Faking it || Lando Norris LN

61

A month ago. Sunday. Los Angeles.

I exited the Vanity Fair headquarters through their backdoor. My day had been insanely packed with media work. GQ had taken up most of my afternoon, not to mention the filming with Vanity Fair had ended up taking longer than expected due to technical difficulties with the cameras and equipment.

And so, the night was warm and quiet besides a few businesses and cafés that were the last ones closing and turning their lights off. Martin Garrix, a friend of mine for the last couple of years, was in LA for the week, and I was supposed to meet him at his place an hour ago —had things gone smoothly during the shoot.

As soon as my eyes landed on the black SUV in front of the Vanity Fair HQ, I sent Martin a text telling him I was on my way, but my brows immediately furrowed as I saw no one in the driver's seat.

Lando: I'm here. Where are you? — I texted Jeffrey, my chauffeur.

Jeffrey: I had to go to the bathroom but the Vanity Fair receptionist wasn't in the mood to let me in. I'm in the business round the corner instead. I'll be there in a minute.

Jeffrey: Sorry for the hassle.

Lando: No worries.

I reclined against the SUV. My hands immediately patted the pockets of my jeans, looking for a pack of cigarettes to kill time before giving myself a nod as my brain remembered I didn't carry one with me anymore. I was pretty proud of myself for that one.

I'd been handling my vices little by little. Olivia had helped a lot with it, even if she didn't know. It's hard for your hands to subconsciously reach out to your pocket for a cigarette when you're holding someone's hand —Olivia's hand.

Your brain just... forgets. It focuses on more important things.

However, my hands still itched for one whenever she wasn't around. It took me a couple of seconds every time I patted my jeans' pockets, looking for one, before I remembered I had none. The smile that came after didn't take long to appear on my face. It was a reminder of change, of its possibility, if anything —something I used to think of as impossible.

"Are my eyes deceiving me?" A voice called in the middle of the quiet surrounding me. "If it isn't Lando Norris."

My brows immediately furrowed. Luna Costa. I hated how I could've recognized her accent in the middle of a screaming crowd. The pleasant thoughts previously in my brain fluttered away.

I closed my eyes for a brief second before I looked toward where the voice had come from. The last time I'd seen her, things had gone to shit at the nightclub. Luna had never been anything other than trouble. I'd relished it once, but now I wanted nothing more than to run away from it like it was fire. Last time —at the club—I'd tried my best to be polite with her. It probably would've worked had I not said my thoughts about Olivia out loud in front of her, but I wouldn't make the same mistake.

"In the flesh," I turned to my left, meeting her eyes with a smile on my face.

Stay polite. Jeff will be back in any second.

"Looking good," she remarked as she approached me.

Looking good, Reyes. — I chuckled at the memory of Olivia and the phrase I always told her to make her nervous. A wave of embarrassment rushed over me briefly as my cheeks flushed with the memory of her a couple of hours ago when I last said it.

"Thanks," I replied.

I immediately saw Luna's body tensing at my lack of saying she also looked nice, making me smirk. I'd play this game politely, but it didn't mean I'd comply with her wishes of me inflating her ego.