Flat out, p.1
Flat Out, page 1
FLAT OUT
TIFFANY PATTERSON
Copyright © 2026 by Tiffany Patterson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Travis
I don’t need this shit right now.
The two teenage boys the Palazzo security caught trying to get up to my hotel suite stare at me bewildered.
They never made it up to the correct floor.
“We’re having some issues with the elevators, and when they couldn’t give us a proper room number, we brought them down here,” one of the security guards explains.
I nod.
“That’s when they confessed why they’re really here.”
I stare at the two teens.
At first, I chalked up their attempt as two overly enthusiastic racing fans who’d heard I arrived in Vegas early and wanted to sneak an autograph or something.
Yet as I pendulum my gaze between them, the quick glimpses at one another, the lowered heads and what security discovered, hidden in their bags suggests something entirely different.
“How old are you?” I ask the lanky one with black hair.
“S-Sixteen,” he answers, shifting from one foot to the other.
His blond-haired friend nudges him with his elbow. “Liar,” he whispers loud enough for me and the three other men in this private room to hear.
“Sunday’s my birthday,” the dark-haired one confesses a beat before his eyes drop back to the linoleum.
“This weekend’s Grand Prix is your birthday trip?” I guess.
“His dad brought us,” the blond one answers.
“And you thought it’d be a good idea to break in and vandalize my room?” I scowl.
They were found with spray paint, eggs, and rolls of toilet paper.
“We weren’t going to do anything. I-I just went to the store,” dark-haired boy lamely explains.
“Bullshit,” I say through gritted teeth. “What were your plans?”
They look between one another, dumbfounded.
“We just—”
“Say it, and I might convince the security staff to let you off easy.”
The blond one runs his hands through his hair, sighing. “We needed the money.”
I squint, glancing over at the security staff, who appear to be just as confused.
“We, uh, placed a few bets and …”
“You owe money,” I finish for him.
He nods.
“And you thought vandalizing my room was going to do what?” I fold my arms across my chest.
“It’s been such a good season for you, we, uh, just needed to throw you off of your game.”
I grunt.
“That’s all.”
“To beat the spread,” blondie adds like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
I shake my head in disgust. Betting is getting worse in just about every sport. Considering this is Vegas, it’s not the first time in my F1 career that I’ve dealt with this sort of issue.
“Would you like us to call the police, Mr. Townsend?”
“The police?” Dark Hair suddenly looks like a kid lost in the woods.
“No. Please,” his friend pleads.
“I should,” I say to the security while still staring at the teens. “You two tried to ruin my weekend, why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
“We’re so sorry!” the black-haired one yells, clasping his hands in front of him, begging.
“We just needed the money. If you tell the police, my dad will lose his shit.”
I almost ask why the hell I should care about their dad’s reaction, but then I remember some of the stupid shit I got into as a teenager.
Teens with unfettered online access and underdeveloped front lobes are a terrible combination. Only minds that immature could think of doing trying something so idiotic just to earn some online bet.
“The police won’t tell your dad,” I say.
Their eyes renew with hope … only for it to be stamped out a second later.
“Because you are.”
I have the security guard get the boys’ phones out, then make them each call their fathers and explain exactly what they tried to do tonight.
The dark-haired boy’s father yells and then hangs up on them but not before telling them he’ll be here in five minutes.
By the time all is said and done, both boys’ heads hang low and shoulders slump in shame. At least their parents know the truth of what they’ve been up to online. Maybe that’ll convince them to keep a better eye on them.
“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Dark Hair’s father says fifteen minutes later, when it’s only he and I outside of the security room. “I apologize about all of this. It will never happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t,” I tell him and take the hand he offers.
“Good luck this weekend. I mean it.”
I come close to telling him I don’t need his luck. Instead, I reply, “I always get lucky in Vegas.”
He nods, confirming that he, too, is aware of my Vegas winning streak.
I talk to the hotel’s security for another minute, and once they assure me that my suite is secure, I start toward the restaurant on the ground floor to grab dinner before heading to my room.
After arriving early for this weekend’s Grand Prix, and a long photo shoot, I’m ready to settle in for the night. My only plans are to watch some footage and read over the notes my team principal and I discussed for this weekend’s race strategy.
Today’s Wednesday, and most of the rest of the racers and their teams arrive tomorrow. My series of sponsorship meetings and sporting interviews will begin in the morning.
The hostess of the Mediterranean restaurant welcomes me by name and shows me to the bar to order.
