Chapter 2 Drive Me Away
Drive Me Away
Six weeks later
Cold silt and river water blew off the Seine, scattering old newspapers along cobblestone bridges.
A woman stamped out a cigarette, concealed beneath a striped awning.
A man hawking I ? Paris hats stopped a pair of tourists, silhouetted against the twisted metal tower that pierced the heavy gray clouds.
Dominic turned down a leafy avenue, passing by indistinguishable white stone buildings.
He’d spent his teenage years at a boarding school in England, but he knew the seventh arrondissement well.
His mother’s fingerprints were all over it: collecting bread from the bakery, flipping through pamphlets at the art gallery, fingering the stem of a lipstick-marked wineglass…
He climbed the six floors to his father’s penthouse. The door was unlocked, which meant that either Vance had been expecting him or Vance’s latest twentysomething conquest had been careless on her way out. The penthouse smelled of designer perfume and lemon-scented floor polish.
Dominic knocked on the door to his father’s office.
“Come in,” Vance called.
His father sat behind a desk. Dominic didn’t bother to glance around; the office never changed.
Leather-bound books lined the walls, accompanied by framed photos from Vance’s racing days.
A small silver trophy held expensive-looking pens.
His father, too, was unchanged: Vance’s graying hair was combed, and a golden ring glittered on his left hand.
Dominic eyed the wedding ring. He’d never understood why his father still wore it, although he could hazard a guess: for the good PR, perhaps, to make Vance look like a family man.
“You wanted to see me?” Dominic asked, in French.
Vance nodded. “Take a seat.”
His father spoke in English: the language of business, as he often said. It was part of the reason Vance had changed his surname from El Hamdaoui to Hastings when he emigrated to England forty years ago. “Nobody can pronounce Hamdaoui,” Vance had told him. “It’s just easier this way.”
Dominic sat. Vance pushed a black velvet box toward him.
“Here.”
Dominic didn’t move. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Warily, Dominic did. A large watch nestled between the velvet folds, and his stomach knotted. This wasn’t an ordinary watch. It was a costs-more-than-most-people’s-yearly-salary watch. He looked up.
“It’s not my birthday.”
Vance waved a hand. “Can’t a man do something nice for his only son?”
“Thank you,” Dominic said.
The lemon polish smelled stronger in the office, somehow; it was irritating his throat. Dominic looked down at the velvet box. His father only ever bought him presents when there was bad news. I’ve had to cancel our fishing trip. I’m away for your birthday. Your mother died. Things like that.
Dominic shut the box. Perhaps they were making Cap the priority driver for next season. That would be a kick in the teeth, but fair enough after Vegas. His father would need to punish him somehow, if only for the sake of appearance.
“Now,” Vance said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
A lie. Dominic had spent two weeks in a sling, followed by weeks of intense physiotherapy; he’d broken two bones in his left wrist. The injury had healed, but if he never saw another stress ball it would be too soon.
“Good. I’m glad.” His father steepled his hands. “There’s something that I wanted to discuss with you.”
Ah. So the watch had been a bribe. “Okay.”
Vance picked up a pen. Set it down. It was as close, Dominic thought, with rising unease, as he’d ever seen his father come to fidgeting. “Unfortunately, the team has decided not to renew your contract for next season.”
It took a moment for the words to penetrate. A strange ringing began in Dom’s ears. The room felt uncomfortably small, like an itchy wool jumper. This was a joke, right? It had to be a joke. Perhaps this was his father’s real punishment: to frighten him into obedience.
“Because of last season?” Dominic asked.
“That’s part of it,” Vance allowed.
“What’s the other part?”
Vance paused.
Dominic gripped the armrest. He burrowed deeper into himself, deep, deep, deep, plunging down to the bottom of the well, where only sharp stones and cold-blooded fish and half-forgotten memories lived. His face was impassive. He felt impassive. Nothing could touch him here.
“We need a better driver,” Vance said. “Someone who can win a championship.”
Not a joke, then. Dominic set his jaw. “I can win a championship.”
“The stunt you pulled last season—”
“I wanted to win,” Dominic said, and it was a testament to his urgency that he spoke over his father, which he couldn’t remember doing before. “I wanted our team to win. That’s what I was trying to do.”
“By steering into a wall?” Vance frowned. “This isn’t bloody NASCAR. It shouldn’t have worked. And even though you didn’t die”—his voice indicated that he’d been mentally selecting flowers for Dominic’s funeral—“it still cost us the trophy.”
“I took a risk.”
“You lost us two championships and incurred three million pounds’ worth of damage. That’s what you did.”
“I won the race,” Dominic said, and he hated that he was resorting to everything short of begging. Hell, he might have tried that too, but he knew his father would view it as a weakness. “If it wasn’t for that time penalty, we’d have taken the whole thing.”
“You could have tried a safer approach.”
“Trying doesn’t matter,” Dominic said. “Winning does. At any cost.” You taught me that, he added silently.
Vance held up a hand. “Enough. We’ve already finalized the paperwork. There’s no use arguing over it.”
Dom’s throat was dry. “So you’re sacking me.” Silence stretched out, broken only by the noise of the television. “Who are you replacing me with?”
“This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”
“Just tell me,” Dominic said, although he already knew. He’d known from the moment his father brought up the subject. Still, the words were a gut punch.
“Anthony Sinclair. His data is better across the charts. He wins more races. Crashes fewer cars. Ultimately, that’s all it came down to: who’s more likely to win the championship. And Sinclair’s the better driver.”
Dominic’s pulse thundered. “And Jer?” Vance looked at him blankly, and Dominic squeezed his hands together. It was an effort to keep his voice even. “Jeremiah Phipps. My race engineer. I’ve been working with him for years.”
