Prologue

 

Lucky

 

February, 2023

 

“Yes, mama, I promise I’m eating properly. Si. Si.” 

I half listened to my mother as she fussed on the other end of the phone. I could only half listen because if I gave her my full attention, the overwhelming loneliness would threaten to swallow me whole. I missed her. I missed my sisters. I missed my home. I was glad she couldn’t see how empty my fridge was, or feel that my tiny room was frigidly cold. She already hated that I was here, so far away. 

I hated it too, but we’d given so much for me to have this dream that I wasn’t going to squander it because I was homesick and lonely. They were depending on me, and I wouldn’t let them down. When I’d been picked up by the Eternica Young Drivers program, it had been a dream come true. All the sacrifices my family had made–my whole village had made–was finally coming to fruition. I would make it. I would be a Formula One champion and make so much money that I would drag my whole family out of poverty. 

I looked at the picture of Ayrten Senna on my wall. Maybe one day some kid would have my picture on display.

There was a knock at the door, and I frowned at it. “I have to go, Mama. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

I’d been signed reasonably old by Eternica’s Junior Development program, which meant the other boys in the program didn’t really have a lot of interest in hanging out with me. Only one other driver went out of their way to be a friend, so I knew that was who was on the other side of the door even before I opened it. 

This room was in a shitty part of town, in a rundown building that might have been a grand home at one time but was now a mish-mash of poorly constructed flats. I wasn’t sure they even knew I didn’t have a parent living here with me, but if they did, no one ever said anything. Still, I was cautious as I looked through the peephole. 

Unsurprisingly, it was indeed Booker. We’d been racing each other since our karting days, when we were just kids. We hadn’t been friends, not until we both got called up to Eternica, but a shared history may as well have made him my brother. 

When I opened the door, his face was stormy, filled with a rage I rarely saw, even when he lost a race. “What is wrong?” 

He looked at me with eyes that were big and shiny, and I thought he was going to burst into angry tears. Instead, he muttered, “Can I come in?” 

I nodded and stood to the side.
Booker walked hesitantly inside, his eyes bouncing around the room. Although we were friends, he’d never been here. If we hung out, it was either at Eternica events, or at his apartment which was far nicer than this shithole.
Booker, like so many other drivers, was rich. Like rich-rich. I was pretty sure his father owned a bank and he was 19th in line for the throne of Liechtenstein, or Luxembourg, or some other tiny European monarchy. I was in England–you couldn’t throw your helmet at some of these events without hitting someone who had a direct line to the throne of some country or other. But unlike most of the entitled drivers who occupied karting, and junior formulae, Booker was nice. Kind even, as well as willing to put in the work to be the best rather than using their families money to pay their way into the sport. 

I tilted my head at him. “Are you okay?” 

He let out a big breath, and slumped on my bed. The quilt was one of the few things I brought from home; it was basically a security blanket. A hug from my family when they were too far away to actually hold. 

His curly blonde-brown hair fell over his face, and he had the beauty of good breeding. Two or three generations of ugly royals marrying pretty actresses and models instead of other royals. 

“No.” His answer was rough, and not just because his voice had finally dropped this year, but because he was upset. 

I sat beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

The words poured out of him like I’d turned on a tap. “My father called and wants me to come home. He said he entertained this silly little dream of mine long enough, now it is time to return and go to university, and get a job in the family business. That I had a responsibility to our family name.” 

Sometimes being poor and fatherless seemed like the worst fate; ever since my father had died, my mother had to work three times as hard to make sure we could live. There was no money for karting; there was barely any money for food. I was here because of hard work and the kind of community who believed in me even when the road ahead seemed paved with obstacles. But in moments like this, when expectations were like a noose around Booker’s neck, I could appreciate the freedom I had from familial expectations. The only person I had to prove something to was myself; although I was way harsher on myself than Booker’s dad could ever be. 

I cocked my head. “You’re going to quit?”

Booker growled out a noise and slumped back onto my bed. There was something…pretty about Booker. He was small and fine boned, though he had a lot of muscle, like we all did. It took strength to drive as fast. His features were almost soft, or maybe it was just his expression that made him seem so. He was usually smiling or laughing or concentrating really hard with his lip between his teeth. Not right now though, he was frowning so hard that he looked like he would explode.

Finally, he shook his head, sending his curls flying. “I don’t want to quit, but how do I keep going? He said he was already canceling my lease, and if I wasn’t home by the weekend, he would freeze my accounts. Like I can just pack up my life in three days?” 

I shrugged. “So do it without him and his money.” 

His face turned toward me, his eyes opened so wide it was like I’d suggested he get a part time job dressing up as Santa Claus. “I can’t afford my apartment on the Eternica stipend.” 

I snorted, because he lived in a nice part of town; we could add the stipends of every person in the Junior Development Team and we still wouldn’t have enough to make a week's rent.

“Solid gold toilets aren’t the only option out there, Booker.” I grinned, and he looked at me wide eyed. “You could move in here with me?” Lord knew that I could use help with the rent so I could have a little more money for food. Maybe it would also stave off the loneliness that threatened to swallow me whole.
Booker looked around, and he was many things, but a good poker player wasn’t one of them. “I don’t think you should even live here. Is that black mold?” He pointed to the corner of the ceiling. I was pretty sure it was black mold but there wasn’t much I could do about it. 

Still, it pricked my pride. “Don’t worry about it then. Go home to your family and forget your dreams.” 

