Criminal ~ OP81

08. Are my pants on fire?

Andrea Wolff

I fidget in the passenger seat of Dad's sleek Mercedes, my fingers idly tracing the leather stitching on the armrest. The music was turned down low and it unnerved me because it meant my dad wanted to say something. Which couldn't have been good since he found out I left my car at the circuit.

I couldn't exactly tell him Oscar ended up taking me home and therefore I left my car. So I was left to lie to him.

I was beginning to feel bad about all the lies but then I remembered why he brought me here.

The tension in the car is palpable as we drove, and I can feel Dad's questioning glances without even looking at him.

"Andrea," he finally breaks the silence, his Austrian accent more pronounced with his concern and seriousness, "why couldn't you take your own car again?"

I swallow hard, my mind racing to construct a plausible story. I gave him a short answer before and I had to at least kinda stick to that so he didn't get suspicious.

Dad would have a meltdown if he knew I was fraternizing with a rival driver, especially one he considers a threat to his precious George Russell.

"I went out for dinner last night, remember?" I start carefully, "but just decided to take a cab back. Didn't feel like driving after a glass of wine, you know?"

Didn't have wine, also didn't take a cab.

Had a milkshake and rode home in a McLaren.

Dad's eyebrows furrow, his blue eyes flicking between me and the road. I can tell he's not buying it, but thankfully, he doesn't push further.

The rest of the drive is tense, filled only with the low hum of the engine and the occasional ping from Dad's phone – probably Susie checking in. God, I needed Susie to come around so she could hang out with my dad.

As soon as we pull into the Silverstone complex, I practically bolt from the car, muttering something about needing to use the restroom. I can feel Dad's suspicious gaze tearing into my back as I weave through the growing crowd of team personnel and early-arriving fans.

I spot George near the Mercedes garage, his tall frame easy to pick out even in the bustling paddock. Since that plane ride we've actually gotten closer as friends and I was thankful for it. One because he was sweet, and two because he knew about the whole scheme.

I make a beeline for him, relief washing over me as I approach.

"Hey," I say, slightly out of breath. "Dad's on my case about the car thing. Any chance you could back me up if he asks? Say we had dinner and you dropped me off?"

George grins and lets out a small chuckle, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief and humor. "Course, Andrea. Wouldn't want Toto finding out about your secret rendezvous with a certain Australian, now would we?"

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. "You're a lifesaver, George. I owe you one."

"Just don't forget me when you're Mrs. Piastri," he teases, and I swat his arm playfully while hoping up on the wheely mechanics stool left empty next to him.

"Shut up," I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one overheard. "It's not like that."

George raises an eyebrow. "Sure it's not. And I'm secretly in love with Alex Albon."

"Now that I believe in" I quickly say but he pushes my stool away from him. I let out a yelp and hang on before shuffling back closer.

I'm about to let out another retort when I spot Dad heading our way. George smoothly transitions into a discussion about tire strategies, and I play along, grateful for his quick thinking.