Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 21: Lauren (Part 1 of 2)

Saturday, October 19 – Rome, Italy

I rub my eyes against the bright October sun as it streams through the Uber's window. This getting off the plane/train/automobile and heading straight to work nonsense is getting really old, really fast. And Nicola's a straight up liar. Not even staying at The Savoy or eating at The Ledbury can make up for having to go the press circuit alone. Questions of "Are you and Seb Bianchi dating?" or "Is your relationship going to interfere with his chance at winning another championship?" were annoying, but easy enough to blow off with a simple 'no comment.' The ones asking about Seb's kissing skills (yeah, I kind of want to know, too) or how I managed to snag such a player (hey, what if he did the snagging?) actually made me want to punch the interviewers in the face.

Then again, Seb may have had it worse. He was the one caught adjusting his pants outside my hotel room in that picture all over the tabloids and retweeted ad nauseum. If I ever find out who's responsible for starting the lie—which I've been ordered not to deny until the Cadmium team can come up with a solid rebuttal—I'll get them back somehow for sure. Glue in a shampoo bottle, hot sauce in room service ketchup, and bogus housekeeping requests all come to mind, but then I remember I'm not twelve any more.

But thank god it really is just a lie. Actually, thank Seb. He knew us getting together was a bad idea. So now he's handsome and smart. Why does every new thing I learn about him have to make me like him more? Even his hometown is gorgeous.

It's Saturday morning and traffic on Rome's downtown streets is sparse, but that just lets me see these old buildings better. There's more history in one block of this place than all of America combined, and I'd love to be able to soak it in. But our ride doesn't stop until we get to the city's flagship Ducati store.

Those people who weren't on the streets on our way here? Yeah, well they're apparently all queued in line for the fan event that's starting at ten, which is—I check my watch—in five minutes.

I have to hand it to Nicola. That woman is nothing if not punctual.

"We have a strict schedule, so let's get a move on," she says, jumping out from the seat beside me and heading to the trunk to grab her things.

I resist the urge to tell the press officer where to shove her 'shed-dule.' I like British accents as much as the next girl, but somehow that particular word never sat right, no matter how many times I've heard it in the Queen's English. I've made it through five days without once commenting on Nicola's cringe worthy pronunciation of it, but it's really hard not to reveal that hearing it that way makes me want to poke my eardrums with a sharp stick.

By the time I climb out of the back seat, Nicola is out of direct earshot, trudging toward the store with her carry-on and waving people out of her way.

I collect my bag and smile at people in the queue as I pass until they begin to recognize me. When they call me by name and pull out their cell phones to snap pictures, I lower my gaze and quicken my pace.

"Holy crap," I mutter after stopping at the entrance door beside Nicola. This is a really big group to go through in just three hours, especially after having come directly from the airport. But while being the center of attention was never my thing, meet-and-greets are part of the job.

"Don't be too flattered. Not everyone is here for you. We have the PrixMoto and the 2Prix Ducati guys here today, too," she says before knocking on the glass. A sign is still turned to 'Chiuso,' but an employee in a red shirt unlocks it for us.