A girl chasing her dream. A boy looking for the light.
When Florence Nyx started her internship at a Formula 1 paddock, she expected a lot. Fast cars. Exclusive impressions most people could only dream of. An entire array of skills she'd acquire...
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I'd never been a fan of bars.
The intoxicated laughter of the drunks in the corner, the obnoxious chatter of yet another bachelorette party, and especially the stupid jokes bartenders liked to make, all got on my nerves.
And yet here I was, sitting in this damn hellhole with a name as original as Murphy's for the third night in a row. The owner declared it got its name because in bars, every single thing that could go wrong usually did go wrong.
I was convinced he just used his last name as a banner, though. Damn Irish folks.
McCoy's would be a great name for a bar, I thought to myself. Maybe that'd be my next career step.
"You know, you really gotta stop sulking, or I'll be out of a job soon." The voice to my right made me glance up from the Guinness in front of me.
Idir's blue eyes met mine, his dark skin reaching a whole different shade in the dim light. He lifted the glass of whisky and coke to his lips while raising a brow at me, waiting for a response.
"Aren't you already out of a job?" I raised a brow at my friend.
"Well, yeah." He sucked in a breath through his teeth, warily eyeing the drink in his hands. "But for some insane reason, I followed you out here to make sure you get back on your ugly ass feet. You might not be paying me right now, but you will when you win the championship next season. If not for you, you can at least do it for me."
I almost laughed at his excuse of a pep talk. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole." I smirked while downing my beer, raising the empty glass at the bartender. He nodded and started the tap, so I glanced back at my performance coach.
"What?" Idir shrugged. "You were the one who promised you'd make me the world champion's assistant, trainer, whatever the hell you wanna call it, if I quit my job. Didn't think you'd mean world champion of drowning your sorrows in repulsive Guinness, though."
The bartender shot Idir a weird look, obviously wondering what American would be stupid enough to sit in an Irish bar and insult their most precious beer. Or maybe it was just that Idir was black — I couldn't tell. Either way, I grabbed my Guinness from the guy's hand and waved him off, not wanting him to listen to whatever Idir wanted to say.
"You know, technically, you're not even supposed to drink this." He pointed at my beer, completely ignoring the fact that I'm not on duty right now. "But I'm a good friend and will let it slide for now. I have one condition, though."
I raised a brow at him. "Again?"
My mind went back to the first day I'd met Idir. After that accident a decade ago, the hospital had assigned him to me, making sure my body recovered from the 40G impact that had shattered me more than I'd expected it to. I'd only needed one session with him to know I would want him as my personal coach, since I'd been on the lookout for one either way.
