Author's Note— This was supposed to be posted yesterday, in honor of iLoVeRynMar's birthday, but the odds were not in our favor. So here it is, a day late, but since (just like last year) this long one-shot has turned into a short WIP, I guess no harm no foul. This will keep giving like WTA did (and that should wrap up soon, though I might leave it as incomplete to revisit the universe with some one-shots).

This story was inspired by the novel Revved by Samantha Towle. (I highly recommend!) I've consulted a number of Formula 1 references, and I've tried to keep to the general calendar of the order of the races. I haven't been to nearly any of the cities, though, so please keep that in mind, and I've mixed some real F1 things with fictional things. Creative license has been taken.

El, I can't really put into words how much your friendship means to me. You're always there when I need you, whether it's to fangirl about Everlark and Outlander, to share book recommendations, to read my drafts, or to let me vent about RL shit. You really are my rock. I've tried to channel a lot of what I know you love about Peeta into this story, and I hope you love it. Happy birthday!

Thank you to lovingmellark/Any for the absolutely gorgeous and sexy gif/cover that she made! And thanks to sohypothetically for reading the first draft of Chapter 1 and convincing me it didn't suck. All mistakes are mine.

~*~Chapter 1~*~

~Panem, USA~

Mid-March

I step into the empty garage and inhale deeply, the intoxicating odor of rubber and gasoline flooding my nostrils. It's not a smell that everyone finds pleasant, but to me, it's heavenly. I jam my access card into the pocket of my jeans and let my eyes roam around. Instantly my line of vision is drawn to the very center of the open space. The sight there makes my heart pound. Adrenaline spikes in my blood. Gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, beckoning me with its seductive, sleek beauty, is my car. Okay, so she's not my car, but as of last Friday, she's my responsibility. A fulfillment of a dream that was born on a bright and sunny but bitterly cold November day thirteen years ago, when I was twelve.

Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck and my arms as I slowly approach the ML8-30. Orange pinstripes accent the black and graphite grey color scheme, though sponsor logos cover a significant portion of the car's frame. I trail my hand along the streamlined front end, feeling the smooth carbon fiber chassis beneath my fingertips, and trace the number 74 with my index finger. I round to the rear of the vehicle and release a lever. My eyes land on the V6 turbo engine. Looking at the powerful little contraption of valves and springs gives me same rush that most women get from ogling a new pair of heels. Excitement curls through me, followed by an intense bittersweet feeling. I glance up at the ceiling, unable to prevent the smile that lifts my lips as I place one hand on the back of driver's seat.

"You're awful early. Team meeting isn't until 10," says a gravelly voice behind me. I spin around and look directly into a pair of steely gray eyes that resemble my own. Haymitch pushes a lock of dirty blond hair out of those familiar eyes and fixes them on me. His weathered face breaks into a wry grin. "Couldn't help yourself, could ya?"

"I wanted to spend some time with her." I pat the molded seat again.

"You are your father's daughter," he says.

"This is all because of him." I motion around the garage. Haymitch's expression shifts and he shakes his head.

"It's not your name that got you this job."

"That's not what I meant." An unwelcome knot coils in my gut. "I meant because he's the reason I got into Formula 1 in the first place and—" Haymitch sets his mouth in a line and places a hand on my shoulder, cutting me off.

"Look, sweetheart, I know you've always been sensitive about getting places on your own merit and not because of some legacy your dad left behind. Henrik Mellark chose you over all the other applicants for this position. That alone speaks volumes for your talent."

Haymitch's praise loosens the knot in my stomach a little. My uncle isn't a man of many words and most of those are of the four-letter variety. I'm not entirely sure what he meant by that last part, but his reassurance goes a long way. I've worked my ass off to get where I am in a sport that's still predominately a boys' club. Between my gender and my pedigree, it's been a struggle to prove myself.

"You're the best damn mechanic out there. Don't you ever doubt that. I'm proud of you." He motions above our heads. "And he'd proud of you too." He pats my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be in my office. Just holler if you need me." Then he turns and starts to stalk out of the garage.

"Haymitch?" I call to his retreating back. When he looks back over his shoulder, I smile. "Thanks."

