helmet to his chest. The tawny skin of his face was covered in dots of perspiration that he wiped off with the sleeve of his leathers.

Once, when I watched the races with my dad on a Sunday afternoon, I’d commented about how attractive he was.

It was nothing in comparison to him face-to-face.

He carried the arrogance with him. Intimidating, masculine, bloody breathtaking.

But I did breathe. I nearly choked on my swallow, but I did breathe.

He was one of the most attractive, commanding men I’d ever laid eyes on. He knew it too. He used it to his advantage when it came to his fuck ups.

“Smooth ride?”Alvaroasked, still standing behind me.

Nixon didn’t look over, trying to find someone who wasn’t there. “Smooth as shit,” he said. “The handling is exactly what we need on ours. I need to tellCris—”

But as his search turned his gaze this way, it found me. His eyes narrowed further. “You are?”

“LivieQuinn,” I said, offering my hand out again. He stared down at it. “New publicist for the team. Media manager.”

He only looked me up and down. “You’re not in uniform.”

“She just got here, Nix,”Alvarosaid behind me.

“Should be in uniform,” he said, peeling off his leather gloves before going to one of the cases that lined the wall. He pulled out a top in their colours, ripping off the plastic covering and shoving it into my chest. “Change.”

“Change?”

“You’re being a dick,” Alvaro scolded.

Nixon glared at him. “Is she part of the team or not?”

“You can at least be nice, asshole.”

“I’ll change,” I offered, keen to not cause any dramas when I was meant to take them away. “But then we need to have a meeting, MrArmas.”

He breathed in deeply, turning to one of the lined-up bikes. “I don’t have time.”

“Bullshit,”Alvarosnapped, walking away. “Go and speak to her. Especially seeing as she’s here because of you.”

“It won’t take long,” I promised.

His shoulders raised and lowered in a deep sigh before he faced me again. Those eyes… the cheekbones. Damn it, I knew he was attractive from all of the articles, but…

He was so tall in comparison to the other riders .

In comparison to me.

He was hardening, staring down at me. “So, it’s confirmed, you’re here to keep me in line,” he snarled, but then a cruel smile warmed his face as if he realised he wasn’t at a complete loss. “Good luck.”