Chapter Thirty-Two
Victoria
“How many cookies do I need to bake to get the data you’ve been scraping from other teams?” I don’t waste any time when I track Oliver down in the office.
I notice there’s an already-empty bakery box crowding his desk, next to haphazard stacks of papers and six simultaneously lit computer monitors.
“What data do you need?”
“Front and back end.” In other words, what other drivers and teams do on the track, and the changes they make to get there off the track. The front-end data is easy to get; the back-end is slightly more… unethical. But, from what I’ve gathered, Oliver doesn’t have many issues with bending morals.
“I have no access to anything back-end. It’s all quite well protected.” Oliver’s stare dares me to challenge him.
“If you’ve never put on the grey hat, then I’m the queen of England.
” My stare is equally challenging. “Your encryption on the archived data you gave me was insane. You didn’t want me to get past it, and I almost didn’t.
” One of the perks of my masters program was that it was very versatile.
I learned several programming and cryptography fundamentals alongside engineering principles in multiple realms. “An ordinary analyst doesn’t encrypt like that, and I’d be amazed if you weren’t capable of much more. So.”
“Be careful of the accusations you make,” Oliver says softly, giving me a warning glare. “They could have intense repercussions.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t give a shit. One of my undergrad classmates is now on the FBI’s most wanted list for breaching every three-letter agency’s cybersecurity and fucking them sideways.
You literally cannot be worse than him. I don’t quite understand why you made getting that data so hard for me, but I don’t care.
What I care about is getting information on other teams. What’ll it take? ”
Oliver gazes at the empty bakery box for a few beats. I mentally prepare to spend the next week slaving away with my demonic oven, but then, he says, “Your silence.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t be the only one here who suspects you have certain skills.”
“None of them have gotten through my encryption.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Did you not want me to get through your encryption?”
“I was curious to see what you were made of.” He shrugs. “I test all the newbies like that. Most of them end up coming to me for help; you didn’t have to. So, your silence, and I’ll get you what you want.”
I narrow my eyes. This is suspiciously easy. “What, no baked goods?”
“My doctor told me to pull back on sugar,” he says flatly.
I point at the empty box. “You’re obviously committed to that suggestion.”
“Do you want the data or not?” he snaps. “And do you want it unencrypted and in a format you can actually use?”
That’s a no-brainer. “Yes and yes. My lips are sealed.”
“I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep super silent if you don’t give me a bunch of archived bullshit again,” I try with a saccharine smile.
Oliver rolls his eyes. Looks at the ceiling, and shakes his head. “Fine.”
I leave before he can change his mind, heading to sim control. I expect to be the first one there, but for once, Asher has me beat.
He stands in front of several lit-up wall monitors, squinting at the numbers and stats flashing across the screen.
He’s wearing black jeans, a black shirt, and a sinfully sleek leather jacket that stretches across his broad shoulders.
My bottom lip finds its way between my teeth as I take him in silently, failing to keep my cheeks from scorching at the memory of last night.
The things he did to me in a random pizzeria bathroom… I went home and got myself off two more times just at the memory. I was an inch away from forgetting how embarrassed I am over the sad state of my apartment and dragging him inside before he left.
“You gonna stare all day, or should we get to work?” he slowly turns around. His expression is unusually pensive, and a flash of fear courses through me. Is he having regrets or second-thoughts about yesterday? Could it have been a one-off thing?
Has yet another person in my life decided I’m not quite up to their standards?
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to stop trying to be so discreet and do something that draws attention.” His tone is edged with warning, but it makes me nearly sag with relief.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone a bit shrill. I clear my throat. “Uh… right. Work.” I set my laptop bag down at my usual workstation. What did I have us scheduled to do today?
“Distracted?” Asher sounds amused. He takes a few leisurely, unhurried steps forward, until he’s standing right behind me, watching while I get set up.
Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs. Dear god, he’s potent.
It was much easier to ignore when most of our interactions started and ended with insults, but there aren’t any of those today.
“What? Me?” A shrill giggle. “No. I’m… no. Definitely not.” When was the last time I got so tongue-tied? “Um… we leave for the next race in a few days, so we should probably… you know…”
“Focus?” Asher supplies.
“Yes.” I swallow around the thick knot of desire lodged in my throat. “Focus.”
“That might be a problem, sweetheart, since you’re just about all I can focus on.” He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger and tugs on it playfully. Tension winds me tight as images of him fisting my hair and urging me to watch us in the mirror last night resurface.
“You didn’t text me,” he says softly, his tone vaguely admonishing.
I frown. “Was I supposed to?” We already planned to run simulations today.
