Chapter 16 Team Business
Team Business
Sun beat down on the back of Dominic’s neck.
Waves lapped at the yacht, accompanied by the tinkle of jazz music, which was unsurprising; his father always played jazz when he was entertaining guests.
“It gives a touch of elegance,” Vance liked to say.
A crew member offered Dominic a glass of champagne, but he waved the server off.
He sure as hell wasn’t staying for long.
“Dominic!” Vance called.
His father waved him over. Vance Hastings sat at a low table, accompanied by a spread of food: cucumber sandwiches, smoked salmon blinis, lemon-flavored scones…None of the maakouda that they’d had when he was young, although Dominic wasn’t surprised. Vance hadn’t eaten Moroccan food in years.
For a whole year, Dominic had tried cooking Moroccan food.
He’d made a point of trying a new dish every Friday: lentil tagine, lemony tagra, a barley soup thick as porridge…
When his aunt Yasmin had visited, he’d made a couscous garnished with tfaya and then chucked it in the bin and served pizza instead.
He’d been nervous that his aunt would be able to taste it, somehow: the falsity lurking beneath the spiced raisins.
Imposter, she’d say, and she’d be right.
When Yasmin had given him a hug goodbye and murmured something in Darija, he hadn’t understood her.
Later, Dom had googled the words. “Come stay with us soon.”
He’d almost done it too. Booked a plane ticket and flown out over the summer break.
Part of him burned for the experience of wandering through the sun-drenched marketplaces, of feeling something in his chest give like an exhaled breath.
Ah, he would think, this is it. The piece of him that was missing.
In the end, Dominic had clicked off the website and gone to the gym instead.
The only thing more terrifying than growing distant from his Moroccan heritage was realizing that he’d never really been Moroccan to begin with.
He was a plane forever circling with nowhere to land.
Even more so since Vance had cut ties with their homeland.
Now Dominic took a seat, crossing an ankle over his knee. Monaco’s buildings glittered in the distance, a cacophony of well-dressed party guests leaning drunkenly against one another. He looked pointedly at the food.
“Are we expecting a party?”
His father frowned. “Your suit is wrinkled.”
Dominic glanced down. He’d ironed his linen suit that morning, and if a wrinkle existed, it was well concealed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“No,” Vance said. “I suppose not.”
A beat passed. Dominic looked down at a miniature ham-and-cheese sandwich; the cheese was sweating in the heat.
“You’ve done well recently,” Vance observed.
Dominic looked up. Technically, Vance was right; since the opening race almost three months ago, he’d consistently finished between third and sixth place.
Saudi Arabia, Australia, China, Japan, Miami, Italy…
Every race had gone to plan. Hell, even Juliette was doing well; she’d finished in fourth place last race.
No.
His father spoke the truth.
What was strange, Dominic reflected, was that his father had volunteered a compliment. He looked down at the sweaty cheese. There really was an awful lot of food.
Shit.
Something was definitely up. He knew better than to think his father wanted to apologize for sacking him.
Perhaps Vance’s latest stock had tanked and he needed Dominic to buy shares.
Or a relative had died. Or radioactive plankton were taking over the world and Vance was being held captive here, on this yacht. Anything was possible.
“Thank you,” Dominic said. “We’ve been pleased with our results.”
Vance picked up his champagne. “Especially with the worst car on the grid.”
Dominic relaxed slightly. Backhanded compliments. That was better. “I’m lucky to have a good team.”
“You’re lucky to have Ranya, you mean.”
Dominic paused. They didn’t discuss Ranya Silva for many reasons, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to open the hood of that car now. “You’ve changed the name,” he said instead.
“Pardon?”
“Of the yacht,” Dominic clarified.
They’d named the boat Colette, after his mother. He could recall christening it together, the three of them standing on the dock, drinking mint tea out of plastic cups. His mother had crouched, her silk scarf fluttering in the breeze. You see how your father spoils me, ma poule?
“Oh,” Vance said. “I brought Amelia here last week.” He waved his hand, his wedding band flashing in the sun. “You remember Amelia?”
This, Dominic deduced, was evidently the latest twenty-four-year-old that his father was sleeping with. “Sure.”
“She thought that Champagne Dreams might suit the boat better.”
Dominic balled a napkin in his fist. “I’m sure she did.”
Never mind that Vance never used to drink champagne.
Never mind that he hadn’t eaten pork, or sworn, or even dreamed of sitting at a table laden with alcohol.
Vance had changed his name from Rayad El Hamdaoui to Vance Hastings within a year of setting foot in England at the age of eighteen, but there had been some part of Rayad El Hamdaoui that still existed before his mother’s death.
Now it was gone. His father had shrugged on Vance Hastings like a snug Barbour jacket. Dominic looked at the fresh, glittering letters on the side of the boat: Champagne Dreams. He suppressed a snort.
If only Amelia knew.
Dominic glanced at his watch. There was a football match starting soon. “Was there a reason you wanted to see me?”
Vance frowned. “Can’t a father miss his son?”
Dominic set down the napkin. Best to wait it out. And sure enough…
“Well, there was one thing that I—” Vance’s gaze slid to the glass doors. “Ah. Here he is.”
Dominic followed his father’s gaze, just in time to see Anthony sodding Sinclair step onto the deck. His blond hair was damp, as if he’d been swimming all afternoon, and that stupid signet ring flashed in the sunlight as he wiped his hands on a hot towel.
Anthony smirked. “Hastings.”
“Sinclair.”
Brilliant. He would have preferred to take his chances with the radioactive plankton.
Vance adjusted his sunglasses. “I wanted you to meet. Get acquainted. The press are writing the most horrible things about the two of you. I figure it would be best if we put all that to rest, n’est-ce pas?”
