Chapter 25 Spare Part
Spare Part
Now
Of all the ways to die, Juliette thought, being stabbed by a dart in a grimy English pub was low on the list. Above being burned alive, for example, but certainly below drowning in a sea of kittens.
She leaned back, narrowly avoiding the sticky projectile. Cap was waving the dart in question while arguing with Baz. Well, Cap was arguing; Baz was patting Clyde and giving the occasional exasperated nod, looking entirely prepared to back down if it meant avoiding an hour-long rant.
“Dios mío,” Baz muttered. “Let’s have a redo then. To decide the game.”
Cap frowned. “I don’t need to. I’ve won.”
“If you say so.”
“Fine.” Cap held out the dart. “You go first.”
Baz ruffled the dog’s fur. “If I get this,” he said, preparing to fire, “you both owe me a beer in Belgium.”
Juliette rolled her eyes. The six races in June and July had passed quickly, although summer break had felt agonizingly slow; she’d spent the four weeks training in the gym and stitching Shakespearean theater costumes for her parents and generally avoiding thinking about anything stressful.
Like that ill-advised night in the garage with Dominic.
Or the imminent threat to her position on the team. Or both.
Still.
She was desperate to get into her race car again. Even spending a few days without it felt like hacking off a limb.
“You hate Belgian beer,” Juliette said. “You think it tastes like warm tar.”
Baz fired. The shot rebounded off the sticky pub wall, and Baz knelt, hastily grabbing Clyde’s collar before the dog could race to retrieve it. “I don’t hate it.”
“You do.”
Baz released Clyde’s collar. “Hate is a very strong word. I hate littering, or butter that won’t spread. But I don’t hate Belgian beer.” He paused. “I can’t even think of a single person that I hate.”
Juliette pursed her lips. “Lucky you.”
Cap and Baz exchanged a look. It was the do-we-ask-about-that-crash-in-Monaco-or-do-we-pretend-it-never-happened look. They’d been exchanging it throughout August.
“I could slash Hastings’s tires,” Cap volunteered, at the same time that Baz said, “You want to talk about it?”
Something warmed Juliette’s chest. It was always nice, she thought, when people offered to commit a minor criminal offense on your behalf. “I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, Hastings is in France, so that would be an international felony.”
She was still avoiding social media, although she’d looked yesterday, only to discover that Liêm had posted a story on a yacht in Cannes. Dominic had been sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses; a redheaded woman had been leaning playfully over his shoulder.
Which was fine.
They’d agreed not to continue things. Hastings could do what he liked. And if he wanted to squander his summer break on women and booze while she trained to take his seat, fine. On his head be it.
Juliette sighed. “I just don’t understand why he’s so…” Domineering. Overbearing. Infuriatingly handsome. “It’s like he gets off on pushing people away, but then he also volunteers to teach students. In his spare time. For free.”
“Oh,” Baz said. “So we are talking about it.”
She rounded on her brother. “Why did Hastings even come to the academy in the first place?”
“Search me,” Cap muttered. “Probably just fancied the free coffee.”
Her brother pried the dart from the board with slightly too much force.
Cap looked irritated, although that was pretty much how he always looked these days.
Even as a child, he’d abhorred when school let out for summer holidays; he was the sort of person that would have been happiest running a marathon while simultaneously solving the quantum theory of gravity.
Idleness was a foreign concept to him. He simply didn’t believe in it.
“I should go,” Juliette said. “I need to pack before we leave tomorrow.”
Baz frowned. “But it’s only”—he glanced at his watch—“six o’clock.”
“Exactly.” She hated to think of the state of her kitchen. She’d spent the last four weeks meal-prepping chicken, and the dirty dishes in her sink reflected it. Plus, she could squeeze in a second workout if she left now. Win-win.
“Come to the next pub.” Baz bumped her shoulder. “We can play another round.”
Juliette gathered her purse. “You’re bad influences. Both of you.” She rose. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Baz ruffled her hair. “Leaves quite a broad spectrum.”
The boys said their goodbyes before disappearing down the street.
The August heat lingered in the air like a summer melody, although storm clouds gathered overhead, threatening to break the blistering heat.
A gaggle of young men eating cake outside a pub quieted as she passed.
The tallest man muttered something before hurrying into the street.
“Hey! Hey, stop.”
Juliette paused, her hand tightening instinctively on her purse. “Yes?”
“I…” The man squinted. “Can we get a picture?”
