SAVANNAH

This was for the best, sleeping in my own hotel room. Sure, it wasn't the luxurious suites of the past several races, but the room in Brazil was comfortably upscale, with a giant whirlpool tub. And I didn't feel like going to go to a club, anyway. Not tonight, and especially not with the team. No, I didn't need that scrutiny of the press, of why I was partying without my fiancé.

It was easy to tell myself that I was exhausted from the long, sweltering day on the track. I'd also stuffed myself with a delicious buffet meal with the rest of the pit crew in one of the hotel's banquet rooms, and now I was going to draw myself a hot bath and try to relax.

And try not to wonder where Dante was.

I stripped my jeans and T-shirt off and shrugged on one of the fuzzy robes I'd found hanging in the closet. Before I tied the robe shut, I turned to the mirror and panic seized me. Was I fat? I poked at my stomach while looking in the mirror and pinching skin around my midsection. A twinge of my old disorder flared up and I tied the robe tight. Had I eaten too much at dinner? I felt overfull, but because I was edgy, I opened the minibar door to check out the candy bar offerings.

I slammed the door, disgusted. No. I wasn't going to binge because the season was coming to a close and Dante was who-knows-where. I was stronger than that.

Wasn't I?

Maybe Dante would go to a club with Jack, like he had in Mexico City. Maybe he'd visit me on the down-low, like he had most nights since our official, public "breakup." He hadn't slept over the two previous nights, but I'd chalked that up to pre-race concentration and his silly sex superstition. But he didn't mention anything about getting together when he'd won the race, and hadn't texted, which made me anxious. 

Usually he was ravenous for sex the night after a race, and truth be told, I was as well. Somehow I'd gotten on his schedule, and had come to love some of the things he did. Like a night of filthy, sweet sex after competition. Usually he couldn't last long at first — but he always managed a second, and often third, round. And he always, always, made sure I got off multiple times. Dante was nothing if not attentive to my sexual needs.

But those needs were being pushed aside tonight. Taking one for the team had a whole new meaning, and I wondered if I'd have to resort to pleasuring myself tonight.

I suspected Dante had team obligations, because I'd seen him huddling with Tanya and Bronson earlier in the day. And since he was poised to become World Champion if he took one point in the final race in Dubai—essentially, came in fifth or higher—surely they wanted to show him off in some high-profile way here in Brazil. Probably a dinner with sponsors. Dante thought they were boring, but I didn't mind them much.

As the water for the bath flowed into the big tub, I swiped at the screen of my phone, idly checking Facebook. I scanned my friends' updates back in the States—oh, look, Brittany from college was getting married to her high school sweetheart and Joanie was getting her Masters in psychology—and my eyes flitted to the right side of the page, where the news updates sat.

Formula World Star Spotted with Brazilian Model

I tapped on the link so hard I thought I was going to shatter the phone's glass screen.

The news item was from a tabloid, and had been posted moments before. It was about Dante, and he was spotted in Rio, walking into a tropical-looking bar earlier in the evening with a model named Iolanda. His hand was on the small of the woman's back and I cried out. That was where Dante had always touched me.

He was smiling. Not grinning, but smiling just a little. Enough to tell me that he didn't exactly hate the idea of being with Iolanda.

The article was scant on details, but with each word, my guts felt like a vise grip was wrenching them tighter. It said Dante had broken up with his American fiancée and was likely with the Brazilian as a rebound affair. Iolanda had no last name, apparently, and she was famous in Brazil. She'd been on a soap opera as a teen, and now that she was twenty-one, was rumored to become the next Victoria's Secret Angel. An American football player had courted her hard, but she'd rebuffed him.

She was famous for her curves and pillowy lips. Famous for her extremely long legs and bronze tan. Famous for the fact that she adored soccer players and race car drivers. She'd just broken up with a driver from the IRL circuit, in fact.

Iolanda had a crush on Dante since she was a girl, one of her friends told the tabloid.

Iolanda had recently signed a modeling contract worth millions for an Italian lingerie company, and couldn't wait to "savor" all Italy had to offer. I snorted out loud, wondering if that was code for savoring Dante's penis while on a yacht in the Mediterranean. 

I was a horrible person for thinking such jealous thoughts. I had nothing personally against the woman.

Io-fucking-landa.

I looked down at my pale legs and immediately burst into tears. Sobbed until my nose stuffed up and snot was running down my lip. I shuffled into the bathroom, still crying, and blew my nose. Blubbering, I checked the tub. The water was scalding and I shut the faucet off. Iolanda wasn't the problem. My feelings about Dante were.

I blew my nose again, this time making a little honking sound, but the tears wouldn't stop. Of course Dante was with Iolanda. Why wouldn't he be?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Savannah isn't reading Dante's past actions. He needs to speak up, now!

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