Chapter 16
Annalise
This weekend we’re in Bahrain for the fourth Grand Prix of the season. The energy surrounding this event is almost as palpable as the heat. Every time I land in Bahrain, I’m taken aback by the heat.
As if the climate wasn’t oppressive enough, I haven’t been sleeping well due to a series of dreams that have nothing to do with racing.
My mind drifts off to conjure up images of pink lips right before they descend over mine.
Lips that hadn’t lingered long enough in real life, but in my dream?
He’d touched, teased, and tantalized with those lips, and I allowed it.
Directly after breaking the kiss, I’d gotten lost in those damn eyes.
Over the years, I’ve seen taunting, mockery, and even anger in Max’s eyes. Last night in my dreams I saw fire. An unmistakable, scorching, incendiary blaze that lit me up from the outside inward.
Right before he leaned in for a second kiss that I absolutely knew would set me ablaze, I woke up. Sleep was elusive after that.
“Who do you have your eye on to qualify as P1?”
Jen’s question draws me out of my unwelcome reminiscing.
“Well,” I clear my throat, “I spent last night rewatching the Suzuka race. Bree had a strong finish. I honestly think, if she keeps this up, she’s walking away with the championship.”
After too many minutes of tossing and turning, I pulled up some racing footage on YouTube.
“That confident, huh? I’ll take your word for it. You think she has a shot at the big promotion?”
I snort, glancing around at the venue as women and men order drinks from the bar, laugh at jokes I’m certain they don’t find the least bit funny, and of course, men in suits making deals in the corner.
I wave at a couple of familiar faces but gesture to the phone to my ear when they wave me over to talk.
“She does if she wants it,” I answer.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“I hate to admit it, but there is a glass ceiling in this damn industry.”
Jen snorts.
“Glass ceilings are meant to be broken,” she says with all confidence.
“Damn straight,” I agree. “That issue is a tough one, but not insurmountable. There’s something about her demeanor that makes me question whether she wants it or not.”
“Have you approached her?”
I jut my head back in surprise. “Why would I—”
“To be her agent,” Jen says like it’s nothing. “You said she doesn’t have one or—”
“She has one … I think. Last I heard they were on the outs, but I’m sure she’s figured it out by now.” I glance around the room again, my gaze lingering on the agents I know in the room. Those are mostly the guys in business attire wooing business reps over glasses of scotch or wine.
I wonder who, in this room, is advocating for Sabrina Walters.
Then I remember that shouldn’t be my concern.
“But is it the right agent for her?” Jen’s question smacks me in the ear.
Still, I push it away.
“I can’t abandon Travis right now.”
“You’re not abandoning him,” she says as if she’s a teacher explaining a concept to her student for the third time.
My stomach tightens.
Becoming an agent means holding an athlete’s career in the palm of my hands.
I would need to ensure they are guided toward the right opportunities, encourage them when things get tough, and depending on the athlete and what type of support system they have, it damn near requires being a part-time therapist.
What if I don’t have the right connections?
What if my head gets in the way and I mess things up?
What if …
What if …
Those questions only become that much more paramount when it comes to guiding the professional career of a woman in motorsports.
“Annalise, you would make a phenomenal agent for Bree,” Jen says, sounding as if she’s answering a question I hadn’t meant to ask out loud.
The questions grow louder as she tries to answer them and I know it’ll only get worse. I glance up at the track, hearing the engines in the nearby garage as the drivers start to pull out to line up for their race.
The distraction I need.
“The races are starting soon,” I tell her. “I should go.”
I don’t have to see her to know that she’s frowning at my cop out.
“You’re lucky I’m still dealing with jet lag,” she contends. It’s only been a week since she returned home to Chicago from her Asia trip.
“I’ll take that as a win. Get some sleep.”
After I hang up with Jen, I make my way to the bar to order a margarita before finding a space in the standing section with a clear view of the track, but my phone buzzes.
It’s an email from Norm.
I quickly read his request for me to look up an email between one of Travis’ sponsors to send over some information. Deciding it’s better to pull out my laptop in a private spot to do this bit of work, I duck out of the room and search for a quieter area to give Norm a call.
His flight got delayed, which means he won’t land in Bahrain until tonight.
One door I pass, I knock lightly, and when I don’t hear anything I attempt to turn the knob to enter. It’s locked.
A few feet ahead, I don’t even knock since that door’s slightly ajar.
However, as soon as I take a step inside, I hear a shrill female voice.
“You’re absolutely worthless.”
The words are said with a casual venom that has my back going straight.
“I can’t believe I invested so much time and money into you. If your father were alive, he would absolutely be ashamed over what you’ve become.”
It’s about halfway through that last comment that I realize this voice is familiar—I know the owner of those harsh words.
“You simply aren’t worth the effort and time I’ve put into you.”
My stomach plummets at the same time I raise my eyes to meet long, platinum blonde hair streaming down a slender back facing me.
I don’t want to, but I can’t stop my eyes from moving over the woman’s shoulder … to the man she’s talking to.
It can’t be.
My breath catches at the sight of Max, standing before his mother, expressionless. I’m so used to seeing those hazel eyes full of some sort of emotion—mirth, anger, passion—but right now they’re just blank.
