Chapter Eleven
Asher
If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as the media, it’s sponsors and investors. So being sent out to a dinner with both and displayed like a fucking show horse in a ridiculous monkey-suit is just about the only thing that can make my week worse.
I bombed the race, got yelled at by every member of team management, and this is the penance they decided on. Sending me to this dinner, simply because two of the investors are mega-fans of my dad’s work.
I like people who idolize my father just as much as I like cultists and conspiracy theorists. That is to say, not at fucking all.
“His exhibition in London is phenomenal,” one of them gushes in my ear. I think his name is William something. “My wife couldn’t stop talking about it for days.”
William is in his sixties, short, and stout—and seems to be completely unable to hold back from talking about his family for more than thirty seconds.
I think he’s vying for the family man award from the douchebag convention.
Almost like it’ll erase the public scandal he caused by fucking his secretary not long ago.
“The inspiration he took from Kandinsky is subtle but evident—”
“Yes,” I cut in shortly. “He’s quite good.”
“I imagine it must be hard for you to stay so far away from him—he’s spoken about the inspiration his family offers him in countless interviews.”
When Dad says family, what he really means is wife. Similarly to good old William here, my father’s defining trait is his obsession with his wife and muse. An obsession that runs so deep it’s curbed his ability to afford attention to anyone else—like his sons.
I was sent away to my first boarding school in Switzerland when I was six.
I saw my parents a handful of times over the next ten years—whenever I was in the states for holidays, I was stashed away with my mother’s parents.
Unlike their daughter or son-in-law, my grandparents are not artistic; they’re businesspeople.
Naturally, I got along with them far better than I got along with the people who brought me into this world and decided to hand me over to nannies and boarding schools.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I say vaguely. The only reason I knew that dad had finished a new series of paintings was because I saw it in an ad on social media.
William claps my shoulders with a bright smile. “Very true. You know, my wife and I are actually…”
I make a point to drown out the rest of his words as he, I, and a sponsor whose name I don’t bother to recall are all seated at a circular table. I lean back in my chair, mentally preparing myself for three hours of tedious conversation and mediocre food, when I see her.
I only catch her side profile, but her hair is enough to tip me off. I’ve never seen such a pitch-black, shimmery color before.
What the fuck is the intern doing here?
And who the hell is the guy sitting across from her? Is he… is he her boyfriend? Is she spending her nights dating instead of working? And why am I suddenly so ridiculously, irrationally angry?
“Asher?” William repeats. I tear my gaze away from the intern and turn my stare on William. It must be a bit harsh, because he balks and shrinks back into his seat. Pussy.
“My apologies, I thought I saw someone I knew.” I adjust one of my ridiculous silver cufflinks. “What were you saying?”
“Soren assures us that the team’s working quite hard at adjusting their strategy and Ilya mentioned that Gaston’s working on a program to aid this, but…”
And so commences the next two tedious, impossible hours.
I answer William’s questions as politely as I can—which is to say I keep my responses sharp, minimal, and to the point.
I indulge the other sponsor’s requests for information in the same manner, and overall, I am just civilized enough that neither of these well-dressed pricks can tattle to my bosses about my behavior.
Still, I make no real effort to befriend them.
If they wanted a sell out instead of a driver, they should have sent Elio.
And, every ten goddamn seconds, my gaze slides back to Victoria.
I imagine myself doing something obscene, like storming up to her table and coolly informing her that she better get back to HQ if she still wants a job in the morning.
Or punching her date in the face. Not because I care, but he looks like a wealthy asshole—which I did not peg for her type.
By the time dessert rolls around, Victoria and the prick are leaving.
They don’t hold hands, which is a small mercy, but they do seem way too goddamn comfortable together.
As though they’ve been going out for a while.
They talk quietly and easily with each other, like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist.
When Victoria walks past my table, her eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second.
There’s absolutely no surprise in them… which means she knew I was here and deliberately decided to ignore me.
Probably because she was too caught up in whatever monotonous conversation she was holding with wealthy-prick.
