D8 Sorry for the late? I might be busy this time around; darn Internet service, PM and research! D8 xD

Aws, Mere, I'm sorry for that, but details are as details…are. xDD

Yes, my dear Pancake, I always put research first. xD That's the hardest part of writing mind you, that everything seems as realistic as possible. I try as much as I can to make everything seem so real, so true to the topic itself, which is probably why Mere feels as if she were there, I suppose. x33


Chapter Five

It was a hard start for Miguel, but eventually, he was able to keep up with the things he was able to do today.

Starting from the introduction, to training, to doing races on the track, Miguel had such a hard time communicating with his new mentor and crew chief, Petro Cartalina. Petro tried beign as gentle as possible, but to no avail: Miguel had his heart set on doing things alone, by himself, only because he had the set impression that Petro would be as bad as Sofía or as loose as Estéban.

Petro Cartalina had been the team's crew chief since before Miguel even entered motorsport, training old and new racers alike. But none of his apprentices were as bad as Miguel.

"You have to listen to me!" Petro Cartalina called. "I'm your only chance on the track, the only one you can turn to for advice!"

"You can't tell me what to do!" Miguel argued. "I'm the one doing the race! If you're so awesome, why don't you go out to the track yourself?"

That was the start of the enmity between racer and crew chief, and at Miguel's argument, Petro decided to take a little vacation from the team. This left the team and the company a little uneasy, but Miguel had reassured them that 'he would lead the team on, even without the help of Petro Cartalina'.

But that was the worst thing he ever promised.

Things started going downhill. Without Petro to take charge and hold the team together, Miguel started blaming the others for his losses. He and his pitties were soon enemies, and the company ordered the team to drop for that season.

"But…but it's in the middle of the racing season!" Miguel cried out.

"We know," the boss replied. "It seems that you can't hold yourself together, Miguel. You need Petro Cartalina with you and your team; you can't handle things alone. That is the use of a crew chief."

But pride made Miguel stick to his one-man-show idea, and couldn't agree with everyone else. He broke down in private several times. Soon enough, it made sense to him that they needed a crew chief, that he himself was the one with the problem.

"Petro?" he called at the door of Petro's apartment, knocking slightly.

The door didn't open, but Miguel could hear a voice. "What do you want?" The crew chief's tone wasn't a snarl of anger, but one that presented indifference.

"May I talk with you?"

The door opened, and Miguel's green eyes met Petro Cartalina's creamy brown. Petro's gaze was unreadable.

"May I come in?" Miguel asked to break the painful silence.

"You are unwelcome to my home," Petro only clipped, and started to close the door.

"I'm sorry!" Miguel called, and the door stopped midway. "For all that I have done and for how much I have offended you, I am sorry!"

Petro only looked on with slight interest, and Miguel continued.

"I…I guess I was too proud. I didn't think for once if I would need your help. I thought I didn't need your help." His golden front bowed. "Now, I realize how important every member of the team is, including the crew chief."

"So?"

"I want you back," Miguel replied. "No, wait, I need you back." The racer's voice was more fervent than ever, more pleading than otherwise. "Please; I want to continue my racing career, and I care for what happens to the rest of my team."

Miguel only heard silence between them as his eyes didn't meet Petro's, green irises bowed low in sadness. He didn't want to lose the only one that can control the entire team from a vantage point that can view the entirety of the track, the only one who sees all in the team. Moreover, he didn't want to lose his racing career, and it depended on Petro Cartalina no matter how much Miguel could deny it.

"Alright" was a low murmur from Petro, and Miguel's eyes flicked upwards in surprise to see the older car staring with amused brown eyes at the young racer.

"What?" Elation crawled onto Miguel's chassis.

"I'll come back," Petro said, but before Miguel could jump for joy, he continued, "but on one condition."

"I'll do anything!" Miguel called out happily.

"You have to listen to everything I say," Petro replied. "I'm your crew chief, as well as your superior on and off the track. We may be friends someday, but never, ever do that again."

"I won't!" Miguel promised. "With all my heart!"

With all his heart he did. The team rejoiced when Petro arrived at the next practice session, as well as the Sunday race, and all practices, qualifying sessions and races that followed. The team was even more surprised that Miguel was going with Petro's flow instead of against it, but who was complaining? With the entire team together, the team soared through the ladder mid-season, and won more championships than they have lost. Miguel turned from driving rookie to racing at the top of his game with the help of his team, and he has acknowledged them in his speeches more than once.

But even the guidance of his crew chief cannot sway Miguel's humanlike imperfections.

His agent would fit invitations to parties into the schedule, and Miguel would go. Petro would sometimes decline, but urged Miguel to go without Petro for exposure. And besides, the crew chief knew Miguel could take care of himself. Oh, how wrong the crew chief was.

They seemed like invitations that were innocent enough, like children's parties where the adults would converse over simple cokes and ice cream. Wrong; these parties were for adults, and for adults they were: cocktails were merely a few things that lured cars to these social events. At his first party with Petro, it seemed nice enough, but at his first party without his father-figure, it was scary, and he started at the bottom of the food chain, just like in his school years and his racing career.

