16. Chapter 16
16
Chapter 16
CAMILLE
“ T he Austin circuit has been challenging for you in the past. How do you plan to tackle it this year?”
It’s Edwin Morrow. He’s calling it out to Finn as he makes his way to the pits. Like everyone else, I dislike Morrow. He’s a gossip columnist and disliked by most of the drivers. But he has a large audience. Young girls, intent on following the comings and goings of the drivers.
I don’t look at Finn. I can’t. I’m here because I don’t know what else to do, and doing my job has always been my anchor. When we arrived, minutes apart, I lingered around the van, letting him walk out ahead as me and the crew followed in his wake.
My fingers still tremble with fury.
The push and pull of him. It’s exhausting. How he could bait me, and then draw me in after, like a moth to a flame?
I’ve had enough.
He’s right. I never intended to stay. It’s time to move on, put this behind me .
The thought of it tears at my heart, ripping my breath away.
Jay has already shouldered his camera, taking footage of drivers going up the walk, signing autographs, posing for selfies with fans behind the barricades.
I’m in a daze. Since I walked into Finn’s suite yesterday, I could tell something was off. The way he looked at me when I stepped through the door. Lost and desperate.
When he kissed me, nipped at my lip, I could feel him trembling with pent-up frustration.
It made my blood sing. How desperate he was for me. When he ripped off my clothes and spun me around and filled me, I almost cried out in ecstasy.
It was heady. I have never been wanted, needed like that.
But I could see he needed release. He needed to rid himself of the fury inside him and then he would make love to me again, make it up to me, and he did, last night, when his hands cupped my breast, and he poured himself into me slowly and intentionally.
For a moment, I could swear he loved me.
I’m jarred back to reality when Bruce hands me my noise cancelling earphones and we hit the pits, filming crews scrambling around their cars, making last-minute adjustments, warming tyres under thick heated blankets.
Time passes as slowly as treacle. Jay and Evan film the crowds while I stand empty beside them, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, the noise amalgamating into a singular heavy sound, reverberating through me toneless.
I hold out as long as I can before we make our way to the lineup.
Drivers are getting into the cars, and we weave through them, camera’s low, sweeping from side to side to capture the urgency and anticipation as everyone does last checks before the race.
Rheese stands with one leg up against his car. He watches us as we make our way to the front of the line, where we intend to swivel, capture the group as a whole and then walk the shot backwards.
We pass Finn.
He is standing next to his car with the burly guy, Jack, the mechanic. Their heads are together. Jack nods at me when we pass, but Finn ignores me.
Rheese narrows his eyes.
“Holy shit!” he calls out. Most of the drivers turn towards him curiously as he strains to make himself heard above the din of the engines revving.
Rheese looks from me to Finn with a wide, cruel smile.
“Brennan win’s the pool!” He cheers, throwing a fist into the air.
Drivers turn curiously to look at me and Finn. I can feel the heat of my blush pouring from my cheeks. Embarrassment washes over me.
“Fuck off, Rheese,” Ollie calls from up ahead. “Brennan didn’t place a bet.”
Relief floods through me, but the damage is done. A driver on his way to his car holds a palm up to Finn when he passes, an invitation for a high five.
Finn’s black eyes give a slow blink, and the driver scurries off. When he turns to get into his car, our eyes meet.
He’s breathing slow and heavy, his angry eyes lost and desperate. He looks at me the way he did yesterday. Desperate and empty, full of pain.
For a moment, the noise drops away. We are in the eye of the storm as the world rages around us. I take an involuntary step towards him.
Then Jack slots his helmet over Finn’s head and he turns, throws a leg over, gets inside his car.
We didn’t get the shot we planned. Both Jay and Evan paused protectively when Rheese baited Finn.
I scold them as we make our way off the track.
“Guys, we planned this shot so well. What happened?”
“That fucker was trying to embarrass you.”
“He was not. He was trying to embarrass Finn. I was just collateral damage.”
“He was being a total dickhead.”
“No argument there.”
We make our way to the stands and prepare to film the start of the race.
I’m still lost, confused. He made it so clear this morning when he pushed me away. Ripped the breath from my lungs.
And then he looks at me like I’m the only thing tethering him to the world.
A lifeline.
Something is so very wrong.
The lights go off and the cars roar into action. We’re fifteen races into the season, with another seven to go. Drivers are getting more audacious, desperate to rack up points with the end of the season approaching. It shows on the track. Sparks fly from cars all down the starting line as they bump into each other, a couple spinning out and those in their wake swerving dangerously to avoid contact with debris strewn on the track.
Finn’s pull away is steady, measured. When they approach the first corner, his car skids out, out of control, but he gets it under control, takes the turn too fast, losing seconds fighting the car.
I gasp.
On the straight he’s firm again, car shooting forward like an arrow, braking hard to avoid colliding with the driver in front of him.
