Chapter 6 The Goal
The Goal
Now
“Go on,” Liêm said. “Spit it out.”
Dominic glanced sideways. His fellow driver wore a suit, his face half-shaded in the dying light that filtered into the limousine.
Outside, Manama passed by in a blur of scent: spiced lamb and rosewater, roasted kebabs and sweet dates…
An ethereal, sloping melody drifted over the glass city. The evening call to prayers.
He glanced at his watch.
Fifteen minutes.
He could play dumb for fifteen minutes.
“What?” Dominic asked.
Liêm looked up from his phone. “Are you really going to make me spell it out?”
The limousine took a sharp left. Liêm—who was playing a game of virtual foosball—let out a string of Vietnamese curse words, jabbing at the phone.
Dominic leaned over and calmly spun a wooden dowel; the ball soared into the net, and he smirked.
That was the primary difference between them, Dominic thought; he played foosball with slow precision, while Liêm played like the table was on fire.
Liêm raised an eyebrow. “All right, I know you’re good. No need to rub it in.” He turned back to the phone. “If you won’t say it, I will.”
“Say what?”
Liêm struck a ball. “Juliette Marchmont.”
Dominic exhaled. There was no point, he knew, in trying to change the subject; Liêm was like a telephone salesman who had managed to get someone on the line—there was no shaking him. “What about her?”
“Is she coming to the party?”
“How should I know?”
“Because she’s your teammate.”
“I don’t know. Probably.” She was. He’d emailed Ranya last week and buried the question between an inquiry about sponsorships and his sign-off. No need to look eager.
“For the record,” Liêm said, “I think you’re going to kill each other.”
Dom’s smile was easy. “The great thing about you, Liêm, is that you never try to proceed with sensitivity. Always straight for the throat.”
“She hates you,” Liêm said plainly.
“Plenty of people hate me.”
Liêm shook his head. “Not with the same resolve and bitterness.”
Dominic slumped back in the seat. It had been three weeks since he’d met with Ranya and convinced her to give him a contract with Toro Significa. Only nine days since he’d found out that Juliette Marchmont was going to be his teammate.
“We’re adults,” Dominic said. “I’m sure we can be civil.”
Liêm gave him a look. It was the same look that Liêm used to give him at boarding school, whenever Dominic tried to rappel out of a window or sneak an extra rice pudding cup. He had been perfecting that look for fourteen years.
Dominic relented. “I’m going to talk to Marchmont like a normal person. We were friends once. I’m sure we can be friends again.”
Liêm pulled a face. “You don’t have friends.”
“I have you.”
“Besides me,” Liêm countered.
Dominic opened his mouth and then closed it.
Ah.
Maybe Liêm was right.
But that had been a purposeful choice; at school, Liêm had been captain of the cricket team, while Dominic had barricaded himself in their bedroom, memorizing track layouts.
Liêm had tried to drag him places—to the football pitch, or the pub on the weekends—but Dominic had refused.
He didn’t need friends. The fewer people you cared about, he reasoned, the fewer people who could hurt you.
Liêm tilted his phone. “People think you’re a grouchy bastard, you know.”
“Well,” Dominic said, “that’s simply untrue.” He crossed his ankles. “My father’s assured me that he had me within wedlock. I’m perfectly legitimate.”
There was that look again. “Dom.”
“Look,” Dominic said, “I don’t care who I’m racing with. I’m just going to focus on winning.”
“A race?”
He shrugged. “The season.”
The limousine swung. Liêm pitched sideways but kept himself upright with remarkable core strength. “No offense, mate, but you’re driving the worst car on the grid.”
“I can win in any car.”
He said it like it was the truth, because it was.
He’d put in the work. Years of sprints with sandbags strapped to his shoulders, reflex training and neck stretches, protein shakes and physio appointments…
He’d watched his father’s old race tapes over and over again, trying to memorize exactly how the nose of the car turned through the chicane.
“Because that,” Vance liked to say, “is what it takes to be a champion.”
“Dom…” Liêm shook his head. His virtual opponent scored a goal, although he didn’t seem to notice; his face was unbearably gentle. “You know as well as I do that you’re never going to win in that car.”