“I’ll have the calamari and the mushroom pasta,” I tell the bartender to put in my order.
“To drink?”
A slight shake of my head. “Old Fashioned.”
He taps the black marble stone bar. “Coming up, Mr. Townsend.”
A minute later, drink in hand, I turn on my stool to face the dimly lit dining area. The faux stone walls create an arched entryway that separates the bar from the dining area where couples and families enjoy their meals.
My eyes land one little boy, about six or seven years old. His attention is riveted to the toy car in his hands as he runs it along the swirling cherrywood of his table. He’s oblivious to the two adults and other child at the table.
A memory of me at eight years old surfaces.
“I’m going to be a champion!” I say, fire engine red toy car in one hand, while I run the thumb of my free hand across the engravings of my father’s Superbowl Championship ring. Dad didn’t typically wear his rings, but that night we’d gone to his induction into the NFL Hall of Fame.
“I’m going to be the best!” I declared as he struggled to get me into bed for the night.
“No one remembers great players who don’t win championships,” I’d overheard him say earlier that night.
Eighteen years later, five years as a Formula 1 driver, and I’m still hunting down my first Drivers’ Championship.
My stomach muscles tighten, and I turn away from the little boy with the toy car.
“What about him?” a woman’s voice reaches me from farther down the bar. “He’s gorgeous.”
A beat passes.
Another woman snorts. “Yeah, too gorgeous. No thanks.”
This piques my interest. I cut my eyes in the direction of the female voices and … Yup. Though she’s trying to be discreet, a woman with her back to me, glances over her shoulder at me.
The woman she’s seated next to, looking past her friend’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of me, has me cocking my head to the side.
She doesn’t notice that I’m also watching her since I’ve switched my gaze to the mirror above the back of the bar. From this an gle, I see her clearly. Medium brown skin, same color eyes, oval face, perfectly arched eyebrows, and lips plump and round … perfect for kissing.
Those lips form a frown as she turns back to her friend.
“Ugh, why are you so committed to dating ugly men?” her friend admonishes.
“What? I do not—”
“Please. Hudson? What about him?”
“Hudson was not ugly,” she argues, but—though I don’t know this woman from a set of fresh soft tires—I pick up that her voice lacks conviction.
“Alyssia, please, that man was facially challenged. You know it, I know it, and his mama knows it.”
The object of my attention smothers a chuckle behind her hand.
“And look what happened. He still dumped you.”
“Gee thanks, friend,” Alyssia replies, voice turning dry.
I smirk into my half-finished drink.
“Don’t give me that. He did you a favor. You deserved way better than him.”
“He was smart and a Ph.D. student,” Alyssia counters.
“So? Was it his credentials you were picturing every time you had to close your eyes to kiss him?”
“Kandace, stop it. You’re being rude.” Alyssia’s warning is as threatening as a stuffed teddy bear. It sounds like she’s trying to keep from laughing.
Against my better judgment, I peer over again at the pair, easing away from the bar to see Alyssia better.
Sure enough, there’s a twitch at play on her full, plump lips.
“I don’t know how you were with that man for almost a year. Every time you sent me a picture of him it was a jump scare. I was two seconds away from staging an intervention.”
“You’re not right.” This time Alyssia lets out a full-on guffaw before quickly covering her mouth with her hands.
Her laughter tightens something inside of my stomach. An odd fluttering that’s reminiscent of how I feel seconds before the lights go out at the starting line.
Shaking my head, I tighten my grip on my glass. It’s not that damn serious.
Nothing is as important as racing. As winning.
But even as that thought passes my mind, my body reminds me that it’s been over two months since I’ve had a woman in my bed. The busyness of the season, heightened by the fact that for the first time I’m in serious contention to win this year’s most coveted prize—the only championship I’m in contention for since my teammate doesn’t have the points to help us win the Constructor’s Championship—and dating has taken a backseat.
“You never said why he broke up with you, anyway,” the friend’s comment pulls me back into the conversation.
Alyssia drops her gaze, turning her head to the side before taking a sip of her drink.
“Mr. Townsend,” the bartender calls, before I can hear if she gives an answer. Then I remind myself it’s none of my damn business.
“Thank you.”
For the briefest span of time, I consider lingering at the bar. Why, I can’t put into words.
Then I get ahold of myself. It’s race weekend. Work takes priority over everything. And rest is a must.
