Juan too many

Juan Pablo Montoya slid into the leather seat of his BMW and glanced across at me. ‘Smiss’, he said, his dark eyes flashing below his smooth tanned brow, ‘I can never be as good a driver as you, but I must win your respect some-ow’.

‘Jeez Juan, there’s no need to be so gay about it’, I snorted as I tightened my seat belt and turned to look out of the passenger side window. The French Riviera spread itself beyond the BMW’s windows, the distance haze adding a sense of mystery and unease.

Juan Pablo eased the car into first gear and gravel crunched under the tires as we turned onto the road to Frejus. The sound reminded me of when I was here with Hemingway, the big pussy. I looked across at Juan Pablo. He was sulking again. ‘This the best you can do Johnnie?’ I said casually. ‘Call yourself a driver? You know Michael was pointing at you and laughing back at the hotel? Where are your cojones?’

I’d got to him. He began to drive faster, pushing the BMW through the French traffic, trying to impress me, trying to show he was a man (just like bloody Hemingway pansy).

Flashing lights filled the mirrors as the siren of a police motorcycle broke through my thoughts. Montoya glanced in the mirror. ‘Mierda.’ He pulled over and slumped in the seat, tears beginning to roll down his chiselled cheekbones.’I will lose my license for sure. What must you think of me?’

The policeman’s boots crunched on the gravel as he walked towards the driver window. I slipped my sunglasses down and looked across at the by now sobbing Montoya and sniffed. ‘Chimba.’