Booker sat up quickly, his brow knitting. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” He chewed his lip. “Are you sure you’d live with me?” 

I shrugged again. “Sure. Do you snore?” 

“Probably.” 

“Do you leave your towels on the bathroom floor?”
“Where else would I leave them?” 

I sighed. Honestly, he would be a balm to my homesickness, so I was probably willing to tolerate just about anything. “Sounds great.”

Then he did something I didn’t expect.. He threw his arms around me and hugged me.
When was the last time I hugged somebody? The last time someone touched me in more than a passing push to situate me in a car, or the sims, or adjust my racesuit? Since I’d left home, maybe?

So I wrapped my arms around him and patted his back and blinked back the tears that I would never let fall. He was warm and solid and so willing to just give affection like it meant nothing. 

I realized he was mumbling something effusively. “I swear, I’ll be the best housemate. I don’t need my father, or my family. We can make this work. You’re already making this work. Together we could be unstoppable.” 

“I’d be happy with surviving,” I told him, slapping his back three more times and pulling away before I clung to him and made him uncomfortable. Even now, his cheeks were pink with embarrassment. It made him look… sweet. Even my face felt hot. “Come, let’s go get some ice cream. My nonna said that ice cream was the food of the savior himself, and if he’d had a choice, he would have turned water into sorbet.”

Booker laughed. “She did not.” 

I put my hand on my heart. “I swear on her grave. She was devoted to God and sweets, in that order.” Standing, I grabbed my jacket and slid it on. It was cold here, but not as cold as my home. 

We crept down the stairs of my flat, and I tried not to make too much noise in case one of the creepier neighbors appeared. Some of them watched me in a way that made me feel… less comfortable. Thankfully, I was a big for my age; which was annoying in racing but made me feel better at times like these.
“We can’t live here. Hell, even if I get dragged home with my tail between my legs, you shouldn’t live here either,” Booker whispered. “It’s dangerous.” 

I knew he was right, but it was here or eating. But maybe with Booker’s help, we could find somewhere better. 

Fortunately, it was around the corner from an ice cream shop. A small brass bell tinkled when we opened the door, the interior warm and brightly lit,  painted in pastel colors. It looked like one of my sister's barbie dolls threw up. 

“Won’t be a second,” someone yelled from the back, and I walked over to the big glass case. Ice cream isn’t something we could indulge in often; drivers were high performance athletes, and our diet was made to match. Every extra gram we were over our optimum weight was a second slower in lap time. 

But what was the point of working hard if I couldn’t have a single scoop of ice cream in celebration. I didn’t drink, smoke, eat pizza or any of the other things kids my age would be doing. I devoted my life to this sport. 

And that was why I was going to have a double scoop of the choc-chip cookie dough. 

“Butterscotch is the superior flavor,” Booker said confidently.  

I merely grunted my disagreement. 

A girl walked behind the counter from a back room and my mouth fell open. She was beautiful, with dark hair that fell down her back in waves, a hot pink scarf tied around her head to keep it from her eyes. She was wearing a frilly pink and white striped apron with the name of the store embroidered on the front, and black leggings with a long sleeved shirt. 

She was beautiful. “What can I get you?” 

I blinked, opening my mouth but nothing came out. Booker looked at me like I was an idiot. “I’ll have a scoop of butterscotch please. Lucky?” He elbowed me in the ribs. “What do you want?” 

“Er, cookies and cream. No, cookie dough.” I stumbled over my words, and the girl smiled at me as she went to work. 

Booker leaned closer. “I know she’s pretty, but how you get laid might actually be one of life's great unsolved mysteries,” he whispered in my ear.

The girl handed him his butterscotch. “So, do you guys go to school around here?” 

Booker leaned on the counter, so casually confident. “No, we both do schooling by correspondence. No time for a regular school day.” 

She raised a single dark brow at him. “What keeps you so busy?” she asked politely. 

“We’re drivers.” 

She looked me up and down, and then Booker. “For Uber?” 

A laugh burst out of me that echoed around the empty ice cream shop, startling both the girl and Booker. He frowned at me again before turning back to the girl. “No, for Eternica. We drive race cars.” He leaned forward and gave her a megawatt smile. “One day we’ll be driving Formula One cars at Silverstone.” 

She placed a malteaser on top of each of the ice cream cups and then a third one in her mouth. “I’ll be sure to remember your ice cream order then, so I can sell the information to the tabloids when you’re famous.” 

This time Booker laughed. “You can tell them that Booker Fletcher likes the best flavor of all time, and Lucky Lucci gets tongue-tied around pretty girls.” He went over to tap his card on the machine, and it made a long beep. 

The girl looked down at it. “It declined.” 

Booker actually looked panicked then. “That son of a bitch cut me off already.” His eyes were wide as he stared at me like he didn’t know what to do without access to his Daddy’s credit card. 

I pulled out my wallet and tried not to wince at how the coins jingled. Doling out the money, I paid for both ice creams. “Grazi.” 

Booker was on his phone, looking pale as he checked his apps and accounts. “Lucky is an interesting name,” the girl said softly.
“It’s really Ezio.” 

“I’m Adley.” She reached out and I shook her hand gently. She had the softest skin I’d ever felt, even though her fingertips were cold from the ice cream scooper. 

“It is a pleasure,” I murmured, and she smiled. 

I was going to marry her.