Chapter 23 #2
He belly-laughs, the fleshy rounds of his cheeks straining from the sheer force of his cackle, and for a moment I think he’s joking. But then I realize he’s putting on a show. Right now. And people are watching.
Shit. I can’t sit here looking chastised. And so, I bellylaugh too.
“Hello,” chimes in the waitress. “Can I offer you anything?”
I glance up at the waitress and gulp. “Sure. Eggs are fine.” Like I can eat anything at a time like this.
“Scrambled? Fried? Poached?”
“Oh, she’s all those things,” says Barry, pouring lots of milk into his steaming percolated coffee.
“Fried,” I say quickly. “Thank you.”
I turn back to Barry, who pushes the small, ornate sterling silver coffeepot in my direction.
He leans forward, grinning widely. “You are fried. And you’re toast, Coleman.”
I blink. There sure are a lot of insults in a breakfast menu.
“I’m so sorry. Barry, it was a moment off the record, with someone I thought was a friend. I was letting off steam after you—”
“Letting off steam?” He shoots me a look.
“It was indiscreet, and I was naive. It will never happen again.”
The eggs have arrived with lightning speed.
“No, it won’t,” he says, looking down at his own fried eggs, spearing a bulbous orange yolk with a corner of thickly buttered toast.
I shudder, forcing myself to laugh, and playfully hit his hand so everyone in the room thinks he told me a particularly wicked joke.
Before we have a chance to thrash things out, Barry takes a long call, and I sit sipping on coffee I don’t want, poking at eggs that make my stomach turn.
Eventually, I shut off the internal self-loathing monologue and start to hear the content of Barry’s call.
“. . . yes, Noah will be released. I’ll announce in October . . .”
It’s Barry, doing my job yet again. Talking to someone—an agent?—about releasing Noah from his contract. Suddenly, I feel a tightening in the pit of my belly. I push my eggs forward, fold my arms, and wait for him to hang up.
When he finally does, I’m pissed. “You know what, Barry?” I say, fake grinning at him, keeping my voice low. “You claim to have uncaged me, to have given me a shot no one else would have, but you continue to clip my wings. I can’t do my job unless you step back and let me fucking do it.”
“If you could do it, maybe I would,” he murmurs, chewing on his toast.
“I fucked up on this one thing. I did fuck up. But in every other way, I’ve measured up and surpassed all expectations.”
Barry sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his belly to mirror me as he considers my words.
“You hired me, and then hired a driver without asking. And yeah, I was angry about it. I have known Matt my whole life, and for personal reasons it was a gut punch when you announced it.”
“I see,” Barry says, reluctantly absorbing the information.
“And now you’re . . . what? Letting Noah go? It’s a mistake. He’s good.”
Barry sighs. “We can’t afford him, despite what you said to that reporter. And Matt’s comments have fucked him in the eyes of sponsors. Who wants their brand on a driver with no killer instinct? I would have talked to you about it today if I knew I could trust you.”
“You can trust me,” I say. “But can I trust you? I don’t know the extent of our money problems, which I should. I heard that we are dead after Vegas if things don’t improve. Is that true?”
Barry looks sheepish suddenly. “In the background things were slowly happening . . .”
“What things?” I say, folding my arms. Point made. “Unless I know what’s going on, I can’t help you.”
“Sorry,” he says, looking at his eggs. “Matt was expensive and we just need more investors. More sponsors. I was delaying until—”
“Oh my god, until when?”
“The sponsors dinner in Vegas is our make-or-break. The dinner you’re supposed to attend, though your absolute disinterest in working a room has been evident from day one.”
I gulp. Okay, I deserve that. But in my defense, I didn’t realize things were so critical.
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Barry sniffs, looking out the window. “It would have worked after all the improvements you made,” he says grimly. “Now who’s going to touch us?”
“You should have talked to me. We were nearly a real team.”
“You broke up the team,” he shoots back. “You were a mistake.”
I stand up and wipe the crumbs off my face with my napkin, ready to make a bold move. “Obviously I’ll finish out the season, as per my very low-paid contract. But if you want to fire me now go right ahead.”
Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.
“May as well stay until Vegas,” he says wearily. “We’re finished anyway.”
I feel the eyes of the room back on us, and so I turn on my biggest smile. “Until Vegas, then.”
I strut out of the breakfast room. Next stop: facing the team and Matt.
Still running on the adrenaline of standing up to Barry, I push through the back door and out into the garage. The first person I see is Noah.
I will not let Barry sell him. The thought hits like a sucker punch.
But I have zero leverage. If he goes under, we all do.
And then I remember the article. Shit, this is going to be hard. I somehow cannot believe the professional advice is to say nothing and act like nothing has happened. Can that really be right?
“Race day,” I say, trying to act chill, but feeling my cheeks burn hot.
“Yes, boss,” he says, without looking at me.
“Give them hell today, Noah,” I say, my voice serious. He’s got to perform now either for himself, or so any other team will pick him up.
“Of course, boss,” he replies.
“Matt values you a lot,” I say. “He doesn’t want you to go. And I don’t either. You got real talent. And huge potential.”