It’s Rheese Knox. Finn darts left to right behind Rheese, furiously trying to overtake, but Rheese keeps his car centred, little jerks of movement cutting Finn off every time he goes on the attack.
It’s a dangerous tactic, and Finn ups the ante.
He pushes his car up, bumping into Rheese, causing the rear end to swerve dangerously just as they go into a corner. Gravel fountains through the air as both cars’ rear ends slip off the track, wheels spinning for traction.
The crowd titters with excitement.
What the fuck is going on?
I jump up, start jogging towards the pits, my eyes swivelling towards the screens that are live streaming the race in real time.
When I step into the Delta Victor pits, the whole pit crew is standing, clumped around the monitor inside the garage, Erik and Jack across the lane at the command centre.
I grab a pair of earphones, tapping into comms, clutching the speakers to my ears as I strain to listen.
“Finn, ease off the corners. We need the tyres to last!” It’s Erik, his voice deep and angry.
It isn’t just me. Finn is being reckless.
A few crew members who recognise me on sight step aside to allow me to huddle around the screen with them. On the monitor, Finn is still locked into a furious battle with Rheese. They’re approaching a very tight corner. Rheese decreases his speed fast, and it’s all Finn can do not to crash into him. He isn’t on the optimal line, and at the last moment, he doesn’t slow down. He drops a gear, and the car shoots out.
There is a collective gasp from the crew, echoed out in the stands. Cutting a tight line, he turns his car to Rheese’s inside corner and Rheese, refusing to let him pass, turns his car to cut Finn off. Finn is fast enough to make the corner, but Rheese clips the rear of his car, sending him into a tight spiral off the track.
Everyone is angry and on their feet, yelling curses over the risk of the maneuver and Rheese’s dangerous tactics.
The car barely comes to a standstill or Finn is flooring it out of the gravel, smoke pouring from the tyres as it slips back onto the road, giving dangerous swerves and shudders.
Something is wrong with the car. Rheese must have damaged it.
“Finn, we’re running diagnostics. We think it’s the suspension,” Erik’s voice barks over the earphones.
The stewards penalise Rheese and he lets Finn pass him shortly after.
Erik is calling the stewards to complain, angry voice insistent that Rheese should face more than a penalty. He wants an inquest.
Someone switches off Jack’s comms, and I can see him shouting swear words that thankfully will not reach the stewards’ ears.
When pushed, Rheese will always push back, and he will always relent at the last second.
It’s so obviously his style, and Finn had been sure to press Rheese way beyond that point.
It was risky, and stupid, and if he gets penalised too, he’ll deserve it.
That’s why Erik is making suck a stink about Rheese, to keep eyes off Finn, but the commentators have already picked up on it and are broadcasting their opinions out over the track for the whole world to hear.
“Brennan pushing forward in an uncharacteristic risky tactic. Highly unusual, even for his earlier style. Incidentally, this is the same track he suffered a severe accident that almost cost a spectator her life fifteen years ago.”
You can’t have a life and be a race car driver. The thought comes, unbidden.
But he had turned them down. He would stop racing.
The contract. He’d turned it down. He’d made up his mind about it. But when? He’s been driving like this since the start of the season. Since they announced his contract wouldn’t be renewed.
You can’t have a life and be a race car driver.
But he didn’t have a life. He’d made sure of it.
Erik is shouting down into the microphone, insisting Finn should pit. The suspension is making the drive dangerous.
Finn ignores him.
You can’t have a life and be a race car driver.
My head is pounding. I watch as Finn shoots precariously between two cars, gaining another spot. Too fast, too dangerous. One of them jars against the rails as he tries to evade Finn. As one, we swivel to look at the in-car footage on a separate monitor, footage from Finn’s car that shows his perspective. We watch him grappling for control, swerving wildly before he gains control of the too fast car.
He’s third.
The pit crew erupts in shouts of relief, and the stands outside are shouting furiously.
My head is spinning. I’m nauseous with fear.
What is he thinking?
You can’t have a life and be a race car driver.
And when his contract ends, so does the only life he’s ever known.
But he refused them when they offered it to him again.
Finnegan Brennan had no intention of being a race car driver anymore.
The edges of my vision are turning black. The noise inside the garage is overwhelming as other teams’ cars tear down the pits to refuel and exchange tyres in the heat of the race.
Something has changed, he’d admitted as much. He is taking more risks. Back in London, before I’d gotten to know him this well, I thought he had found his passion for driving again.
But now, watching him swerve dangerously through corners with a damaged car, my stomach roils.
“That’s enough!” Jack bellows over comms. “You’re risking other drivers. The suspension is shot, pit now!”
Finnegan Brennan has no intention of living at all.
* * *
CAMILLE
Dixon is more than gracious about me tapping out. I can hear he’s curious about the why, but he knows me well enough not to ask.
