Tipping Point (High Velocity)

1. Chapter 1

1

Chapter 1

CAMILLE

I adjust the camera until he’s framed from the waist up on the monitor, and nod at the cameraman who steps up when I take a seat in a metal chair, facing the man seated in front of the green screen.

I should be filming real people with real problems.

“Finn is short for Finnley, right?” I cock my head at him.

He’s dressed in an unmarked shirt with his arms crossed across his chest, scowling at the bright lights.

“It’s short for Finnegan.” He has a heavy accent.

Right.

I leaf through the pages on my clipboard, looking for his driver profile.

Finnegan Brennan. Driver for the Grande Prima Ultimate, team Delta Victor, and possibly the most obtuse man I have ever met.

Getting Finn to speak was testing my very limits as the stand-in producer for High Velocity , the latest documentary offering by WebFlix Max.

Dixon owed me for this. He was supposed to be here. He knew this industry inside out, and he had the passion to bring it to life on the screen.

Not me. I specialise in smaller documentaries, one on one, where you unravel people’s mysteries and bring actual issues to light. Stories that can make a difference.

Issues I should document right now, instead of interviewing overpaid drivers for the Annual Grande Prima, the top motor racing competition of the year, every year.

The page in front of me holds his basic information. He’s Irish, which explains the accent, and in his late thirties, which is considered old by driver standards. He’s a reliable mid-placement driver for the smaller Delta Victor team and he had come on the scene young and hungry, exceptional even, but then mellowed out to a pretty nondescript driver.

“Unprepared?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

Shit. Yes.

“No.” I tuck a frazzled strand of curly hair behind my ear. It has escaped the messy bun I had made on my way over from the airport. My curly blonde hair didn’t travel well. I have been in these clothes for two days straight, and I was hungry and jet lagged.

Dixon would know what to ask him.

Dixon wasn’t here, I remind myself. Dixon was at home, caring for his terminally ill wife. After everything he had done for me over the years, I owed him one. Mentors like him don’t come around often, and this opportunity wasn’t one to scoff at.

He had nominated me to be his stand in, much to everyone’s surprise, including my own.

“I know nothing about racing cars!” I had hissed over the phone when he called to tell me.

“It’s not about the cars, Cam. Or at least, not only about the cars.”

He hung up without elaborating. He knew I wouldn’t turn him down.

If I nailed this, and with what I would make from this project, I could stop sharing my flat in London with a roommate and live on my own.

Or maybe fund my own next project. The Silk Road stories.

I glance at the few scribbled questions I had made in my notebook on the way over.

“Can you walk us through your strategy for this racing season?”

I hear a snort behind me. The sound tech.

Finn glances at him.

“I placed fifteenth in the driver’s competition last year, for a team that placed ninth. What strategy?”

“Uh, could you look into the camera, please? And say that again?”

“No.”

“Okay, well. Ninth isn’t so bad, right?”

“Sure, there are ten teams.”

Oof.

The team behind me sniggered. I had a crew of two camera operators, a sound tech slash lighting tech, and a makeup artist, who doubled as the production assistant. I met them hurriedly when I stormed in earlier, shoving my luggage off to one side. I haven’t even had time to hit the hotel yet.

I need to buy time to do some research.

“Makeup? Can you just, uh, touch him up, please?” I jerk my head at Finn .

She scurries from the shadows behind me with a big pink beauty blender in hand and starts dabbing away at Finn’s face. His scowl deepens.

“It’s Casey.” She smiles at him coyly, throwing glossy red hair over her shoulder.

I whip out my phone, drop Dixon a plea for help, and, too late, wondered what time it was back in London. Here in Australia, where the first race of the season would start in two days, it was just past eight in the morning, and sweltering.

Since I can’t get my brain to figure out what time it was back home, I type in “Finnegan Brennan” into the search engine on my phone and glance up while I wait for the search results to come up.

He’s square jawed, a rugged five o’clock shadow against his neck. Tousled dark brown, almost black hair, shaved close on the sides, with the longer strands on top giving a slight curl.

Casey re-arranges a few curls artfully. He waits for her to finish before reaching up, unsnapping an elastic band from his wrist, and ties it up messily at the back.

The effect is striking. A loose strand escapes and falls across his forehead. Casey takes it in stride.

The guy is gorgeous.

His deeply tanned skin is rough, textured. He has to spend a lot of time outdoors.

He has a thicker bottom lip, one corner pulled up slightly in a scowl, with black eyes. The heavy brows above them cast them in shadow. He has a very straight nose, slightly flared in irritation.

He doesn’t take his narrowed eyes off me as Casey dabs at a shiny spot on his forehead.