"You earned it, sweetheart." He winks and strides off, leaving me alone in the cavernous garage. I blow out a slow breath and start to wander around, taking in my new work environment. A massive workbench runs nearly the entire length of the rear wall. Four towers of Pirelli tires are neatly stacked beside it. Several portable work carts stand further off to the side. I stride over to one and grasp the top drawer's handle, giving it a gentle yank. The assortment of pristine titanium wrenches inside brings a silly grin to my face. Everything looks brand new. For all I know it might be. F1 teams spare no expenses in their quests to give their drivers the best.

Near the front of the garage is the locker room. I don't bother to go inside. I know exactly what I'll see. One big open changing space. Showers. Bathroom facilities—probably mostly urinals and maybe one or two stalls.

At the garages where I apprenticed, it was made patently clear to me that I was not welcome inside the locker room, even at the beginning of a work day when I was only tugging on a jumpsuit over my street clothes. I've gotten used to changing in ladies' rooms. But it does really suck having to drive home all dirty and sweaty, unable to shower until I reach my own apartment (or the hotel if it's a race day). I assume it will be no different here at Mellark Racing.

I turn my attention back to the car. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my music and find a suitable playlist. I tap "shuffle" and set my phone down on the workbench. Swaying my hips a little in time with the first song that starts to play, I gather my hair up into a loose ponytail and approach the ML8-30 again. It really is a thing of beauty. I feel that jolt of excitement light up my nerves anew.

Just as I kneel down and trail my fingers along the rear tire's tread, an unfamiliar voice says, "Please tell me what I need to do to get you touch me like that. Fuck."

Startled, I leap to my feet and whirl about in the direction of the voice. Standing near the entrance to the garage is the driver of my car. A driver who has taken F1 by storm and supplanted his older brother as the top driver at Mellark Racing. A driver who is the early favorite to win the F1 Drivers Championship, thus allowing Mellark Racing to dethrone Snow Motors for the first time in five years. Oh yeah, and a driver who's made it onto the pages of People's Sexiest Men Alive issue. Not once, not twice, but three years in a row.

And I gaze into Peeta Mellark's famous blue eyes I can see what all the hype is about. He is that attractive. Unfairly attractive. His usually disheveled blond hair has been cut and is neatly styled. His skin has a bronze glow to it, like he's been basking in the sun somewhere. The expensive looking suit that he wears looks as if it were custom made for him—which it probably was.

Those big blue eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth tugs up as his gaze skims up and down my body. "So," he says, leaning against one of the beams and casually slipping his hand into the pocket of his tailored pants, "you must be Katniss." He licks his lips and scratches at his jaw, then shakes his head as his mouth flirts with a wider smile. "Haymitch did not tell me how fucking gorgeous you are."

I set my lips into a thin line. Peeta Mellark's reputation precedes him. His good looks and his success on the track are a potent combination. He's in magazines and billboards, pitching everything from cologne to milk. But his social life also makes him a favorite target of the tabloids. In all the paparazzi photos that I've seen he's always with a different woman. Oh—I think he might have had a month-long relationship with some pop singer last year, but I'd bet that's about as long-term as he's ever gotten.

So I can't say I'm surprised that within thirty seconds of meeting me he's flirting with me. Peeta scratches at his jaw again. "I have to be honest, though. I was pretty surprised when Haymitch told me that my father hired a woman to be my mechanic."

"Why is that?" I cross my arms and immediately his eyes flit down to where my arms are folded on my chest. When his gaze continues to linger below my neck, unapologetically ogling my breasts in the tight tank top I wear, I narrow my eyes and snap my fingers at him. He looks back up and a slow grin lifts one corner of his mouth.

"You have a problem with a woman working on your car?" I add, a note of challenge in my tone.

"Fuck no. Not at all. It's a fucking turn-on when a woman knows her way around a car. If you're the best out there—and both my father and Haymitch swear that you are— I'm a lucky bastard to snag you for my car before someone else could." His grin becomes a little sheepish and his confident façade falters a bit. "It's just working with a beautiful, sexy woman nearly every day…it might be a bit of a temptation for me."

At least he's aware of said reputation. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. The sooner I get accustomed to his womanizing nature, the easier it will be to accept that this is who he is and try to see past it so it doesn't affect our working relationship.

I place one hand back on his car and lock on those big blue eyes of his. "Well, lucky for you I'm here for one thing and one thing only." I watch that perfectly chiseled jaw of his clench and his lips purse. Before he can speak, footsteps sound behind him and his father steps into the garage.

"Good morning, Katniss," Henrik says. "I see you've met my son."