Cars from all around conversed with him, and they seemed nice enough. What he wasn't prepared for was the flirty women that crossed his path more than once. Sweating like a nerd whose sexy crush had just taken an interest in, he backed up into the walls, smiling nervously as girl after girl purred at him. Soon enough, he learned to be forceful and brave enough to turn them down.

Still, that wasn't enough. In his mind, he remembered how Pearle had enjoyed what she had done with the Altis. He fought to shove the betrayal away and see through to the rewards of the act. He figured his forcefulness could turn off women, but what about if he could turn it around? He'd seen how the girls would try making him feel insecure, unsure but his head sent reeling? How about that?

At the next party, sure enough, one girl had approached him: a pretty little Honda. But he didn't want just any car: he wanted someone worth his time. He was the Miguel Camino after all; they claim he should have the best, and the best he'd get. He'd turned every girl that approached him down, except for the only one that caught his eye: a smooth and sexy black Aston Martin DBS.

Did it matter, he wondered, if she had pretty blue eyes, that she was black, that she could be as innocent as he was? No matter; she probably didn't care about that either.

"Hello," he started as she approached.

"Hel-lo," she crooned, circling him slightly. "What I would do to get hot with a car like you...," she murmured in a tone that made Miguel's head reel.

"Maybe you can," he replied as softly, his lids sliding down so his eyes were half-open. Oddly enough, he wasn't nervous, but high yet focused on his goal.

"I can?" she asked, her gaze as soft as his.

A corner of his lips twitched in amusement. "Maybe we should take this…conversation…elsewhere."

The DBS giggled. "Lead the way," she said, gesturing away with her tire.

He glanced around, making sure no one he knew caught the DBS following him outside into the night air and into the hotel room he was staying in for the night.

It was nice, he thought, that these kinds of rooms were big enough and private enough for trysts like these. That first night, he didn't have to worry so much about disturbing his neighbor, or the tenants upstairs and below.

He sighed in relief nearly half an hour later. He wasn't so quick to release, and neither was she. The DBS sighed in contentment as well, snuggling by his side and moaning softly. Things weren't so bad, he thought, once he found out how amazing his first time went. Now he knew why Pearle had sought this thing out: it was as wonderful as getting a high on the track.

Yet, he couldn't stay. He just did a girl he didn't even know. But he had been so exhausted he just woke early the next morning to leave without a note. He figured she would know; she seemed like such an expert last night, after all.

As he made his way out into the open road, into the open dawn, he realized how easy his life would be if this continued. This was something he could use as a form of release from his frustrations, to his triumphs, to his boredom, and he had all night for it, except maybe on race weekends. Petro Cartalina didn't have to know, and neither did anyone else. But he would have to be choosy: a good girl would likely report it, and his reputation would crash. He would agree to as many parties as he pleased—he was one of the greater racers after all; people frequently would seek him out for media and personal purposes now—and he would do whatever he pleased, carefully.

Six months was all he needed to perfect his skill in taking on different personalities according to what the girl wanted: dominant or sweet, slow or fast, passionate or as if it was an everyday thing. He could make a girl's heart melt at one moment's glance with sultry, half-closed green eyes, or her will swayed with smooth conversation. He turned from innocent schoolboy to sexy hotrod in the months that followed. He learned he can apply this in photo shoots, from mere stances with half-closed eyes to a combo of poses and positions his photographers wanted. And as his pictures hit magazine covers, of course, the females would notice. It seemed that hardly any female car didn't buy the magazine for the sake of the content, according to the number sales had amounted, and this encouraged posters and more to be printed. Videos of his actions—both in the dozer ring, on the rack, and off both—were uploaded into the Internet, and millions of hits were recorded within a few weeks. He became more and more dominant in the number of wanted bachelors, and soon enough, he was one of the most renowned and lusted-over cars in the world. Everything went so fast and yet so slow, like a bull charging at you, and one could see how the dozer moved in detail, like time would slow for you to see everything. And he did.

Yet, fame, fortune, recognition and physical love: these weren't enough for the Spaniard, though. He felt…empty, incomplete, like there was something missing. He was discontented with his life, and he didn't know why.

Miguel had everything he wanted: choices for someone to love, all the money he wanted, friends that could help him. But the choices were mere fans; all they wanted was the fame and, well, Miguel Camino. They didn't want Miguel Rodrigo Camino. All the money he wanted? That was a lie; he was rich, yes, but spend it all in one night and he would be broke. His only friends were his teammates, and all they could offer was advice on the track. Even Cartalina, the first one to call him 'Rodrigo' again in years, couldn't match what Miguel wanted.

There was something wrong in his life, and he knew it. He was not blind to what it was: the blackness that tainted his innocent life, one that had changed him completely, one that he probably couldn't rise from, like being locked in a room without a ray of light seeping through, or an ugly seabed of sunken ships, old, rusted and scary. He knew he needed a light, something to guide him from the dim of his life, something to give him reason again. He needed the ray of light, the pretty flower to brighten his meadow, the beautiful pearl to glisten even in the faint light.

But he didn't need the pearl that betrayed him, the one that caused him much pain. He didn't need the golden light of the sun; he already had that. He needed the serene, silver light of the moon, one that can soothe his nerves from the day, one that can help him slow from the fast lane of the day's races, one that can help him enjoy the finer things in life, like the beauty of true pearls.

And a pearl he would be granted.