She brushes the damp lock over his forehead aside. He’s feeling the heat, too.

I look down at my phone.

FINN’S LAST SEASON? Was the first headline that came up.

“Is this your last season?” I blurt out loud, glancing up.

He gives a slow, long exhale and a muscle in his jaw bunches up.

“Casey!” the camera tech whispers. “Get out of the shot!”

Casey steps back and slips back into the shadows.

The tech makes a minor adjustment, and the light dims almost imperceptibly, throwing Finn’s black eyes into relief.

Finn has his emotions under control now. He shrugs.

He is giving me nothing.

I’m hungry, and I’m tired. More importantly, I am unprepared. Our layover in Singapore had robbed me of time. I was angry at Dixon, and I was angry at myself, and I was angry that this man was being difficult just because he was used to being special.

“Look, Irish.” I brush the damn curl out of my face again. “You don’t want to be here? Well, you and me both. Unfortunately, we’re both under contract with Grande Prima Ultimate and WebFlix Max to produce this documentary, and we’re going to spend the next year doing it. And since we are, we’re going to make sure we do a damned good job.”

His face doesn’t change at all.

He doesn’t move.

“How about,” I speak through gritted teeth, “you give us your name, a smile and a wave, and we’ll make you look good in the edit?”

He pushes up off his chair and he ‘tsk’s me.

“Don’t call me Irish,” he says as he walks away .

“Well, fuck you too,” I say under my breath.

The sound tech laughs.

* * *

CAMILLE

The crew is gracious about it.

“We’ll get him next time.” The cameraman shrugs. He’s an American named James, but says, “Call me Jay,” with a very laid-back attitude. He’s happy to be here, and it shows.

“We have an entire year of filming ahead,” he says kindly. “Why don’t you head to the hotel and catch up on some sleep?”

I nod gratefully. “See you guys tomorrow at qualifying.”

They wave me off cheerily and I grab my luggage and head outside. And it hits me for the first time. I’m in Australia. Next weekend I’ll be in Bahrain, then Shanghai, Barcelona, Monaco…

Twenty-two races on the calendar for this year’s Annual Grande Prima, and millions and millions of dollars swirling around. Everyone knows athletes make serious bank, but this is on another level. The whole sport revolves around luxury.

And today, I am grateful for it. As I get out of the cab in front of the Empyrean Luxury Hotel Melbourne, I drop a quick thanks to WebFlix Max. We might be a small crew, but we will travel in style. That’s one bonus of filming the rich and famous. You have to stay close.

I can’t help but marvel at the glossy hotel lobby and the discreet hushed tones of the staff as they slip by on quiet feet. The concierge gives me a genuine smile and makes me feel important.

Talk about customer service .

I’m welcomed and issued my room key without a fuss, and when I book into my double room, I immediately phone down for room service. Between being hungry, dirty, and tired, I am prioritising food.

After I’ve eaten, I will feel a ton better.

I hop in the shower for a quick wash, including the blonde curls, and when I step out, I hear the soft knock on the door announcing my meal. My burger arrives on a silver trolley, under a silver dome, which the server removes with a flourish to show me my meal.

There is a slight pause where I’m not sure if he expects me to clap, and it’s only after I shut the door behind him that I realise he’s waiting for me to tip him.

Whoops.

I scarf down the burger and lay back happily. I’m just not myself when I’m hungry.

It’s then that I really take in the room.

Understated luxury. The carpet is soft and firm, the room modestly decorated, but tastefully so. The sheets on the bed are thick and soft. Even the lighting is well thought out. When I look in the mirror, the soft glow softens the dark circles under my eyes, casting the curls in a shiny halo, my tired skin basking in the natural light.

If I ever get rich, I’m installing lighting like this.

I fall back on the bed and heave a sigh. I’ve never minded travelling. I do so as frequently as I can and I’ve been to some far out places, some of them downright dangerous, while chasing down stories.

I never splurge on accommodation. Nothing like this. Being a freelancer is tough, and when you don’t earn money consistently, you learn how to pinch the pennies .

I guess I have to thank Dixon for nominating me for this. Not an enormous sacrifice to make at all. Marcus, the guy I had been seeing before I came to film, had been incredulous.

“What about us?” he had asked me. We’d been seeing each other casually for only a couple of months.

I snort out loud. Why do guys always think you’ll plan your career around them? Honestly, the audacity.

If I could pull this off, who knows what projects I could pitch WebFlix Max… I could actually make a difference…

* * *

CAMILLE

I wake hours later. The sunlight that had bathed the room had toned down to a buttery gold.

I slept the whole day.