“Watch me.”
Liêm sighed. “I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?”
Dominic thought of their trip to Vietnam four years ago, when they’d driven around on motorcycles.
They’d sheltered under a worn tarp in the sticky heat, eating banana and coconut cream, watching as the storm clouds rolled in.
The skies had opened, and Dominic had run into the storm, whooping like a maniac as rain pelted his face.
Liêm had watched from the safety of the tarp, shaking his head with fond exasperation. I know better than to try to stop you.
And although Liêm was looking at Dominic as if he’d gone mad…
“I’m going to do it,” Dominic said decisively.
He snatched Liêm’s phone, sending the ball careening toward the net. The ball went in with a plink. Confetti rained down on the screen.
Liêm looked glum. “You made that look easy.”
Dominic gave the phone back. “It was a team effort.”
The limousine parked. Camera flashes bathed Liêm’s face, coloring his cheekbones in liquid silver. He straightened his tie. “Just don’t cause a scene tonight, all right? At least not before dessert. I’m looking forward to those lemon tarts.”
“I’ll behave like I always do.”
Liêm sighed. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
Dominic stepped onto the rooftop.
“Oh, good,” he said. “They’ve kept it understated this year.”
Liêm snorted. Glittering lights hung in the trees like fallen stars; the bar was a pirate ship serving up “Pixie Dust” and “Captain Hook’s Brew,” and a Polski Ram driver was doing a handstand in the chocolate fountain to raucous cheers.
The theme this year was Peter Pan, although Dominic noted the designer had overlooked the bit about Peter kidnapping children from their beds, which was, he felt, probably the correct choice.
“I’m off to play darts,” Liêm said. “You fancy a match?”
Dominic shook his head. “I need a drink.”
Or ten. It depended on how quickly he ran into his father, Anthony Sinclair, or the woman he was hellbent on avoiding. Liêm clapped his shoulder.
“I’ll find you later,” he said.
His friend disappeared into the crowd. Dominic carved a path toward the pirate ship. He spotted Ranya speaking to the head of the FIA, sporting a delicate mask and a shiny golden cane, and she nodded as he passed. He’d almost made it to the bar when someone caught his shoulder.
“Hastings,” a male voice drawled.
Dominic gritted his teeth.
Anthony Sinclair gave him a lazy smile. He wore a red velvet smoking jacket and that bloody golden signet ring.
The thing seemed permanently welded to his hand; technically, any jewelry was banned on the racetrack, although Sinclair’s father was high up in the FIA so he could get away with more than most. Not that Dominic had a leg to stand on when it came to familial nepotism.
But at least he felt some shame in benefiting from it. That had to count for something, right?
“If you’re looking for Vance,” Anthony said, “he’s not here yet.” He took a sip of champagne. “He texted me a few minutes ago.”
Dominic stuck his hands in his pockets. “How nice for you.” He hadn’t heard from his father in weeks, save for a four-word email. Vance had attached an article with the headline “A Significa-nt Decision: Hastings Joins New Racing Team.” Thought you were quitting, Vance had written. No subject line.
Guess it was nice to learn that his father was alive.
“We had the best time in Switzerland,” Anthony continued. “Dinner in Savoy, a private boat tour of Lake Geneva…” His smile was a puncture mark. “Shame you couldn’t be there.”
“I had other things to do.”
“Staring at yourself in the mirror?”
Dominic’s smile was breezy. “Conducting a study on whether wearing a signet ring makes you an arsehole. Turns out there’s a strong correlation.”
Anthony smiled back. It was a toothy smile, a bit like a tiger before it ripped into food.
He’d seen that smile on multiple occasions: when Anthony had won their first F2 race, or when he’d landed a big cologne sponsorship that Dominic had been after, or the time he’d brought a Swedish model who Dominic had briefly dated to a film premiere…
They’d been competing since they were nine, although last season had been their first major crash.
Not their last, though, judging by how much Sinclair was pissing him off these days. Dominic’s smile grew sharp.
Anthony looked on the verge of saying something when the room shifted. People turned toward the entrance. Cameras flashed. Dominic looked up, only to find the breath punched from his lungs as Juliette Marchmont walked into the room.