There’s nothing behind that stare as he looks at his mother while she berates him. A beat later, Max turns his gaze on me. Mrs. Ferreira must sense my presence as well.
When she turns to face me, her face is flushed red with anger, and the rancor that’d laced her voice moments ago is displayed all over her normally beautiful face. Currently, her high cheekbones, reddened cheeks, and perfectly arched but narrowed eyebrows remind me of a beast.
Or one of those wicked witches in the fairytales my mom used to read to me as a little girl. The evil queen who was beautiful but had a soul black as midnight. My mind simply cannot process seeing such ugliness in real time.
Not because I don’t understand the words but because of the man who stands on the other end of her verbal daggers. Her own son.
“You simply aren’t worth the effort and time I’ve put into you.”
Max’s schooled expression. His blank stare. He’s used to it. Trained himself against such verbal hatred.
A throbbing ache spreads in my chest. The idea of a mother regularly berating her son is a concept I can’t wrap my head around.
“Annalise,” Mrs. Ferreira says, obviously attempting to mask the scorn in her tone with a cheeriness that turns my stomach.
Giving my head a little shake, I force my eyes to move away from Max’s toward his mother’s.
Her blue eyes glitter with malice before she blinks and replaces it with that signature smile she was known for in her modeling career.
If it weren’t for the continued flush in her cheeks and the minute amount of lingering rancor in those eyes, I would think my mind had been playing tricks on me.
And while my mind loves to play tricks on me, making me question things I should know aren’t real, this one isn’t on my broken brain.
This is reality.
“What a surprise to see you,” his mother exclaims into the continued silence. “Max and I were catching up after his practice drive.” She takes a step in my direction, but stops when I visibly stiffen.
Her comment gets my brain in motion again. I remember where I am and why I’m here. It’s race weekend. Max completed his practice laps not too long ago.
Tomorrow he’ll have to qualify, followed by race day on Sunday along with the rest of the drivers. All of that after having such ugly insults hurled at him by his own mother.
My gaze goes back to meet his. He’s silently watching me, not saying anything. But that same cold, distant mask he wore to keep his mother’s words at bay continues to overlay his expression.
“I’m certain Travis will do well this weekend,” Mrs. Ferreira is saying. “The Amato team is lucky to have him.” She lets out a laugh and claps her hands in front of her. “Lucky. That must be why he chose to name his son that, right?”
My nephew’s name coming out of this vile woman’s mouth brings out a scowl on my face. She doesn’t notice as she’s gone into full-on save face mode.
“Actually, Alyssia chose the name,” I say, my voice wrapped in icicles.
Mrs. Ferreira blinks, eyebrows spiking slightly before she covers the shock with another phony smile.
“Yes, well, all the same,” she responds. “How about we go out and find a place to have lunch, shall we?”
She has the audacity to reach out her arm as if she’s about to wrap it around mine. I’m not subtle when I pull out of her reach.
The fake wounded look she gives me doesn’t do shit to soften my expression or reaction.
“I’m working,” I tell her without looking in her direction.
“Well,” she says, quickly recovering, “I’m certain Linda is somewhere waiting for me.” She pauses as if I’ll change my mind and choose to exit with her.
There’s not a chance in hell of that happening.
“Max, I believe you have a meeting with your team …” The tone of her voice comes across as if she expects him to follow her out like a puppy dog, and it takes everything inside of me not to tell her to go to hell.
“I’m aware of my schedule,” Max says, his voice devoid of the usual lightness and joking nature. There’s only been a handful of other times that I’ve heard his voice full of something other than charm or teasing.
The most recent being weeks ago in Japan. The night he ran off that group of guys who were harassing me and then practically dragged me back to my hotel. Anger had filled his voice that evening. No, not anger.
Max’s voice had bordered on irate.
First with the losers who’d been bothering me, then he turned that energy in my direction. Right up until the point I found his lips on mine.
I push that memory out of my mind at the same time Mrs. Ferreira passes me with a sharp nod at Max and another phony smile in my direction before exiting the room.
Ironically, the tension doubles as Max and I stand there, alone, watching … gauging one another. His narrowed eyes examine me, but I can’t discern what he’s thinking.
I assume he’s also trying to ascertain my thoughts as well.
That would make two of us.
I’m torn between going after his mother and trying to rip her blonde locks from her scalp or remaining here with Max to find out if he’s okay.
It’s difficult to choose which route to take. All I know is that the knowledge of any mother verbally annihilating her child in any way paints the color red across my vision.
I want to ask him what the hell that was. Why would she say those things to him? But I remain quiet.
“You needed the room,” Max says, taking a sledgehammer to the silence.
I nod even though it wasn’t a question.
He extends his arms as if offering it to me. “Have at it.”
When he walks past, my first instinct is to reach for his arm. Thankfully, I stop before I can embarrass myself.
For all I know, whatever I just walked in on has no effect on him in the slightest. Maybe his mother’s words hit me harder than they ever did him.
“Thanks,” I say just above a whisper right before he exits, leaving me alone.
I watch his back as he leaves, not stopping to give me a backwards glance, and my heart drops at the sight of his slightly slumped shoulders as he walks away.