"Good morning, sir. Yes, Peeta and I were just discussing his car." Peeta arches a blond brow at me and I flash him a condescendingly sweet smile. Henrik glances between the two of us and clears his throat.

"Peet, Johanna is looking for you. Gillette called. They want to move up your shoot," Henrik says. Peeta jams his hand in his other pocket and frowns, but there's a mischievous edge to it.

"Well, look at that, I forgot my phone again."

Henrik grimaces. "Perhaps we'll have to have it welded to your hand if you continue to forget it. I shouldn't have to play go-between with your personal assistant."

"Eh. Johanna likes you better than me or Rye anyway." Peeta smirks. Henrik sighs and I can sense his exasperation with his son is steadily mounting.

"Katniss, if you'd like coffee or something else, Delly will be coming around momentarily to take orders," Henrik says.

"Thank you, sir." I bypassed my usual latte this morning in favor of getting to the garage ahead of everyone else, so coffee sounds awesome.

"Please call me Henrik," he says warmly. "Now, Peeta, if you'll come with me we'll give the girl at Gillette a call back and get this shoot straightened out. Can't have the sponsors unhappy."

"Dad," Peeta says, though his eyes remain fixed on me, "you should know by now that I always strive to make people happy." He straightens up and saunters towards me, stopping a few feet from me. He extends his hand. I stare at it for a moment before I reach out and grasp it. As we shake hands, Peeta's thumb deliberately grazes my knuckles and a little shiver passes through me. "I'm glad to have you on my team, Katniss. I can tell my car is in very good hands." The inflection in his voice causes another shiver to race up my spine. With one more brush of his thumb over my skin, he releases me from his grip and strides past his father out of the garage. Henrik glances at his retreating son, tells me he'll see me shortly, and follows Peeta down the corridor. Alone again, I slowly exhale and press a hand to my rapidly beating heart.

The autosport industry is never ever dull but something tells me working for Mellark Racing is going to be one hell of a wild ride.

I spend the next hour familiarizing myself with Peeta's car. Not that I'll spend too much working on it here. Starting next week, I'll be following Mellark Racing around the globe, beginning with the Australian Grand Prix in Melbourne. The F1 season runs from March to November and involves a dizzying amount of travel. I'll have to adjust to living out of a suitcase and learn to cope with perpetual jet lag. I haven't done too much traveling up until this point in my life. I'm kind of excited to see so many new places, even if I know there won't always be time for sightseeing in every city.

Delly, as it turns out, is one of the front-of-the-house girls. I like her immediately, especially because she doesn't judge me for ordering my latte with 2% milk— not skim—and with extra whipped cream. She's pretty, a bit on the chubby side, and she doesn't stop smiling the entire time we chat. Her blonde hair and bright blue eyes make me wonder if she's related to the Mellarks. Before she leaves the garage, she snatches my phone from the workbench, saves her number into my contacts, and tells me if I ever need anything to text her.

As ten o'clock nears, I wash my hands in the sink and clean up a little. After I shake out my ponytail and wind up hair up into a loose bun, I slick on some lip gloss—the extent of my makeup routine. I check my reflection in the mirror. Good enough. Team management is meeting this morning to finalize the last of the details for the new season. Mechanics do not attend such meetings, but Henrik asked me to come by the conference room in order to introduce me to everyone.

The conference room door is closed when I arrive at ten on the dot. I inhale and blow out a cleansing breath, straighten my shoulders, and run my tongue over my teeth. I rest my knuckles on the door for a moment, then I knock. I hear Henrik call to me to come in, and with another deep breath, I open the door.

"There she is," Henrik says, with a warm smile. "Gentlemen, this is Katniss Everdeen, our new primary mechanic on the number 74 car. You know Haymitch, of course, and you met Peeta already, but to my left…"

At the mention of Peeta's name, I look over to where he sits to his father's right. His mouth curves into that sexy half-smile that he's clearly perfected. He swivels back and forth in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on me. I guess it's better than him staring at my breasts. Though I can feel Peeta's gaze on me, I tear my eyes away from him and look to his father's left, because I know I should be paying attention to the other introductions, even if I won't remember all the names right away.