“Oh.” Relief filled her. Right. They were clearly celebrating something. “Of course. Where’s your phone?”
The man held out a phone. Sleek and expensive-looking. Businessmen, presumably, so perhaps a promotion? She gestured for the men to cluster closer together, and the tall man gave her an odd look.
“No, I mean with you.” He paused. “You are Juliette Marchmont, right?”
A man pointed his fork. “I loved that overtake in Australia.”
“And that start in Miami?” Another shook his head. “Legendary.”
Juliette stared. The phone felt slick in her hands.
It was strange, she thought, to be recognized.
Not unpleasant, exactly, but definitely…
odd. She managed to say something—what, she didn’t know—and the men laughed.
She snapped a selfie, then handed the phone back, promising to look out for it, even though she was back to avoiding social media after the Dominic-on-a-yacht incident.
Not that she cared.
She was just trying to stay focused. That was all.
She continued toward the Thames, lingering by the bank; white birds drifted across the river, leaving ripples in their wake.
Swans mated for life, she recalled; she’d learned about it during year-four trip to the zoo.
It had struck her as extremely romantic at the time, although now she couldn’t imagine anything worse.
What could hurt more than outliving the one thing you were living for?
A thought occurred to her.
Juliette paused.
She dug through her purse. Tissues, wallet, a random grocery store voucher…
no keys. Shit. Fat drops of rain fell, accompanied by a growl of thunder.
Juliette glanced toward the pub. Did Baz say where they were going next?
She couldn’t recall. There was a spare key at her sister’s place, but Rosaline was out on a date, and Juliette didn’t want to give her sister any excuse to leave.
Rosaline hadn’t dated seriously in years.
The skies opened, raining sheets of icy water. People shrieked, scattering toward the nearest tube station, jackets and purses held aloft like umbrellas. Juliette swore under her breath, fumbling through her contacts. Where the hell was Baz’s number? If she could just call him—
A red bus whizzed by.
Water smacked her in the face. Her phone slipped from her hand, landing with a crack. Cold damp seeped through her bra and underwear. Juliette closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath as she crouched down. Her phone screen was black.
Great.
That was brilliant.
Her phone was her only way to reach Baz, and she’d been planning to use Apple Pay to get home. So that left her in a real pickle.
Juliette glanced at the nearest restaurant.
La Maison Vert. The polished marble exterior and floral archway gave off “I’m a fancy French restaurant that doesn’t allow jeans.
” Still, the other options were a closed bank or a designer store, so she started through the doors, pulling her baseball cap lower over her eyes.
She could feel the stares of other diners, all dressed in suits and casually undone bow ties. She flagged down a disgruntled-looking ma?tre d’, and she was in the middle of asking—well, begging really—to use their phone when someone called her name.
“Juliette?”
She froze.
As if this day couldn’t get any worse.
“Juliette Marchmont,” the male voice repeated, with more confidence. “It is you.”
And then a second voice: “For god’s sake, Sinclair. Say it a bit louder, why don’t you?”
Juliette closed her eyes.
Scratch that. Her day could get worse. Because she’d recognize that arrogant, almost-French-but-not-quite-French voice anywhere. Mostly because it haunted her nightmares. And sure enough, when she turned, Dominic Hastings sat at a table.
Dominic wore a smart white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo. He was tanned, which had the unfortunate effect of making him even better looking. Dark curls fell into his eyes. He was sitting with a middle-aged man who she recognized as Vance Hastings, his father, as well as…
Juliette blinked.
As well as Anthony Sinclair. What on earth was happening?
“Hastings.” Her brain whirred. “I didn’t know you were in London.”
Dominic looked at his dinner plate and said nothing, which was concerning. She’d expected a raised eyebrow and a “Been keeping tabs on me, Marchmont?” or “You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?” Silence was never good.
“Ah, the famous Juliette,” Vance said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He was swirling a glass of red wine. There was nothing particularly menacing about the way Vance was sitting, but the look in his eyes was like a hot wire slicing through a glass bottle. The Spider, people whispered, and Juliette could see why.
She shifted her weight. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Were you caught in the storm?” Vance asked politely.
No. I dress like this for fun. “Yes. I was coming back from a pub, and then it started raining…” She held up her dead cellphone. “Anyway, I was just asking to use the restaurant’s phone. My brother has my house keys.”
Anthony set down his fork. “So you’re locked out?”
“Unfortunately.”