27. JULES
JULES
Ifeel like an idiot waiting outside his hotel room.
In fact, I am an idiot. There’s a reason I never do things like this.
I’m not good at spontaneity. Why the hell did I come here?
I was planning a lovely, calm evening – editing, face mask, room service, Daddy Yankee in the background. But then I saw the race and…
I couldn’t just sit there.
Texting felt too ‘pick me’. Like standing alone outside his penthouse door in the middle of the night’s any better.
He’s probably not even here. He’ll be with his family, or at the hospital, or at the hospital with his family. He could even be flying home, in his jet somewhere over Spain. I’ll slink back to my hotel and pretend like—
My finger’s prodding the lift button when the door swings open behind me.
‘Jules?’
Holy shit. He looks so battered, standing in just pyjama trousers.
I trample on the flicker of arousal building deep in my stomach, choosing to focus instead on his shoulder wrapped in gauze, the dullness in his eyes, the blooming purple bruises sprouting around his ribs.
My insides ache for him and what he went through.
I know first-hand there’s no worse place than a hospital, except maybe inside a burning car.
‘I heard someone mumbling to themselves,’ Tiago adds.
I retract my hand from the button. ‘That was me,’ I admit sheepishly. Like it could be anyone else – there’s only one room on this entire floor.
I edge towards him. ‘Well that was…’
‘Yeah.’ He says it with black comedy, exactly like when he was joking with the medics on TV. It’s so him, it makes my chest loosen a little.
‘Where’s your family?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t really feel like… company. I only got out of the hospital an hour ago.’
I halt. ‘I can leave—’
‘No, that’s alright.’
‘That’s fine, I’ll go—’
‘Stay,’ he says, firmer. ‘Please.’
The lift’s loud ping plummets this to new levels of awkward.
‘Ok,’ I whisper.
We’re close enough that he could touch me if he wanted to. The skin’s raw under his jawline. His hands are spotted with friction burns, or maybe they’re second-degree heat burns. But, honestly, if those are the worst there is, it’s a miracle. He must’ve shagged Florence Nightingale in a past life.
His face softens with boyish amusement. ‘You have a zit.’
Before I can die inwardly at coming here on a spur-of-the-moment decision and not making myself presentable at all, his hand’s closing in on my face. I instantly recoil, shielding my chin. ‘Don’t touch it. It’s disgusting.’
He laughs weakly. ‘Nothing about you is disgusting, Butler.’
I’m about to take way more pleasure in that than he probably meant when he turns like a stick man and baulks with a groan.
‘Neck?’ I offer.
‘Yeah.’ He cups the back and his breath sounds heavy. I wish there was something I could do.
He slowly starts shuffling towards the living room and I close the door behind me. ‘Did the doctors not give you a neck brace?’
‘And look like Avid Merrion? No thank you.’
‘Oh yes, wincing every step is much cooler.’
‘Shut up,’ he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
I stay in nice hotels all the time but this is something else. Panoramic views of the city cloaked in darkness, and one of the biggest living rooms I’ve ever seen. Every single surface is spotless. I run my finger along the sideboard to confirm it.
‘What brings you to my door at ten p.m.?’ he asks, pausing by the sofa in a pained way that’s obviously an attempt to stall sitting.
‘I…’ I can’t tell him the real reason, obviously.
What kind of heartless schemer would I be if I did that?
I just wish my excuse didn’t feel so weak now I’m standing in front of him, my laptop heavy and obsolete in my bag.
I’ve got no choice but to forge on. ‘I figured there’d be some gaps in your noughties TV knowledge – with it being thrust on you by teenage girls and everything. I thought we could… rectify it.’
Why do I feel so embarrassed? I wrote a Substack about the curse of embarrassment, and yet my hands are currently saturated.
An eyebrow quirks for me to go on.
I clear my throat. ‘There’s Gossip Girl… 90210… The O.C.… One Tree Hill. Or we could just forget—’
‘I haven’t seen One Tree Hill.’ He slides his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s about basketball, right?’
