𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART TWENTY THREE

uh what's this? not me updating instead of writing my essay due TONIGHT. not me. never me. huh? (about to pull off the academic come back of the century, wish me luck)

Word count; 2,653

Tomás

— May 28th, 2023. Monte Carlo, Monaco.

The Monaco Grand Prix had met the same expectations as the races before it - a 1-2 from Lamborghini, with Max taking third place. A blurred victory on my behalf, smothered by endless champagne and expensive gin, already lost in my own conscience before the clock even struck midnight. As was the custom for racing in Monte Carlo, with not a single driver avoiding the club that night; the city was almost an excuse in itself to get black-out drunk, as if it was part of the lifestyle, the brand. One that I certainly couldn't ignore.

Light seeped through the blinds of the hotel room, and my eyes fluttered open, my head already too heavy for my body. Except, my concern immediately drifted, recognising I wasn't alone in my bed. Not that it was even my bed - I was staying with Lando in Monaco, as was the usual, and this room must've been about twice the size of his living room, at least. Rubbing my eyes with my free hand, the other caught around a girl attached to my side, I realised it wasn't just one, but three.

Three.

Carefully, I slid out from the sheets, suddenly cold at the lack of contact - or maybe that was because someone had left the door to the balcony open, a light breeze washing over the chamber every now and then. Immediately, I scanned the floor, chewing on my inner cheek as I noticed a lack of used condoms - or any at all, for that matter. I exhaled, turning to find my clothes on the floor, gladdened to feel my phone beneath the fabric.

Thank fuck.

Sliding into my trousers, I found my way to the balcony, lighting a smoke - another thing I was glad to not have lost in the whirlwind of the night before. Leaning on the parapet, I pulled out my phone, recognising it was already the early afternoon, and as a result I'd received six missed calls from Curro, and triple the amount of texts. Most of which I ignored, instead opening my camera roll, where several photos and videos sat from last night. Selecting one at random, I squinted at the sudden shriek, instantly turning down my volume, glancing over my shoulder incase it had woken anyone else up. I let out a soft chuckle; it was Lando, in a fit of laughter, with what looked like a shirt stained by red wine.

Could've been a worse night to forget.

I swiped through the rest of the photos, taking leisurely drags from my cigarette, until I stopped, brows furrowed; it was another video, though instead of Lando - the main actor of the collection - it was Oscar. More specifically, a very, very drunk Oscar, making out with a girl.

My eyes widened. I looked over my shoulder.

Not just any girl.

It was the girl I'd woken up next to, whose fingernail marks plagued my torso.

What the hell?

I watched the video again, and again after that, as if each time I watched it something might change.

That doesn't mean anything, right?

Right?

Cautiously, I buried my cigarette in a nearby ashtray, returning inside. The room was already a mess, with half filled glasses of champagne harrowing the different tables and dressers, accompanied by other bottles of booze, and what looked like gold confetti, as if which ever party I'd attended the night before had made its way back to the room. The floor itself was relatively clean, barring the sets of clothes dotted around the carpet - but then again, according to the video, Oscar hadn't worn a dress to the club last night. I almost smiled as I pictured it, only to shake the thought away as I came back to reality.