Unfortunately, to Henrik's left sits Rye Mellark, Peeta's older brother and the number-two driver at Mellark Racing. His mouth quirks up in a smile that mirrors his younger brother's and just like Peeta did earlier, Rye lowers his gaze to my chest, not the least bit discreetly either, I might add. I blink and keep my expression neutral as Rye looks back up at me. He's definitely handsome, but there's an arrogance etched on his face that makes him far less attractive than his brother. I find myself stealing another glance over at Peeta. His eyes flicker when our gazes collide. Quickly, I avert my eyes and look across the table, trying to discern where in the line of introductions Henrik is.

As more names are rattled off, I nod and smile politely at each of the men, trying to match faces with their positions on the team. Most of the men smile in return. One man—Henrik identifies him as the team manager—sits stony-faced, arms crossed, practically glaring at me. He clears his throat when Henrik finishes the introductions and his dark gaze lands on me.

"Ms. Everdeen, don't take this the wrong way. Your father was a stellar racer and I'm sure you are a formidable mechanic." He returns his attention to Henrik. "But Henrik, do you really think this is a wise decision, bringing a woman in as…?" His eyes slide towards Peeta and I know exactly what the man is implying. The air immediately charges with tension, and I see several pairs of eyes volley back and forth between this man and Peeta.

"You got something to say, Crane, say it," Peeta says, tenting his fingers as he continues to swivel, a smirk lifting both sides of his mouth. Henrik shoots his son a reproachful look.

"We are all professionals here, Seneca. I can assure you that Katniss's gender will not present any problems for this team," Henrik replies.

This man—Seneca Crane—shakes his head and leans forward slightly. "Do I need to remind you what happened last year with that pretty little—?"

"She lied!" Peeta lunges forward. I nearly jump because he smacks the table with such force. "She lied through her goddamn teeth! She made up a bunch of bullshit so she could sell the story to the fucking tabloids!"

"Yes, and may I remind you that we shelled out quite a bit of money to keep that particular story out of the tabloids," Seneca snaps.

"For a fucking lie! She fleeced us!" Peeta yells back. I swallow and seek out Haymitch, hoping he can give me some small visual reassurance to ease the uncomfortable feeling that's swelling inside me, but my uncle's grey eyes are shooting daggers at Seneca Crane.

"Peeta, calm down," Henrik says, a sharp edge of warning to his tone. "This is neither the time nor the place. Seneca, the incident with that girl is in the past and that is where it stays. Do not mention it again. I have complete faith in Peeta or I would not have hired Katniss, no matter how impeccable her résumé and references were. And they were impeccable. We are very fortunate to have her on board and this is hardly the welcome that she deserves." Henrik aims an apologetic glance in my direction, and I smile the best I can, hoping my discomfort doesn't show on my face.

But I'm also morbidly curious as to what kind of incident could get Peeta so riled up. His jaw is locked so tightly that I can see his pulse ticking furiously in his neck. I make a mental note to ask Haymitch what the hell happened as soon as I can get a few moments alone with him. The more I know about Peeta, the better.

But as it turns out Haymitch isn't the one to give me the sordid details of the mysterious incident Seneca and Peeta argued about.

After Henrik dismisses me from the meeting, Peeta's eldest brother Connor escorts me back to the garage. As the chief mechanic for Mellark Racing, Connor oversees all the mechanics on each of the cars, and unbeknownst to me, he's called a meeting of his own. All three of the other mechanics for Peeta's car are there, as well as the four mechanics for Rye's car and the test/reserve driver Thom's mechanics. Teams are allowed to have two reserve drivers, but Mellark Racing has just one.

Connor introduces me to everyone and I spend a few minutes getting to know Darius, Thresh, and Chaff. Everyone seems nice enough, but the real test will come when the four of us are working on Peeta's car and they have to answer to me. That's when any dormant sexism will rear its head. Though I hope it won't be the case with my team, I'm prepared for it.

Once the meeting breaks up, I stick around, intending to get ahead for tomorrow's arduous task of dismantling Peeta's car and preparing it to be shipped to Melbourne. I'm in the middle of unboxing the massive tubes of bubble wrap when a female voice announces, "So, you're what everyone's been talking about." I'm so startled that I nearly slash my palm open with the box cutter. I set it down and face my intruder. A petite but tough-looking woman with cropped brown hair and a piercing through her right eyebrow cocks her head and looks me up and down. She shrugs. "Not sure what the big deal is."

"Excuse me?" Who the hell is this girl?