I sit up, patting the curls. I fell asleep with wet hair, and I’m paying the price for it. It’s a tangled mess. I snag a few locks and try to unsnarl them with my fingers.

I do an okay job and settle for another messy bun.

This is the part I hate most about traveling. Jet lag. I will be up all night and spend the whole day tired again tomorrow.

I check my phone for the time. It is about half-past five in the afternoon.

My roommate has called several times and left a message.

Amy: (17:08) Are you still alive?

I smile. Did some quick math.

CAMILLE: (17:32) Why are you up at six in the morning?

Her reply comes seconds later.

Amy: (17:33) I thought you were dead. Already raided your closet.

She follows it up with a selfie, and she’s wearing my cashmere sweater. She’s sticking out her tongue.

CAMILLE: (17:34) No such luck. Take it off immediately.

She sends me a new selfie. Her bottom lip is pouted in an exaggerated, sad face. She has taken off the sweater and is wearing…

CAMILLE: (17:35) Why are you naked!

She gives me a big smiley face emoji.

Amy: (17; 35) Go have fun! Paint the town red!

Amy worries about me sometimes. I can be a very serious person. I give her a thumbs up emoji and throw my phone down on the bed as I get up to dress.

I won’t be painting the town red, but I could do with some more food.

I grab my laptop and phone and head down towards the lobby where the concierge kindly directs me to a sitting room where I will be served food.

Friday night at the Empyrean is a swanky affair. Around me, women in cocktail dresses drink fruity drinks while talking to well-dressed men who lean in close to keep their conversations as intimate as possible. There are a lot of arms touching and polite laughs accompanied by the telltale flick of hair over the shoulder.

The curls would never do that. I touch the messy bun tentatively. Blonde curls spill all over the place.

I sigh.

When the server comes, I order a dark beer and a plate of French fries.

I open my laptop and lose myself in our filming schedule .

Tomorrow we’ll film at the track, and the brief is simple. We have to capture the driver’s efforts to get a good placement. Their best lap tomorrow will determine their starting point on Sunday. The better the starting point, the better the chances for a podium finish.

Their placement determines points, points towards every driver, and points towards every team.

I make a group chat and invite the filming crew. It will be easier to coordinate from there. Casey is the first to accept the invite and drops a wave emoji in greeting.

Seconds later, Jay accepts.

JAY: (18:09) Where you at?

CAMILLE: (18:09) I’m at the hotel. I’m working on our call sheet for tomorrow.

Jay sends through a selfie. He’s holding a beer in his free hand and behind him, the rest of the crew all have their drinks raised as well. They’re in a dingy bar somewhere, all smiles.

CAMILLE: (18:11) Have fun! Hotel lobby tomorrow morning at six!

I get a thumbs up emoji and close my laptop as the food arrives.

I spend an enjoyable couple of minutes people watching while I eat. And then I spot him.

Irish.

He’s sitting at the bar, and he is openly staring at me with his black eyes.

It had been untactful of me to ask about this being his last year of racing. I had touched a nerve. I recall how his jaw had clenched, his obvious effort to control his temper.

I raise my beer in salute, but he ignores me. A moment later, he’s joined by a ridiculously sensual woman with black hair tumbling down her back in waves. She’s wearing a backless red dress, and she tosses her hair over one shoulder, leaving her long neck exposed.

Irish swivels his eyes away from me towards her and they get lost in conversation.

I give a sigh of relief.

I’m suddenly feeling very out of sorts. I hate when I feel like this. Like how I look affects my worth, somehow. Amy says I’m beautiful, but I’m not. I’m not plain, but I’m not interesting looking in any way. Most days I feel good, some days I don’t. I try not to worry about it.

I push up off the couch and grab my stuff, making my way towards the elevator banks. I’m not tired but I don’t want to go out either. I can do some research instead.

I step in when the doors open, and I’m surprised a moment later when Irish steps inside after me. He presses the button for a suite on one of the upper levels and takes the other corner comfortably. I avoid looking at him.

I don’t speak to him. I acknowledged him earlier with the beer and he ignored me.

Two can play that game.

Just before the doors close, the woman in the red dress steps in too.

“Finn.” She slides her arm through his, sidling up close. “There you are.”

The doors close and now I can see them plainly in the glossy metal doors.

He’s easy. Leaning casually against the elevator wall as Red Dress languishes against him. She’s so ready to fuck him. It feels like I’m imposing.

My gaze travels up and I lock eyes with him in our reflection. He’s still looking at me openly. Brazenly.

Scowling.

I was here first. If you want to fuck on the elevator, pick an empty one next time.

