Chapter 9 Fixer-Upper
Fixer-Upper
Ranya led them to an office.
Well, office was a generous term, Juliette thought.
The room was comprised of linoleum flooring, three plastic chairs, a desk, and a sad-looking coffee machine.
Cold air pumped out from the vents. They could have been anywhere; this office was indistinguishable from all other offices, in the same way that airports were identical.
“So,” Ranya said.
Their team principal sat at the desk. She was wearing what Juliette had learned was her trapped-behind-slow-walkers face. That didn’t bode well.
“Start talking,” Ranya said.
“That’s a lovely plant,” Dominic observed, gesturing to a potted orange flower. “Is it a poppy?”
Ranya clicked her tongue. “Dominic.”
“You’re right,” Dominic said. “Too narrow. Much more likely to be an anemone.”
Juliette pursed her lips. “I didn’t know you were such a gardening enthusiast, Hastings. You should take it up full-time.”
Dominic’s smile was breezy. “Bit busy with my other full-time job.”
She couldn’t help it. The urge to piss him off was too strong. “Crashing cars?”
“Enough.” Ranya held up a hand. “That’s enough.” She massaged her neck. “I’m only going to ask this once. Were you two involved?”
Juliette refused to look at Dominic. Her ears were burning.
“We never slept together,” she said.
“Jesus,” Ranya muttered. “Spare me the details.” She dropped her hand. “This ends right now. Whatever happened between you, I don’t want it affecting your performance on track. Do you understand?”
Dominic nodded. “Understood.”
He looked annoyingly unfazed, as if none of this bothered him. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’d spent the last two years happily dating a Swiss model and they owned a tiny designer dog and spent weekends sampling Emmental at her family’s alpine fromagerie. Anything was possible.
She leaned forward. “Ranya—”
“Let me finish,” Ranya said, but not unkindly. “Please.”
Dominic shifted in her peripheral vision.
He looked uncomfortable, which was no surprise; he was the sort of obedient son that never got in trouble.
Although if you’d told her that Dominic had spent his childhood burning ants with kerosene for kicks, she thought bitterly, she would have believed that too.
“As far as the press is concerned,” Ranya continued, “you both got a little drunk and stumbled into the table. It’ll make a nice anecdote for interviews tomorrow.
” Her phone rang, but she ignored it. “You’re going to smile and wave for the cameras and pretend to be friends.
And you’re going to do it convincingly.”
A heavy weight settled in her chest. That was just what she needed: to be her usual awkward, bumbling self in front of a room of reporters while Dominic charmed them with anecdotes of the Iranian alfalfa grass he was growing or whatever the hell he did with his spare time.
Even if he wasn’t media trained, Dominic would have the upper hand; he might not like people, but he could turn on the polite charm as easily as turning keys in an ignition.
She, on the other hand, had the charm of a damp sock.
“You want us to put on a show?” she asked.
“No,” Ranya said shortly. “I want you to put on an Oscar-winning performance. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.” Dominic threaded his fingers behind his head. “I’ve always fancied a go at the stage. And Marchmont comes from a long line of actors. I’m sure she’s got some talent buried somewhere.”
Juliette blinked. She wasn’t sure what was more surprising: that Dominic remembered what her parents did for a living, or that he’d almost paid her a compliment.
Ranya tapped a pen. “Juliette?”
“I…”
She stared at the poppy. The flower was wilting in the heat, stooping like a hunched old man. What if she just told Ranya the truth? The entire truth? Surely she wouldn’t make Juliette work with Dominic. No sane person would.
And yet…
She flexed her sweaty palms. Just the idea of broaching that subject made her want to jump from the third-story window. So maybe not.
“Understood,” she said.
“Good.” Ranya set the pen down. “You’re free to go.”
They rose. Juliette’s dress was sticky; she must have knocked over a beer in the commotion. Her phone gave a ding. One text from Cap: Waiting in the car. Baz found a change of clothes for you. She slipped her phone away.
“Not you, Marchmont,” Ranya called. “You’re staying.”
Juliette paused. Dominic gave her a questioning look but said nothing as he shut the door.
Ranya rose. The fluorescent light caught at the purple smudges beneath her eyes, and Juliette swallowed.
Had Ranya changed her mind? Had she decided that it was easiest to fire her?
At least she’d spared her the mortification of doing it in front of Dominic. She’d never live that down.
“Do you know,” Ranya said quietly, “why I quit racing?”
Juliette’s eyes went to the cane. “You had an accident.”
“An accident.” Ranya gave the ghost of a smile. “That’s one way of putting it. Shattered patella, crushed femur, two slipped spinal disks…” A tube of lotion materialized in her hand, seemingly from nowhere. “I had a bloodbath. That’s what I had.”
Juliette recalled the Grand Prix. Monza, 1997. A driver had been injured and Ranya had gone in as the reserve. “You were brilliant that day.”
Ranya uncapped the lotion. Anti-inflammatory cream, she realized. “I got distracted. And you know why?”
Juliette shook her head.
No lotion came out. Ranya frowned at the tube. “There’d been an article about me that morning. You wouldn’t have seen it. The press pulled every copy they could get their hands on after the accident. Didn’t quite fit the tone.” She set down the cane. “Do you know what the headline was?”
Again, Juliette shook her head. Ranya’s smile was a private joke.
“ ‘Female Driver Caught in Compromising Position.’ There was a picture of me on my knees in a hotel room. The image was grainy, but you could tell that it was me. I lost all my sponsors that day. I wasn’t putting out the sort of image that they endorsed.
My career ended before I even stepped foot in that car. ”
Wilted petals littered the floor. Juliette’s fingers stung. She hadn’t realized she’d been gripping the back of the chair.
“They shouldn’t have printed that.”
“No,” Ranya agreed. “But they print what sells. They always will.”
“Was he…?”
Ranya waited patiently. Juliette looked away.
Was he a fellow driver? That’s what she wanted to ask, but what did it matter? People would make assumptions, just like they always did. She slept her way to the top. Someone gave her a leg up. She wasn’t good enough to do it by herself.
“If you’re asking if we were dating,” Ranya said, “then I guess you could say that we were. We met the year I started as a reserve driver. My truck broke down in the car park, and he had a spare set of jumper cables.”
Juliette released the chair. “Did you stay with him? After the article?”
“No.” Ranya squeezed the tube until her knuckles were white. “He wasn’t a bad man. He was…protective, I suppose. Supportive of my career. But…”
“But?”
“He was a racer,” Ranya said. “And when it came to choosing between me and the sport, he chose what mattered more to him.” Her dark eyes were steady. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Something cold settled in Juliette’s chest. “I want nothing to do with Hastings. Trust me.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Ranya said. “But what I’ll say is this: If you want to be a champion, you have to be selfish. You have to be ruthless. You can’t let anyone get in your way, least of all yourself.” She crumpled the empty tube. “Nobody is worth giving up the trophy for. Nobody.”
“What are you saying?”
“Be careful.”
She swallowed. “I’m here to drive. That’s all.”
“Good.” Ranya threw the empty tube in the bin; it landed with a dull thud. “Prove it to me on track tomorrow.”