GREENE | CS55

03 - Jim

The opportunely timed phone call— the first of multiple Pierce would receive from her father Jim in tandem— came in just as Pierce entered her hotel room. She rolled her eyes and let out a grown, using all her might to shut out the incessant sound.

Pierce didn't want to hear it, whatever it was that Jim had to say. Gunther's job was to handle Jim. To call Jim. To take calls from Jim. Jim never called his daughter after a race, even to check if she was okay after a crash. The bare minimum you'd expect from a parent. So, if he was calling her, that meant he was pissed.

Like, really pissed.

With two fingers, like it had some sort of infection, she plucked the phone out of her rear pocket and flung it across the room. The device bounced up in the air once before settling against the red leather couch cushion.

After she made sure room service was ordered (an Asian style noodle salad, hold the noodles, sub lettuce and add extra grilled tofu) Pierce decided she had the strength to deal with him. She'd prepared herself mentally for the scolding that was abound. "Hi Jim."

"Hi Pierce." He answered equally as dryly, with a twinge of that typical Jim Greene sentiment. The acid on his tongue as he prepared the usual. Only this time, the repercussions were heightened. Jim Greene was less than impressed with his daughters weekend show. This was her home race. Their home race. Haas' home race as a team.

"What can I do ya for, Jimmy James?" Pierce snickered at her decent southern accent.

"Cut the shit, Pierce." Jim was quick to bite back at his daughter, unwilling to play along with her attitude. "What was that all about today, huh? You're sure making a ton of noise for someone who doesn't have a care in the world about anything other than herself."

The smile dropped from the corners of her mouth. Pierce rolled her eyes, hitting the speakerphone button and tossing the phone onto the bathroom counter.

She watched her reflection as she began undressing, checking on the slim figure presented in the mirror. The figure she made sure to keep trim and perfectly chiseled. Not an inch over 24 in the waist, to compliment her hips which were slightly wide, in her opinion. She pinched the skin on her thigh, scowling at the collective between her fingers.

"What ever could you be talking about?"

Pierce heard her dad draw in a sharp breath. "I'm talking about you crashing into Sainz and causing a massive uproar."

Pierce made a face at herself in the mirror. For a moment, her heart stopped.

She hadn't heard anything yet about the conspiracies' swirling through the Formula One and motorsport world about her crash into Carlos today, the things people were saying about her. About the apology she had given just a short hour before she stood here on the phone with her dad.

Though she imagined the feedback couldn't be good. It hardly ever was.

"Massive uproar?" Pierce whispered, more to herself, in confusion. Her hair fell over her shoulders. She scoffed, "It's not like it was my first crash of the season."

"Yeah, well it's certainly topped the charts as one of your worst." Jim responded. "I've got the press release team working overtime trying to put out this latest fire, Pierce. What were you thinking, crashing into that McLaren, taking that racing line, arguing with Ashley over the radio?"

"I apologized! Plus, this time, it actually wasn't my fault, dad I—"

"That half-assed attempt at a sorry? You're not winning any golden globes with that one."