Chapter 5 #2
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Shifts on the chaise like the cushions have turned against her.
I try to soften. God knows why. Habit, maybe. “I’m asking you to go back to rehab,” I say. “To try again. Not for me, but for you.”
“I am trying,” she snaps. “But everyone has a different idea of what that looks like. My therapists say I’m ‘noncompliant.’ The doctors think I’m a walking liability.
And you—” She gestures at me, a fresh slosh of tea spilling onto her robe.
“You all think if I just go to another clinic and eat kale and chant mantras, I’ll come out the other side fixed. ”
“No one expects you to be fixed,” I say evenly. “Just sober.”
Vivienne stares at me like I’ve spoken in a language she’s only half learned.
A long beat passes.
Then she huffs and reaches for her pill bottle, popping it open with her thumb. “I wish you’d bring someone home,” she says, as if we’re picking up the conversation where it left off. “A nice girl. A model, maybe. Or someone with a title. I’d love a daughter-in-law.”
My stomach twists. “Did you even hear a word I said, or are you deliberately being obtuse?”
She smiles faintly. “Oh, I hear everything. I just don’t care for the tone. Now, would you like to join me for a drink?”
“No, I would not,” I say.
I leave her in the sitting room, sipping her tea and muttering to herself, and step out onto the back terrace.
The view is lovely. Gardens someone else maintains, manicured hedges, a gravel path that leads nowhere.
The sky above Woking is a dull wash of clouds, not gray enough to rain, not bright enough to lift anything. Just enough to match my mood.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I mutter a curse when I see it’s Harley Patrick, Crown Velocity’s team principal. My true boss. She’s no-nonsense, sharp, and one of the few people in the sport who has the power to make or break my career.
I answer curtly. “Barnes.”
“Hey,” she says, her tone warm but cautious. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I clip out. I’ve never liked this familial tone she takes with her employees.
“You left Suzuka so fast. Told the team it was a family emergency, so I wanted to make sure you don’t need anything.”
“It’s all good.” I glance toward the sitting room window, where the curtain sways like someone brushed past it. “My mum’s sick. I’m with her now.”
There’s a pause. “Do you need some time off? We can spare it this week. Next race isn’t for two weeks, and honestly, no one’s going to blink if—”
“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended, so I reel it back. “Thank you, but I don’t want time off.”
Racing’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
She hesitates. “All right. Just know the option’s open.”
“Is that the only reason you called?” I ask abruptly. She’s my boss, but Harley isn’t the type to waste time on meaningless conversation, so I know she won’t hold efficiency against me.
She shifts into business mode, words picking up pace. “We’ve signed a co-sponsorship with Drivex, that new British sports energy drink launching globally this fall. They want both British teams—Crown and Titans—on a joint campaign.”
“Titans aren’t technically British,” I point out.
Which is half true. While the team is now owned by an American based out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, it was formerly Excalibur Racing, a company based in Great Britain.
They’re currently still occupying headquarters in Guildford, which is not far from here, although rumors are they’re going to relocate permanently to the States in the future.
“They’re British enough,” she says dryly. “So we’re taking the sponsorship.”
The tension in my shoulders spikes because I hate this marketing crap. “What kind of campaign are we talking about?”
“Print and video. A whole series of commercials and behind-the-scenes segments. The theme’s ‘The Spirit of Competition’—you and the Titans drivers doing cheeky challenges, scripted banter, that kind of thing. All off-track, everyday stuff meant to show ‘athletic grit meets everyday charm.’”
I blink. “That’s a terrible slogan.”
“That’s not the slogan. Just the pitch.” I hear the faint sound of typing on her end. “They’ve hired a writer who’s done campaigns for major brands, all steeped in clever, dry British humor.”
“Yes, we Brits are hilarious,” I drawl with fake enthusiasm.
Harley laughs under her breath, apparently finding me funny. “Look, I know this isn’t your favorite thing—”
“I hate media. I hate people.”
The humor in her voice is gone. “Buckle up, Buttercup. That’s part of the job that we pay you insanely well for. Besides… you drivers get along relatively well and what’s not to like? It’s Lex, Nash and Francesca. It’s not like they’re monsters.”
I don’t even try to hide my groan. “Why can’t Lex just do it for Crown Velocity? He’s so much better at that type of thing. And really, why Accardi? She’s got no credibility at this level yet.”
“Because she’s good at this kind of thing.
” I hear the defensiveness loud and clear, indicating that I’m going down a slippery slope if I’m in any way inferring this is because Accardi has a pair of tits rather than balls.
“She pulls numbers. You do too, when you show up. This isn’t negotiable.
They’re rolling this out in three phases between now and the summer break. ”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She irritates me.” Fuck… I said that out loud.
“Is that so?” Harley asks.
“She’s—” I pause, searching for the reason, and it eludes me. “She’s opinionated. And she’s a rookie.” Stupid reasons but accurate.
Harley snorts. “She just placed thirteenth at her first FI race and walked through hell to get there. I think she’s earned the spotlight.”
I don’t respond. Because I can’t really argue with that. I expect Accardi will make serious bank on endorsement deals as she’s the hottest story in all of sports right now. Accomplished, smart and supermodel gorgeous, how can they not want her in front of a camera?
“Meeting’s tomorrow morning,” Harley says. “Ten sharp. Titans HQ in Guildford. I expect you to be there. Smiling would be a bonus but not required.”
“Didn’t you say I could take some time off for my mum?” I ask in a last-ditch effort to avoid this.
“Sorry, that offer’s expired.”
I close my eyes and nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. And Ronan”—she softens, just a fraction—“seriously, if you need anything…”
“I don’t.” I hang up and shove my phone into my pocket, but my thoughts don’t stop moving.
Francesca Accardi. Her amber eyes that are difficult not to get lost in. Her soft rolling accent. The way she looked at me at that Italian restaurant in Suzuka, like she could see every brick in the wall I’ve spent years building.
I’m irritated, but also apprehensive. That woman that sets me on edge, but I’m not completely sure why.
And she’s not the only thing I have to worry about.
Lex used to be my friend and now he avoids me like I carry some sort of contagion. Not that I blame him.
Maybe this forced proximity will help. I can’t fix everything—but perhaps we can be teammates again. That might make this fiasco worthwhile if it offers me the chance to repair the friendship I so thoroughly damaged.