Dominic surveyed Anthony. The press had written an article about how Anthony had gotten drunk in a pub and loudly referred to Dominic as “basically an immigrant” who “didn’t really understand the nuances of British sport.
” Anthony had denied it, of course, and made several reporters laugh by saying that he “couldn’t even spell nuance.
” Then he’d been photographed with a Scandinavian model at a fashion show, and the whole thing had blown over.
Chalked up to another cheeky comment from the Bad Boy of Racing.
Still. Dominic glanced at his father, wishing he would take off his damn sunglasses.
Was he annoyed by the article? How much did a stupid show of amiability matter to him?
There were…things, he thought, his stomach tightening, that Vance could do to ensure his cooperation.
It wouldn’t be the first time his father had strong-armed him into complying. And he wasn’t about to take the risk.
“I’m sure we can be amicable,” Dominic said evenly.
Anthony shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Excellent.” Dominic rose. “Now that’s sorted—”
Vance’s phone rang, and his father glanced at the screen. “I need to get this. One moment.”
Anthony waited until the door was closed before he leaned forward, swirling his champagne with an impressive amount of menace. “Your father and I were just discussing helmet designs. He’s designing a new one for me. Gold, since I seem to win so much of it.”
Dom raised an eyebrow. “I’m amazed he can find one big enough to fit your head.”
“Funny,” Anthony said, “coming from the human equivalent of a participation trophy.”
They observed each other. Anthony drained his champagne.
“I saw that you flew over with Juliette.”
Dominic ate another sandwich, chewing it with deliberate slowness.
That was technically true, although Ranya had ordered them to share a plane so that the press could get pictures of them landing in Monaco.
To boost team morale, she’d said, which was, Dominic felt, a nice way of saying that they were still trying to clean up after the PR disaster with the pirate ship.
Dominic had hardly spoken to Juliette on the plane. She’d spent the journey with her head buried in a puzzle book while Dominic had fiddled with his camera, adjusting aperture and light settings, and pretending to himself like he didn’t notice every time she tapped the pencil against her mouth.
Still.
No need to tell Sinclair that.
“And?” Dominic asked.
Anthony’s eyes glittered. “Just interesting.” He snapped at a waiter, who hurried forward. “Anything happening there?”
The waiter fumbled clumsily with the champagne bottle, and Dominic couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. Poor bloke. Lord only knew how the waitstaff managed to put up with Anthony’s smug face. They deserved one hell of a tip, and, possibly, a year of free therapy.
“Fuck off, Sinclair,” Dominic said coolly. Not his best work, admittedly, but it got the point across.
Anthony’s smirk widened. “So Juliette’s single.”
“I wouldn’t know. We’re not friends.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked her out.”
Something in Dominic’s chest tightened. “She wouldn’t be interested.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully confident for someone who’s not her friend.”
Dominic stilled. Something terrible burned in his chest, and it was a monumental effort to give a casual shrug. “Do what you want. There’s nothing I’d love more than to watch Marchmont publicly reject you.”
The doors opened, and for once Dominic was relieved to see his father emerge. Vance was frowning, typing away on his phone with force.
“Everything all right?” Dominic asked, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. Ten minutes to kick-off.
Vance scowled. “There’s been an issue with the engine. The piston is shot, and the blasted specialist has gone on holiday for the week, which means—” His phone rang, and the scowl deepened. “Would you give us a moment? It’s team business.”
Anthony shot him a smug look. Dominic imagined grabbing him by the collar and shoving him overboard. Still, any excuse to leave, right? Besides, if he went now, he might have time to grab a kebab on the way.
“I was just leaving.” Dominic rose. “Enjoy your champagne.”
“I’ll try,” Anthony drawled. “Gets boring when you have it every week.” He lowered his voice. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
Dominic smiled. There were also sharks in his imagination. Big, hungry sharks.
He waited until he was halfway down the gangplank before making the call. His phone rang twice, then someone picked up.
“Hello?”
Dominic switched ears. “Are you in Monaco?”
“Hello, Dominic,” Liêm said wryly. “I’m well, thanks. Nice of you to ask.”
“I just saw my father. And Sinclair.”
It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, but there you go, he’d said it now. There was a long pause, then Liêm exhaled.
“Fuck.” A slot machine chimed in the background. Definitely in Monaco then. “I’m out with some others for drinks. Come meet us.”
“Who?”
Liêm rattled off a list of names. “They’re nice blokes. You’d like them.”
Dominic wouldn’t like them. He was sure. This was no reflection upon them, but rather his general policy toward people. He thought of friends like additional weight to a race car: They would only slow you down.
Liêm was the exception, of course, but Liêm had also followed Dominic around their boarding school, chattering incessantly until he browbeat him into submission. Even now, Dominic felt confident that he’d had no say in the matter.
“One more thing.” Liêm hesitated. “Sinclair’s coming too.”
Right. That made it easy. “Fuck no.”
Liêm sighed. “Look, I saw the article. If it was up to me, the prick wouldn’t be coming, but—”
“I’m not coming,” Dominic said shortly. He was already lowering his phone to search for the nearest kebab shop. Or maybe he could just have one delivered? Was it outrageous to ask some frazzled delivery person to bike a mile in the blistering heat with a five-euro kebab strapped to their back?
Liêm paused. “What if I said that Juliette’s here?”
Dominic gripped the phone. Cars whizzed past, their sleek black exteriors glinting in the dying light. He imagined Sinclair and Juliette in a smoky casino. Sinclair’s hand inching up her lower back. Juliette smiling up at him.
His grip on the phone tightened.
Yeah. Not fucking happening.
Dominic’s voice was grim. “I’m going home to change. Then I’ll be there.” He switched ears. “Send me the address.”