𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐠; oscar piastri ✔

PART NINE

For the sake of this story so far, Isabel is still dating Carlos </33

Word count; 2,643

Mirabella

We arrived at the club shortly after nine, already packed full of partygoers and revellers, the music overshadowing any average conversation. When we entered, Oscar had glanced at me, and I realised he was holding out his hand. A burn settling in my chest, I took his palm, knowing it was only to assist our journey through the dance floor. Like that, he guided us through to the back of the cabaret, to a VIP area and multiple other drivers - many of which I didn't recognise - letting go of my hand as soon as he was able to.

Kelly stood up as soon as she saw me, pulling me into a swift embrace and leading me to a seat beside her - a booth, crowded with others - Oscar departing to the bar. She introduced me to the two girls beside her; Isabel and Carmen.

"You're officially a wag, now!"

I looked across the booth, a man leaning over the table with adoring eyes.

"Be quiet, Max." Kelly scolded loudly, putting her lips close to my ear to say, "He doesn't really know what that means."

"What does it mean?" I questioned, completely dumbfounded.

Isabel leaned over Kelly, "It means you're a wife or girlfriend!"

"It's what they call partners of the drivers." Kelly explained.

I nodded slowly.

"Don't blame him." She reiterated, turning to him to shout. "He's stupid!"

"Hey!" Max retorted.

Oscar returned, and naturally the booth shuffled over to make room for him beside me. I didn't question the beer bottle in his hand.

After a while, we separated into our own different groups - which for me was either with Kelly or Oscar, too afraid to hang around anyone else for too long. Half the time, I could barely hear the person beside me, interpreting what they said by mouth only, until our voices hurt so much that we didn't bother and laughed.

Someone backed into me and I whipped around, as did the culprit, apologising immediately, his eyes glancing towards his own white shirt, plagued with a spilled beverage. He muttered to himself, only in a vernacular all too familiar. I furrowed my brows, wondering if my ears were deceiving me.

"It's okay, it's okay!" I insisted in Italian, waving my hands in front of him.

His eyes darted upwards, "Excuse me?"

"Don't worry, it's okay." I beamed.

"It isn't true." His jaw dropped.

"It is!"

"Really?" He said in English. "I don't believe you!"

"I'm Italian." I confirmed.

He looked over each of his shoulders, hand latching onto someone nearby and dragging them over, "Carlos, Carlos!"