“Oh.” Vance flipped through the papers. “We’ve had to let him go. The team can’t have a race engineer who doesn’t know how to keep our drivers in line.”
Dominic’s stomach tightened. He thought of Jeremiah’s fortieth birthday party, the twin eight-year-old girls who had giggled, studying him shyly from behind a chair.
Christ. The man had children. Was Jeremiah at least given a severance package?
But his father wouldn’t care, he thought dully, a weight settling in his stomach.
People called him “The Spider” for a reason.
They were all just flies, trapped in his sticky web.
Vance was the kingmaker. The puppeteer of Formula 1. He’d given up a short but promising racing career at twenty-six and spent the next thirty years plowing down people with the same ferocious determination he’d once barreled down a track.
Trying to fight Vance was like trying to tear down the sun: There was no point, and you’d burn yourself trying.
“How many people know?” Dominic asked. “About my severance?”
“The shareholders,” Vance said. “Anthony Sinclair. And I told Capulet this morning.”
So Cap knew. Dom supposed he should feel hurt, but he didn’t, of course.
You could only get so close to your teammate.
Sure, they’d been out for dinner, or laughed over Cap’s spray tan when they were filming a sauna advert, but did that change anything?
They were like two chicks in a nest: At some point, you were going to have to shove the other one out.
And Cap had got there first.
“Look,” Vance said, “I understand you might be feeling…frustrated. That’s perfectly natural.
” Vance’s phone dinged, and he picked it up.
“But our cars have become collateral damage, and that’s not fair to the team.
Would it help to go away over the break?
Spend some time at a resort? It might help you work through your… feelings.”
Vance said feelings the way that most people said warts, or chronic case of chlamydia. A sour taste rose in his throat.
“I’m fine.”
Vance went back to typing. “I know a wonderful little spa in Brittany. It’s got a beautiful view of the mountains.”
In other words, the PR team had done some research on spas and decided on one that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a rehab clinic. “I’m okay. Really.”
“I’d pay for it,” Vance said.
His fingers tightened on the armrest. “I don’t want to go to the resort.”
“Well,” Vance said, “if you change your mind, you know how to reach me. Oh, and I’ve prepared a statement about your retirement from the sport.” He pushed some paper across the desk. “Go over it with your press team. Make any changes you want.”
Dom stared. “I—what?”
Surely he’d misheard. Vance’s fingers flew over the screen.
“You won’t want to race in a midfield car. It’d be like trading in a vintage Dom Pérignon for a pouch of apple juice. In fact—” His phone rang. “Sorry. I need to take this.”
Right. Conversation over, apparently. “Go ahead.”
Dominic rose, crossed the room, and shut the door behind him.
He could hear his father’s voice drifting through the wood, followed by a warm laugh.
Was he speaking to Sinclair? Probably. They had only five weeks before the next season started.
Details would need to be hammered out, especially with a last-minute signing.
Dominic looked down at the paper. It was two pages, neatly double-spaced and branded with the Duro Stallion logo.
He wished the words would blur together, but he was a sucker for detail and he read each one: I hereby announce my retirement from Formula 1…
long list of people to thank…eager to pursue other opportunities outside the sport. He crumpled the paper in his fist.
Yeah. Fuck that.
Of course his father wanted him to retire.
If Vance Hastings didn’t own an asset, then he wanted it eliminated.
He could recall watching a medieval war film together, where the Scottish king had set fire to the ramparts as the English army approached.
“Better to burn your own castle,” Vance had said approvingly, “than to let your enemy take it.” Then again, Dominic thought bitterly, his father had once stood in this same office and claimed that he would give anything to protect Dominic’s career.
Whatever is necessary, Vance had vowed, which, as it turned out, was a load of bullshit.
His father was a businessman first. Always would be.
Dominic tipped his head back. A photograph of his mother stared out from the opposite wall. Colette Hastings clutched a fur hat, beaming on an ice rink in front of the Grand Palais. The photograph had once hung in the kitchen, although his father must have taken it down.
He looked away, then took out his phone.
First, he sent an email to his accountant instructing him to transfer an obscene amount of money to the account of Jeremiah Phipps.
Tell him it’s a severance package, Dominic added.
Or that he’s won a contest; I don’t care which one.
Just make it believable. Jer had a lot of pride; he’d never accept the money if he knew where it had come from.
His grip on the phone tightened.
Right. There had to be another seat available; Duro Stallion was the best team on the grid, but he could go to one of their rivals.
Who was taking Sinclair’s seat at Hydra Auto?
But no; Bo Zheng, the team principal, was in his father’s pocket.
He’d never risk hiring Vance’s estranged son.
But maybe Polski Ram would. Or even Asteri Stag, who’d scouted him four years ago.
Dominic began dialing.
Six minutes later, he’d received four rejections.
All polite but firm: We don’t want you. He lowered the phone, exhaling.
Shit. The stunt he’d pulled in Las Vegas must have really fucked with his credibility.
But what about Viper, Hydra Auto’s feeder team?
It was a major step down, sure, but Bo wouldn’t have a direct say in who that team hired. Or—?
Dominic paused.
Or.
Or.
An idea sparked. He scrolled back through his messages, his thumb hovering over a name. No. That was mad. He’d have to be certifiably insane.
And yet…
Dominic punched the number, held the phone to his ear. The person answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Ranya.” Dominic closed his eyes. “It’s Dominic Hastings.”
There was a long pause. “How did you get this number?”
“Google,” Dominic lied.
A drill whirred. Ranya sighed. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure, Hastings, but I’m in the middle of something—”
“Don’t hang up,” Dominic said quickly. “You’ll want to hear this. Trust me.” He switched the phone to his other ear. “When can you meet today?”