“Honestly, I’d love to get busy.” He sighs over the phone. I can hear something in his voice. I think it’s regret.
He continues more enthusiastically. “I’ve started drafting the schedule for next year based on the footage you submitted. A lot of the drivers are already booking dates. Seems like you set them at ease when you filmed them this year. It’s going to make next year’s schedule way less of a hassle if we don’t have pushback.”
“That sounds great.”
There’s a pause.
“Cam.”
“Hmm?”
“Is everything okay?”
I think of Finn’s face at the track, how he looked at me with despair, and I recall how he drove, how nauseating the fear was. I would not stand by and watch him kill himself.
“It will be.”
Dixon heaves a heavy sigh.
After we sign off, I draft an update email for the crew, and I ask Casey to reach out to Dixon so that she can help him book his flights and the hotel rooms for the rest of the season.
After I send it, I can hear my phone vibrate on the bedside table as their messages come through, but I fall back on my bed, ignoring them. I know they’re curious and I’m not ready for that conversation. Especially not with Jay.
I’ll make it right with them, just not now.
I book my own flight home and drop Amy a text.
CAMILLE (19:23) See you tomorrow.
It’s half-past one in the morning in London. She won’t read it until she wakes up.
I have a ten-hour flight ahead of me first thing tomorrow morning and I start packing up my stuff.
It isn’t a lot. If you move every week, live out of a suitcase, you end up having less and less to lug around. Somehow I end up crying, angry tears spilling over my face, and when I snatch up Finn’s shirt, I stuff it into a ball and throw it across the room.
Then I make up my mind.
I wash my face, grab the shirt, and head out to the elevator banks. When I knock on his door, he opens it guardedly, hair wet.
His eyes are black, and his mouth is set in a grim line.
His eyes rove my face and I watch him pale. When his eyes lock back onto mine, they are filled with shock.
“You motherfucker. ” I stuff the shirt into his chest, and he stumbles backwards. Quick as a flash, he grabs me by the arm, jerking me inside.
“Not here,” he growls.
He knows that I know now. He sees it on my face, that I’ve figured it out.
When he slams the door behind me, I swivel on my feet. Tears are streaming down my face.
“Would you even be here right now if Jack didn’t force you to pit today?”
“I had it under control.” His voice is raw, visceral. He’s at a breaking point. He crosses the room and pours himself a whiskey. He isn’t looking at me anymore.
“Why?” I whisper.
He continues adding ice to his drink, the blocks tinkling as he brings it to his lips.
He’s looking out over the city through the glass wall of the suite, and I can see his reflection, pale, as his black eyes take in the city’s sprawl outside.
“You do not know what I have to live with every day.”
He raises the glass again, takes another sip, continues on with a hollow voice .
“This morning, I was ready. I felt at peace for the first time in years.”
This is his truth. I can’t comprehend how this can be true for him.
He turns to me.
“I am tired .”
“You think this will solve anything?”
“For me, it will solve everything .”
I’m hearing him say the words but they ring hollow to me. I’m struggling to understand living a life where the goal is to die. Where you’d have peace with that decision.
“This isn’t the solution, Finn. This is an escape.”
“Then let me escape.” He swivels to me. He’s begging.
“Why would you want this? What could possibly make you want to die?”
“I’m dead already. I died fifteen years ago when I took someone’s life!”
I watch him shudder as he recalls the memory.
“She isn’t dead!”
“She’s as good as. She’s nothing. She’s an empty shell, and this way I get to make it right.”
“How does this make it right?” I need to understand his reasoning.
“It gives her children a chance at a life they were robbed of.”
“And what about me? What about the life you’re robbing me of?”
He flinches, as if struck.
“I’m sorry.” He runs a tired hand across his eyes. “I tried to walk away in London, but then somehow I convinced myself that I couldn’t resist you. You were a moment of weakness, and you can believe it or not, but I never meant to hurt you. ”
And then I say the thing that has been shredding my heart. The one thought I could not let go of. I needed an answer.
“Was I…Did I-” I take a big gulp, try again. “Was any of it even real?” I end in a whisper.
“Camille…” He brushes a hand through his hair.
“You never,” I interject, not wanting to hear it, not wanting it confirmed. Tears are streaming freely down my face. My anger spent. “You never even said goodbye.”
And then I see it for what it is.
I thought that he was pushing me away because he didn’t want to put me through what his mother had gone through.
But that wasn’t true.
It was weeks of saying goodbye. Every moment he touched me, trailed his fingers over my skin, breathed his need for me and pulled from me agonising ecstasy, had been, in his own way, a farewell.
I’m shaking from the weight of it, how his hand lingered on my foot when he bought me the dress, his face, when he looked at the photo of the lighthouse keeper. The night at his house when he cooked for me, and the day before the race, when he poured himself into me.
Last night, when he made love to me, and wrapped his arms around me after.
He had used me as the swan song of a dead man walking.