The doors open on my floor. I step off unhurriedly. I’m trying to look unperturbed.

The doors close behind me and the elevator whooshes them up to a night of endless sex. I wonder if it helps with the tension. If you have a big drive the next day, are you nervous? Does sex help to unwind? It usually helps me.

I shrug.

In my room, I toss my things on the bed and fall down next to it with a huff.

It’s only a year, Camille. And it’s a lot of money.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say to the empty room.

* * *

FINN

“Inez.” As soon as the doors close, I pull her arm from mine. “Why did you follow me?”

I’m feeling some type of way. That woman, the blonde curls she tossed into a bun so carelessly.

She ate a plate of French fries with relish, chasing it down with a stout beer, like the girls back home.

At the Empyrean.

Licking the salt from her fingers. Sexy. Infuriating.

She had raised her beer at me. After that right feckin’ mess today at the studio. Maybe I had been too hard on her. I could be charming if I wanted to be. Inez, rubbing her body up against mine, was proof .

That shit about the contract irked me.

If Delta Victor didn’t renew my contract, that would mean the day I have been preparing for, for years, was finally here.

I’m not sure how I feel about that. I had always assumed I was ready.

Inez was proving hard to shake, and I took the first chance I got when her back was turned.

Curls was on the elevator. Her grey eyes widened in surprise.

I wanted to ask her if she’s ever eaten Passatelli in Brodo. But then Inez followed me.

Can’t ditch a beautiful woman in front of other people. Even I’m not that cruel.

I lean down to kiss the top of her hand. The red dress is clinging to all the right places.

Her lips part. Women love this shit. When you act all gentlemanly, kiss their hands, open their doors. I run a finger down her neck to the strap of her dress, slide a fingertip inside, drag it achingly slowly down the line of her dress as it scoops low between her breasts. Her nipples harden through the thin satin. She smells like musky flowers.

People always ask if I’m a tits, legs, or ass guy. For me, it’s how women smell.

For a moment, it reels me in.

I bury my face in her neck and start dragging my finger up the other side of her dress, push my finger deeper under the silk, brush her nipple. She moans.

My dick twitches.

“And you said not tonight,” she murmurs as she brings her hands to my face, pulling me in closer.

Right .

I never fuck before a race. I like the buildup of tension. It helps me. Makes me angry. Angry makes me push back when I drive. Makes me push down all that shit that boils to the surface when I’m going two hundred miles an hour and I’m fighting the G-force and my head and helmet weigh down on me like a ton of bricks. When a twitch on the steering wheel can mean life or death.

“And I meant it,” I murmur against her skin.

Her hands, now roving over my shoulders, slow down, stalls.

I take a step back. Her neck is red where my beard scratched against it.

I need to shave.

Her big brown eyes narrow suspiciously.

The doors ping open, and I step through them backwards, halt on the threshold, blocking her from following me.

“Finn.” She raises a hand to her chest. “You’re saying no?” Her fingers graze over her breast.

“I’m saying not tonight.”

I see a flash of frustration in her eyes, but she handles me. She hasn’t given up yet. Her red lips part in a brilliant smile and she tosses her hair over her shoulder. Her hand travels lower, skimming over the silk on her stomach.

She’s good.

She’s used to fucking the rich and famous.

Her hand dips lower. She gives a slight moan as she reaches her thighs, pressed together, pushing her hand deeper through the silk.

“You’re just going to leave me like this?” she breathes.

“Yes,” I say.

The doors close. I catch a look of fury before the doors shut entirely and I sigh .

In my suite, I grab a beer from the fridge and fall down on the couch. I have a full on erection. That fucking silky red dress.

I am happily furious.

I take in the view from the suite. The whole of Melbourne stretches out below, moving car lights and neon street signs. It’s a great city. Delta Victor never minds spending the big bucks. Compared to the top three teams, this is pocket change. They’re banking serious money.

My phone rings, and I pull it from my pocket. It’s my agent.

“Finn?”

“Yeah.”

“I spoke to the team at Delta Victor.”

I grunt.

“They’re sorry it got leaked to the press so early, but it’s true.”

“No renewal,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Finn. I can shop around with the other teams.”

“You’ve been shopping around the last two years. Let’s get real about it. What’s your opinion?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I think you’re done, Finn.”

I sigh. He knows me well enough to say nothing.

I ring off, throwing my phone aside.

My last year in Grande Prima racing.

What am I really losing? I recall my mother’s voice that night at the hospital with my dad.

It’s having a family, or racing.

I had seen firsthand what racing did to families. And fifteen years ago, I had made this decision. That when the day came, I’d end it.

Everything is almost in place. Now to wrap it up.