Chapter 1 #2
“What?” She must have been relying on the fact that he rarely got in a mood, because a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Oh, come on, Sebastian. It was a joke.”
A joke. Dios. If only she knew. “Come on.” He turned for the door. “We’ll be late otherwise.”
Cam looked stricken. “If you leave without”—
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a voice said, “but are you Camilla St. James?”
A teenage girl stood by the garage entrance, hugging a purse.
Baz faintly recognized her. The eldest daughter of the Italian president?
Yes. He’d met her during last year’s awards ceremony, although he’d been only a reserve driver then.
Cam was the fastest to recover, her smile sliding into place like a car slipping into gear.
“That’s me.”
The teenager bounced on her toes. “I love What Happens After Midnight! It’s like, my favorite TV series.” She pulled out her phone. “Can I get a picture with you?”
“I’ll see you later,” Baz said.
Cam gave a tight smile before turning back to the fan, and damn it, now he felt guilty.
“Are you Camilla St. James?” the girl had asked, and it was only Baz that knew the truth.
That before she’d been Camilla St. James, BAFTA-award winning actress, she’d just been Cameron James, a girl from a Stratford council estate.
They’d met at a film premiere, where Baz had caught her sneaking mini bottles of champagne into her handbag.
“Habit,” Cam had murmured. “From when I couldn’t afford to buy it.
” The whole thing had felt like fate: two orphans trying fruitlessly to navigate the glamorous world of the elite.
Now, of course, Baz knew there was a crucial difference: Cam had made it her mission to transform into one, like a caterpillar into a butterfly, while he was more of a chameleon.
Blending in to avoid being hunted. He paused by the door to the pit lane.
Krish and a small throng of Asteri Stag staff were waiting, armed with ice packs, umbrellas, and energy gels.
“Are you ready?” Krish asked.
Something prickled on the back of his neck, and Baz turned to see his teammate Alex sitting at a computer, pointing something out to their team principal.
A hollow cavern yawned open in his stomach.
They’d been close at the start of the season—or as close as knowing each other’s coffee orders, anyway—but that had changed as the race for the championship grew tighter.
Baz raised a hand. Alex nodded, turning back to the screen.
No wave.
Fair enough.
Baz drew a breath. He could hear the roar of the crowd, accompanied by the booming voice of a commentator.
Oddly, he thought of when his father had taken him to a bullfighting match in Malaga, the look of determination on the matador’s face as he strode across the sandy pit, looking to the person holding the bars of the bull cage. Vamos, that nod had said. Let’s go.
He nodded. “Let’s do it.”
A wall of noise smacked him in the face.
He was assaulted by camera flashes, pens thrust in his face, ten thousand people screaming and waving signs.
Baz grinned, raising his hand, and the screaming grew louder.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
Absently, he reached for his left sleeve, feeling the lump of driftwood shoved just under the fabric of his race suit.
His good luck charm. It was a silly superstition, he supposed, but he’d been carrying the driftwood for all six races, and now he was close to leading the season.
His thumb paused on the wood. Mind you, today the wood felt…
Harder?
Certainly different.
Baz waited until they’d moved away from the cameras before speaking. “I’m sorry about Cam. She’s not usually so…”
“Terrible?” Krish provided dryly.
“I was going to say rude.”
Krish studied him. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Apologize for other people.”
The words pierced some fleshy underbelly.
He was about to reply when the national anthem started, and he gave Krish an apologetic glance before slipping into the throng of drivers.
He spotted Juliette and Capulet Marchmont farther down the row.
Juliette was bending down to whisper encouragingly in a girl’s ear, while Cap was trying fruitlessly to wrestle a miniature Italian flag out of his dog’s mouth as a camera operator watched on with unbridled glee. Something warm filled him.
At least some things never changed.
The national anthem ended, and drivers began hopping into cars, adjusting safety harnesses and pressing buttons. His stomach plummeted as he scanned the crowd. The two empty seats in the grandstand stood out like a child’s missing front teeth.
“Baz?” Laurel appeared at his car. “I’m going to need your phone.”
She held out a hand. Baz swallowed.
“One second.”
He stripped off one glove with his teeth, tapping at the screen.
Baz: Are you almost here?
Baz: Race is about to start, no stress if you’re stuck in traffic though
The response took a minute. When it came, it was written in Spanish, although his grandfather had clearly left English autocorrect on because several of the words weren’t quite right.
Abuelito: Was that today?
Abuelito: Sorry, got my days mixed up—still in Malaga
Abuelito: Have a bad headache so I’ve been sleeping
His heart fell. Translation, Baz thought bitterly: his grandfather had drunk too much at the casino and missed his flight. He hadn’t realized how much hope he’d had until now, when his heart felt like it was being crushed beneath a stack of books.
Baz: That’s okay
Baz: Rest and feel better
He read the text messages again. Maybe he was being ungenerous. What if his grandfather really was ill? Alfonso was almost ninety, after all. Dios, what sort of grandson assumed his only living relative was lying to him?
He held out the phone. “Thanks, Laurel. All done.”
She pocketed it. “Good luck.” She rapped lightly on the frame of his car. “No pressure, but I’ve got twenty quid riding on this.”
“Noted.” A thought occurred, and Baz twisted in his seat. “Oh, wait, Laurel! Can you take this, too?”
She stared at his hand. “What is that?”
“Driftwood.” He always carried it before the race, but he wasn’t about to be disqualified for having it in the car.
Just last week, Von Galen had been given a five-second penalty for wearing a signet ring.
Anyway, you didn’t need to be a genius to realize that having a sharp wooden object flapping around your car at two hundred miles an hour felt like a good way to take an eye out.
“Driftwood,” Laurel repeated wryly. “Right. That clears everything up, then.”
Baz turned it over in his hands. The texture was smoother than it looked, worn down from being battered around the Malaga coast. He could vividly recall his mother’s red scarf the day that they’d found it, her dark curls fluttering in the breeze as she knelt.
He’d thought it was sea lavender at first—they’d been foraging for ingredients for his mother’s latest perfume, and he was desperate that their mission be successful—and he could still recall the sinking sensation in his stomach.
“Es solo un trozo de madera flotante, mamá!” It’s just a piece of driftwood, Mama.
She’d shaken her head, her dark eyes serious. “Es un talismán, mi amor. Te mantendrá a salvo. Siempre.”
It’s a talisman, my darling. It will bring you luck. Always.
That hadn’t been true, of course. His parents had died in a car accident three years later, just before his eleventh birthday. But he still carried it habitually: his only concession to superstition.
Baz held it out. “Did you know Salvador Dalí carried a piece of driftwood around? He thought it warded off evil spirits.”
Laurel sighed. “You know what? I don’t want to know.” She slipped the driftwood into her pocket. “Drive safe.”
Baz slid his visor down. Twenty engines hummed.
The thin clouds above were bunching, like white yarn on a needle that had been yanked tight.
As he drove the formation lap, he wondered if Cam was still in the team garage.
What had she been so desperate to say? Had she heard about his grandfather’s missed flight?
But no; Cam took little interest in his family.
He paused at the start line. One light flickered on.
Two.
Three.
Baz gripped the steering wheel. Belatedly, it occurred to him why his good luck charm had felt different; a tiny piece had chipped off the driftwood, leaving a gaping maw, like an animal frozen mid-snarl.
Four.
Five.
A shiver of apprehension filled him. It’s just a piece of driftwood, he thought firmly. What did it matter?
Lights out.
Baz shot forward into the race.