Chapter 8 #2
“The painting guy with a squirrel. I dated a guy who thought he was going to be the next Peter Doig, and he constantly watched him on YouTube. I think he’s dead now.”
I can only stare at my sister. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor do I care.”
“Why are you asking me about it then?”
“If I cared enough, I’d reiterate our conversation. But I don’t, so—Painting. Sophie. Police.”
“What. Did Dad. Say?” Fenella mocks.
“He does not share your optimism that this will fade away into the sunset—which is so freaking early here in Laandia. Obscenely early. There’s like four hours of daylight. It’s making me go to bed before eleven, and I’m not a fan.”
“That’s because we are so far north that there are actual polar bears wandering around some areas. Know your geography, Ash. And can you please focus? I’ve asked you the same question a dozen times.”
She hasn’t asked that many times, but Fenella is right that I’m having trouble focusing. What can I say? It’s four days into the new year, and it’s not off to a good start.
I had hopes for last year, but it crashed and burned, leaving me with no sponsor, no races planned and kicked off a reality show. I thought it couldn’t get worse, but there you go.
Big mistake coming back to Laandia, Silas-or-no-Silas’s birthday party.
“Ashton?”
I finally meet my sister’s gaze and see the worry in her eyes. The concerned expression.
We may be close, but we’ve never been truly concerned, because both of us know that whatever mess we may get in, Dad’s dollars will get us out of it.
Until now.
“Our father believes there is a good possibility that this simple accident where I ran over Battle Harbour’s sweetheart might be escalated,” I admit with a now-familiar twist to my stomach when I think of Sophie standing in the sights of the headlights.
Lying on the cold ground. When she couldn’t stand and I picked her up.
“And then when I started to wonder why he would think that because she’s got a broken toe or something, but not much else wrong, he wouldn’t give me a reason.
So then I did some digging. Do you know that our father was a Senate Committee advisor when they refused to pass the tariff agreements with Laandia? ”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Fenella whispers.
She whispers because we both know it has to do with a lot. “Dear old Dad suspects Duncan Laz—Sir Duncan, and daddy to the wounded butterfly—may be holding a grudge against him and eager to take it out on me.”
Fenella covers her mouth. “No.”
“Yes. I could have run over anyone in this town and no one would care.”
“You didn’t run over her.”
“Thank god for that because I probably would have been locked up in the freezing cold dungeons.”
“They don’t actually keep people down there,” she explains. “That’s just a thing.”
“I’d rather not have them lock me up anywhere. Dad must be doubting his reach into Laandia, or maybe he doesn’t plan on reaching at all if that happens.”
Fenella’s brow pinches, and that gives my stomach another twist. Fen was happy here until twin brother blows into town and threatens to ruin her small town happily ever after. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sounds like he’s leaving it up to me to fix my mess.”
“But… how?”
“He told me to woo her.”
“Woo who?”
“You sound like an owl. Sophie, of course. Our father’s instructions are to make her fall for me so she won’t charge me, or sue, or anything that might cause him undue stress.”
She stares for so long it’s like a FaceTime glitch. “You’re joking.”
“Seduce her, he said,” I’m as disgusted with the idea as I was when Dad first said it.
But he does have a point.
“What am I supposed to do if she makes it personal?” I demand, picking at the corner of the bar.
Coming here was a mistake because the whole place reminds me of Sophie now that I know she painted the whole thing.
It’s like the stars she painted are listening to me go on about the worst, stupid idea I’ve ever had.
Or maybe it’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Or if Duncan decides to get back at Dad. I can’t lose the shot with FluxFuel, because Fen, I don’t think I’m getting many more.”
It’s something I’ve kept to myself for a while.
I’m not getting the sponsorships. It’s as simple as that. Better drivers, younger drivers, drivers who don’t argue with the crew boss because he thinks he knows best.
Drivers who don’t take out one of their own team because of a pissy mood.
“You don’t know that.”
“I kind of do. I lost the gig with Red Bull. There aren’t any other cars waiting for me to drive them.” Or crash them. “And there’s not a line of career choices waiting for me. You got lucky here, Fen. I’m not lucky.”
“I thought Milo had something for you.”
“They gave it to Leon Bates yesterday.”
Fenella doesn’t say anything, just presses my hand. We’re here for each other, because really, no one else is. But it’s never been said in words.
Words can be misconstrued. Words can be a weakness.
“I’m not like you,” I say in a quiet voice. “I can’t re-create myself or some tiny town like you. You’re like the good girl here, and I… I’m not. I never have been.”
The words hang in the quiet space, and I wish with all my heart Fenella would argue the fact.
But she doesn’t. Along with having my back, my sister never lies to me, or tries to fluff the truth to make me feel better.
“Ash…” The pity in her voice is new and doesn’t make me feel better at all.
“I need to do whatever it takes to make sure Sophie does not take this to the next level,” I say in a firm voice reminiscent of my father. I hate the sound of it. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”