I see resentment in her gaze, paired with a hint of anger, which perversely satisfies me. If she’s taking up space in my mind, I sure as fuck should be living rent-free in hers, even if the room allotted to me is titled hatred.
She breezes past me and makes it to the door. Urgency tightens my gut, and I stand so abruptly from the table, I almost tip over my chair. William and the investor both give me startled looks.
Shit.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” I say in a failed attempt to sound smooth. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” I fish my wallet from the pocket of my slacks and toss a few bills onto the table. “Thanks for the company.”
And then, like the moron or madman I’ve somehow turned into, I stalk after the intern.
A sense of necessity grips me as I rush outside, looking right and left… only to find Victoria and douchebag gone. I’m too late.
I have no idea why it feels like I’ve failed something spectacularly, but the sense of loss is undeniable. I feel… bereft. And on the heels of that comes another wave of sheer fury.
The intern thinks she can spend her nights going out with would-be sugar daddies and keep her job? I’ll make it my personal fucking mission to disabuse her of that notion.
For the first time in distant memory, I arrive at headquarters early without being forced. I try to limit my time here as much as possible for all the obvious reasons, but occasionally, something pulls me back.
Today, that happens to be the intern—though I do my damn best to try to deny it. So much so that I make my way directly to the sim suite. Not because it’s right next to the analyst’s cave, but because I could use some practice.
Yeah, right. I’ve never been talented at fooling myself.
A very startled Thomas hurries into the room after me. “Are you… heading into the sim?” he sounds disbelieving.
“No, I’m planning a trip to Mars,” I grunt. When he stares at me with absolutely no reaction, I roll my eyes. “Set it up to Melbourne Grand Prix.” I’m still too worked up to even think of the last race, so I won’t be touching that disaster for a while.
As soon as I buckle in, the screens surrounding the wheel light up.
Despite my disdain for simulators, I can’t find any fault with the tech; if it weren’t for the lack of sound, I’d feel like I were right back at the Melbourne Grand Prix, on the track.
I wrap my hands around the wheel, press my foot to the gas, and start.
The first lap is as disastrous as it was during the race. On the second lap, I hear Victoria’s incessant and unwanted commentary in my ear. My eyes flick down to the controls, and I almost start fiddling around with her suggestions.
Then, I remember her sitting across from Rich McDickson last night… and I deliberately ignore boost mode and X-mode, and just do the thing I thought I’d always do in F1: drive.
Countless laps and several hours later, I leave the chamber.
I didn’t do well by any means, but for the first time in a long while, satisfaction eases the tension that usually bunches my muscles tight.
I didn’t treat that session as practice; I treated it as something that’s become a foreign notion, fun.
Thomas is still exactly where I left him, except now, he’s accompanied by Declan, Ilya, and the head of the nerd army—Oliver. All of them are murmuring among each other, pointing at different areas of the screens they’re studying.
“Twentieth of a second here,” Declan murmurs. “If that was replicated on T2, we’d have been in business.”
“Sporadic gains,” Thomas mutters to himself. “Maybe if—”
“You’re all done gossiping, we can actually have a fucking conversation,” I cut in.
“Not gossiping.” Ilya turns to appraise me with hawkish eyes. “Just discussing. Your work in there wasn’t bad.”
Probably because I didn’t treat it like work for the first time in years.
I just enjoyed the ride, so to speak. “Thank you for the glowing endorsement,” I say dryly.
Then, I turn to Oliver, who’s produced a plate of chocolate-chip cookies out of nowhere and has begun hoovering them down like he hasn’t eaten in years.
It’s safe to assume they came from Victoria, considering she’s been openly bribing team members with baked goods.
“Where’s the intern?” I ask. If he has fresh cookies, that means she’s here. I think it’s about time I ruin her day with threats over losing her job.
I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I’m being completely ridiculous.
That seeing her having dinner with a man should not be taking up space in my head, but I can’t help myself.
She’s on my team, assigned to my car. Her focus should be on me, even if I told her to stay the hell away from me.
“Probably at her desk,” he says with a full mouth. “Why do you ask?”