“Yes. No—fuck.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Just… text me. So I know you think about me as often as I think about you.” He steps back, and the loss of his heat is instant and devastating. “Give me whatever setup you think is best. We’ll talk more later.”
He slips into the sim suite, leaving me breathless, frazzled, and with a damp spot between my legs.
Hunter calls me when I’m dropping by the cafeteria to pick up a cup of coffee around lunch. I’ve been dodging his texts since he got me to agree to go to Reynard’s engagement party, but I know it’s rarely a good idea to avoid a call from him.
I navigate to a round table in the back corner of the cafeteria, far out of anyone’s earshot, and pick up. “What do you want?” I won’t ignore his call, but I won’t be nice to him, either.
“It’s Mom.” His tone is sharp enough to cut, but I detect the faintest bit of strain beneath it. That’s as much sentimentality as my brother will ever show, and it means there’s serious trouble.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep the hysterical note from my tone. “What happened? Is she home? What—”
“She’s fine now, but she had another fall. Her caretaker took her to the ER.” I hear Hunter swallow. “She broke her tailbone. The doctor’s recommending we move her to a full-time care facility that’s better equipped for—”
“I’ll be there in a few hours.” It’s a five-hour flight back home, so if I’m able to find a plane ticket on such short notice, I should make it by nightfall.
“No,” Hunter says. “Don’t. I just told you: she’s fine. There is nothing to be achieved with you joining us.”
“She’s my mother!” I hiss, righteous indignation lighting a fire under me. “I should be there for her—”
“You were there for her all the time until you went to college. Now, I’m close to home. I’ve got her. Seeing her will probably only make you upset, and it’ll confuse her. There’s nothing to be gained from your presence here except mutual turmoil.”
I sink farther into the chair. Hearing that my presence around my mother would only confuse her… god, that kills me.
Her dementia has progressed rapidly the last few years, but last I saw her, it was still in the intermediate stage. Pushing severe, but not quite there yet. She still had lucid days just months ago.
Hunter has assured me repeatedly that I need to live my life, and he’ll watch over her. But how can I live my life carefree when I know the woman I grew up with is withering away?
“Hunt…” I swallow back the sting of oncoming tears. “How bad is it?”
There’s a long pause. “It’s not good,” he finally says. “Her prognosis from the fall is fine, but the prognosis on her condition… we’re looking at about twelve more months.” Another pause. “Optimistically.”
Twelve more months? One more year where she’s on this earth… and I’m here? Not with her?
“There are some experimental treatments I’m looking into, but Mom’s too advanced to qualify for most of them.”
“Hunter, I should be there with her,” I whisper.
“Do you really think that’s what she’d want, if she could talk to us?” he asks, sounding irritated. “I don’t ever recall her asking you to stay. She told you to go to college and live your life. Stop letting your emotions rule and do what she’d want for you. I’ve got her.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Logically, I understand he’s right. But guilt doesn’t heed logic, and I feel phenomenally guilty for leaving her. It’s true that she was never really the best mother—Hunter did most of the legwork raising me—but she tried. She was always kind, always ready with a hug.
Now she hardly remembers me, or Hunter. Part of my decision to move away was to avoid watching her forget me. When I went to visit her in the hospital and nearly missed the first race of the season, that’s exactly what I was faced with. She thought I was a nurse.
“If you try to come here, I’m putting your name on no-fly lists,” Hunter says sternly. “You can see her when you come here for the engagement party.”
My eyebrows slam down. “You wouldn’t.”
“To fulfil one of Mom’s last lucid wishes? You bet your ass I would. I was calling to keep you informed—now, you’re informed. Try not to worry, she has the best care in the world. Focus on work.” He pauses. “And in case you get tired of making that algorithm for an F1 team—”
I hang up on him before he can try to poach me, again.
I don’t feel good about staying away from Mom. But, as much as I hate to admit it even to myself, a small part of me is relieved, which only compounds my guilt.
My phone buzzes with a loud alarm. I snap out of my thoughts, swift and startled. My phone alarm signals the end of my break. I still have a few more tests to run with Asher, and I have to prep my program for a ton of data it’s about to receive regarding other teams.
But I can’t work right now. I know myself well enough to understand that if I try to force it, I’ll only make mistakes. I’m not the sort of person that can channel emotions into a work ethic—maybe anger or frustration, but not doubt or guilt.
I quietly trash my coffee, swing my bag over my shoulder, and text Asher to tell him I’m not feeling well.
Then, I head home to let myself wallow in misery for a few hours before I can get my head back in the game.