Retracing my steps, the same way I entered, I exit the restaurant toward the bank of elevators to take me to my suite.
Me and one other person are on the gold-plated, mirrored elevator when the doors start to close.
“Please hold it,” a silky voice calls out a hairsbreadth before they shut.
I stab the button with my finger in time. The metal doors slide open, bringing me face to face with Alyssia.
Her eyes form perfect circles when they meet mine. Now, I’m able to give the color of her eyes a more precise name: toffee brown, like my favorite candy when I was a kid.
My gaze rolls over the powder blue sweater dress that hugs the generous swell of her breasts, fastens to her slender waist, and blossoms out to accommodate her curvy hips. The knee-high black boots she’s paired with the dress draw my attention to her thighs. Perfect size to accommodate my hands.
“Thank you,” she murmurs while sliding past me to move toward the back of the elevator.
I hit the door close button, and within seconds we’re rising up from the ground floor. The other guy gets off at the tenth floor, leaving me and Alyssia alone.
To get my mind off of Alyssia’s thighs, I start to think about the videos I’ve saved to watch once I get back to my suite. When that fails to keep my attention, I switch to thinking over this weekend’s strategy.
“Progressive corners, long straights, and problematic braking zones …” I talk to myself of what I know about the track, until there’s a sudden jolt.
I grasp for the wall, bracing myself, but there’s stillness, accompanied by silence.
The typical whirring that accompanies the upward movement has ceased.
One glance over my shoulder toward the button panel, and the two red dashes in the place where numbers of the floor level should be, tell me all I need to know.
The silence is broken by a tiny shriek from the only other person in here with me.
Alyssia turns to me. “Oh, my God, are we stuck?”
Her eyes wildly roam the unmoving elevator as if searching for a secret escape hatch.
“It appears so,” I finally respond to her question, and then hit the emergency call button.
“What? That’s a joke, right? You’re joking?” She begins repeatedly jabbing the call button. “We can’t be stuck.”
My instinct is to reach for her hand to spare her pointer finger from the beating it’s taking due to how aggressively she’s hitting the button.
She pauses, her eyes momentarily dropping to her hand in mine.
“Do you see that?” I nod at the red light that rings the emergency button. “The staff have already been notified. They know we’re stuck in here.”
Alyssia snatches her hand free, shaking her head. “That’s impossible because we’re not stuck. No, no, no,” she mumbles, pacing while fanning herself with the collar of her sweater dress with one hand and massaging her left shoulder with the other.
It isn’t hot in here by a long shot.
“Are you claustrophobic by chance?” I ask.
Her head whips around. The panic taking ahold in her eyes concerns me.
As someone who squeezes my body into confined spaces for a living, the deer at the opposite end of someone’s headlights reaction is the last thing you want at a time like this.
“No,” she answers shortly. “I’m not claustrophobic. I just don’t like tight spaces.”
Call me crazy, but somehow I know telling her that’s pretty much the same thing won’t go over well right now.
“Besides, we’re not stuck,” she says, her voice continuing to spiral higher. “This thing is going to start moving again at any moment, right? Right? Right?”
Each ‘right’ is punctuated by a press of the emergency button.
Each one causes me to flinch from the restraint it takes to not grab her hand again.
“Of all people this could’ve happened to,” she mumbles. “Of course it would happen to me. I have zero luck.”
She starts rubbing her right shoulder with her left hand while pacing once again.
I say the only thing that comes to mind.
“Why did your facially challenged boyfriend dump you?”
Her body jerks, hand dropping away from her shoulder, and then comes to a complete stop, not unlike what the elevator did moments ago. Alyssia blinks up at me, her eyes meeting mine.
I decide, or maybe it’s decided for me, that I like having her eyes on me.
“What did you say?” Disbelief peppers every word.
“Your ugly boyfriend. The one that dumped you. Why?”
“Were you … How did you?” She gasps. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“Yes. So?”
She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times. “You shouldn’t listen to strangers’ conversations. Besides, Hudson wasn’t ugly.”
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, giving her a once over. “Your friend seems to think so, and frankly, I think she has better taste than you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all you want but I’m a damn catch and you overlooked me because I was too gorgeous. Why’d the troll dump you?”
“Troll?” she blurts, then covers her face with both of her hands, shaking her head. “This is absurd. You have no right to question me,” she claims.
“Then your friend was right. He must’ve been hideous.”
“He wasn’t,” she insists.
“Your friend thought so. You still haven’t answered my question.”