He looks at me, finally, and smiles. “Yeah? Really?”
“Yes,” I say, hand on my heart.
Noah grins, momentarily buoyed. “Thanks, boss,” he says.
“I’m fighting for you,” I say to myself, just as I spot Matt out in the pit. He’s already talking to press, the scrum the biggest I’ve seen in the three races since he joined. I walk slowly but purposefully toward him.
I make my way out into the bright sunshine and wish I’d worn sunglasses to hide the fear in my eyes. I know I have to act like everything is fine, but did Matt get the memo? Has the team told him the plan?
I swallow just as one of the reporters in front tears his flirtatious eyes from Matt long enough to spot me. “Chloe! A few questions, please?”
Matt turns his head and our eyes lock. For a split second—just the briefest of moments—I see the deep hurt, but then he forces a spectacular, full-face smile.
“There she is,” he says, holding his hand out and motioning for me to join him.
I hesitate, but Matt waves his hand to hurry me.
“What a beautiful morning here in S?o Paulo,” I say, my mouth dry. More smiling. Keeping my voice even.
“Have you got any comment on the scoop in today’s paper? Are you and Matt at war?” I can smell the warm plastic of the microphone that has been shoved in front of my mouth, but the faces of the press are shadowed, the sun behind them shining right into my eyes. Good. I can’t see them properly.
I look to Matt, and we each pull a fake amused face at the other.
“Does it look like war?” I say, pointing a finger between us both. Matt chuckles, and I smile back at him.
“Did you really compare him to a used dishcloth?”
“Dish? I think Matt Warner has been called a dish many times.”
The journalists laugh, and the cramping muscles around my lungs slacken a little.
“Are you denying the disagreements between you and Barry Arden? That you didn’t want to hire Matt?”
I take a breath. “Look, it’s true Matt’s contract was unexpected, but to have someone of his caliber on the team is an honor. His improvement tells me everything I need to know.”
“So, Matt, is it true you never went to see your old teammate Stavros?”
“Of course not,” he shoots back, cheeks flaming.
I want to jump in, but he also needs a chance to defend himself. He can do this. He’s really fucking good at this.
“Stavros suffered some burn injuries; did you really make light of those?”
“No,” Matt shoots back angrily. “The story is bullshit.”
“Do you deny, then, that you haven’t seen him since the crash?”
Matt hesitates, and I quickly jump in with, “Stavros is still recovering,” and before he can come back, I point to another reporter. “Jenny, any questions?”
“Did Matt pressure you to drop Noah Blacklock?” Oh, brother.
I falter, searching the depths of my brain to find another retort, and worse still, I spot Noah loitering just behind one of the reporters. But now it’s Matt who jumps in.
“Noah Blacklock is a fantastic young driver,” he says sharply. “He’s hardworking and he’s sharp. I think he’ll be world champion one day.”
“Are you denying the article? Chloe, you’re quoted directly in it.”
“Come on,” Matt says, holding his hands up. “Are we really taking that filthy rag as the bastion of truth now?”
“And what about Arden’s financial problems? Are you on the edge of collapse?”
“I sure hope not,” I joke. And then I think about Noah, and the rest of the team, and I know I need to give more.
“Arden Racing hasn’t got the deep pockets of a Rossini or a Mercedes.
We don’t have the training programs, the legacy, or the luxury goods sponsors.
But we have one thing. We have talent. All the way from the bottom to the top.
” I try not to think about that one awful strategist. It’s true of everyone else.
I’m sure I can see Matt smile out of the corner of my eye.
“And Barry Arden is all heart. He loves this sport . . . almost as much as he loves his dogs.”
Laughter waves through the scrum.
“Any other questions?” I ask, pointing toward the back of the crowd.
“Arden’s car is looking faster. Reckon you can get more points today?”
“Reckon I can try,” says Matt. And then we’re interrupted by Archie in a move that feels perfectly timed, perhaps coordinated. He whispers something into Matt’s ear.
“Duty calls,” Matt says, pointing toward the garage with his thumb, while Archie nods for me to follow him. I move slowly with them, Matt striding ahead and Archie by my side.
“I . . . Archie,” I say, grabbing his hand when we slip inside. “I fucked up.”
He stops, puts a hand on my shoulder, glancing over at Matt to make sure he’s out of earshot.
“Yeah, okay,” says Archie. “You fucked up, and now you know how those rats take your words and twist them and pretend you said shit and invent sources.”
I suck back breath, my eyes widening.
“I get you were just blowing off steam with an old friend.” He pauses to shake his head. “Jack Sheppard is finished in F1. No one will talk to him again after that.”
I sneak a glance at Matt, who looks completely deflated now that he’s out of view of the cameras.
His shoulders fall forward, eyes on the floor as he spins his new helmet in his hands.
I feel my eyes mist a little, my heart squeeze, and then a wash of complete despair.
Please, God, please help him forgive me.
I glance at my watch. One hour until we race.
“I have to speak to him,” I say to Archie.
“After the race,” he replies with a smile. “I’m really rooting for you both. You’re one of the good ones, Chloe.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.