"Relax. I'm not insulting you. I just meant I'm not sure why everyone's so fucking worried about Peeta being around you. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't fuck every girl he meets. And you're not really his type."

What was she saying about not insulting me? Because what she just said definitely sounded like an insult. Not that I know anything about what Peeta's type is, but type or no type it sure seemed like he was flirting with me earlier today. I think about the way he looked at me, first in the garage and then again in the conference room. A little ripple moves through my stomach.

"Who are you?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips.

"Oh, right. Johanna Mason." She thrusts a hand forward and grins. "I work here." I do vaguely remember Henrik and Peeta mentioning a Johanna. Cautiously, I reach out and shake her hand.

"Katniss. Everdeen. I'm—"

"Duh. I know exactly who you are. Peeta's new mechanic. The one everyone's afraid he's gonna sleep with."

I find the question leaving my mouth before I can stop it, but then, I suppose it's Johanna's brazenness that invites me to be equally brash. "Why is that?"

"Oh, because he's done it before," she replies. I arch a brow. "Just once," she adds hastily. "There's a reason only two women work for Mellark. Well, three if you count Effie, but she doesn't really count." I wait for her to offer up more information because then it won't look like I'm prying, but Johanna just stands there, smirking at me, as if she's daring me to bait her.

I don't. I pick up the box cutter again and run it down the seam of tape. I pry open the next box of bubble tape and glance up at Johanna. Her expression softens just a bit as she continues, "Because in spite of his reputation Peeta has feelings. And a heart. A big one. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let what happened to him last year happen to him ever again."

Okay, now I'll bite. "What was that?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I lift out another tube of bubble wrap. Johanna leans against the workbench and studies me for a moment.

"You know why your position was available?" she asks. I nod.

"Peeta's head mechanic left for Snow," I reply. Haymitch had called me the minute he had learned of the guy's resignation and all but ordered me to get my application into Henrik Mellark's hands.

"Right." Johanna nods. "But there's way more to the story." She continues talking, explaining how Gloss—Peeta's old number one mechanic—had a sister who used to work front-of-the-house with Delly. According to Johanna, Cashmere was all over Peeta, constantly throwing herself at him.

"He flirted back, of course, because that's what Peeta does, but he knew she was Gloss's sister and Peeta respected that," she says. "But after the Japanese Grand Prix—which Peeta won, by the way—the entire team went out to celebrate. We were all pretty drunk, and somehow, Cashmere got Peeta alone and one thing led to another." Johanna makes an obscene gesture with her hands, as if I needed the visual to put two-and-two together. I wrinkle my nose at her, but she's unfazed by my response to her crassness.

"It just happened the one time but Cashmere wasn't content to be a one-night stand, and despite the fact she had told Peeta that Gloss was okay with it, he was not. When Gloss found out, he flipped the fuck out at Peeta. It was a huge mess. Henrik had to do something to restore order. There were five races left in the season at that point.

"When he went to fire Cashmere she went off the deep end. Threatened to go to the press and tell everyone she was being fired for sleeping with Peeta. And she threatened Henrik with a bullshit sexual harassment lawsuit on top of that."

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"We didn't need the scandal. Henrik cut a deal with her to keep her from opening her mouth, and he gave Gloss a nice severance package and a glowing recommendation. Snow hired him almost immediately," Johanna finishes. I don't say it aloud, but I'm sure the fact that Gloss landed at Snow only further fueled Peeta's anger. His chief rival, Cato Wagner, is Snow's top driver.

Johanna sets her lips in a line and fixes me with a harsh glare. "I'm telling you all of this because this is Peeta's year. He doesn't need any distractions. What he needs is loyal friends and the fucking best mechanics in the business to ensure that he finishes at the top in November. And if Henrik hired you, of all people, to be Peeta's number one, you must be the best. Just don't fuck with him—in any way shape or form. Got it?"

"You and Henrik and the others have nothing to be concerned about. I don't sleep with guys I work with and that goes double for drivers. Even if I were his type." I can't resist tacking that last bit on there.

She grins. "Glad we're on the same page. Welcome to the team."

Thank you for reading. The chapters may vary greatly in length, because this was supposed to be a one-shot, but I'm tentatively planning on having each city/race as a chapter. I'd like to try and finish the whole thing (currently, it stands at 29K and it's probably halfway done) and then figure it out, but I will post the next chapter soon.

Again, happy birthday, El! I hope it was a magical day. ILY!