He’s… open to the idea?
Really?
‘Yeah, there’s basketball.’ I wouldn’t say it’s a major plot device, but occasionally balls are thrown at baskets.
‘I like basketball. Let’s do it.’
‘I… um… brought my laptop and an HDMI,’ I mumble, digging in my tote bag, ignoring my flaming cheeks, ‘in case we couldn’t find it on a Spanish channel.’
He looks at me flatly. ‘You think a hotel like this doesn’t have Netflix?’
‘How am I to know if it’s on Spanish Netflix?’ I snap. ‘Sit down, will you? You’re making me jittery lurking like that.’
He sighs like a dog getting its nails cut. Empathy seeps from my body with every groan and grunt and guttural swear.
‘You’re such a man,’ I mutter as I open my MacBook and he unceremoniously thumps down.
‘I’d like to see you try and—’ He stops.
I follow his eyeline to my screen. It’s open on Final Cut, showing a video I was editing of yesterday’s Martinelli garage tour – with Tom. He’s frozen in the shot, mid-speaking to the camera about what Rack Men do.
‘How are things going?’ Tiago asks. It feels like a layered question and I don’t really know how to answer it.
We’ve been on two dates so far, both pretty unexciting.
I’m beginning to think the reason it’s so hard to find anything out about Tom is because there’s not a lot to know.
He likes racing and Australia and prides himself on being an adrenaline junkie.
He once fell off a dirt bike and broke his jaw, so he can’t eat burgers. That’s about it.
There was a definite point last night where he looked like he wanted to kiss me, but I pretended I saw a plane and went home.
I meant what I said about calling this off with Tiago if things get intimate with Tom – I don’t want to make things even more layered than they already are – but I can’t see that changing any time soon.
There isn’t a single thing about Tom that ignites even the faintest flicker of arousal in me. He could be a cup of tea.
Meanwhile Tiago’s probably still fucking every woman south of the Pyrenees. I don’t have any right to ask him not to. I need to stop being such a jealous cow and keep pretending like condoms are the best thing since Korean skincare.
‘Everything’s going to plan, even though we had a delayed launch,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen a 4% rise in Australian followers on Instagram, and 3% on TikTok. He has a really strong fanbase in Germany, weirdly, so I’ve seen an uplift from there too.’
‘Connection’s that good, huh?’ I can’t read Tiago’s expression. There’s tension in it and it makes me want to drop the subject.
‘What’s the Wi-Fi password?’
Once we’ve found season one in English, I start hooking my laptop up to the TV. Only when I’m looking away from him, facing a sea of wires, do I feel strong enough to broach the accident. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like I’ve been hit by a truck. The shoulder least impacted started throbbing about ten minutes ago, so that’s a fun new development.’
I pull a face which he obviously can’t see. ‘It looked really nasty on camera.’
‘That’s honestly not the worst of it. This is a death knell for the team. We can’t afford to lose big chunks of the car. This’ll bankrupt us for sure.’
Oh my god.
‘We don’t deserve it,’ he continues. ‘It’s not fair – teams like Pagari have millions, if not billions more to support them. If a car’s burned out, so what? Here’s a shiny new one.’
‘Won’t Martinelli bail you out? You’re their development team, and integral to their future success,’ I offer.
‘It’s possible, but—how long does it take you to plug in a cable, woman?’
He’s not the only one of us that likes stalling. I quickly find the socket and emerge.
‘Would you believe me if I said I’m not good with tech?’ I bat my eyelashes.
‘Not a chance. Don’t you pull any of that you’re so much better than me, managing up, controlling from below bullshit. I saw that program you edit on, and who brings an HDMI to a foreign country?’
It was worth a shot. ‘I’m dumb enough to lose my AirPods.’
‘It happens to the best of us. They’re slippery little shits.’
Enough side-tracking. ‘Why would Martinelli not bail you out?’
He stretches awkwardly. ‘We’ve been a thorn in their side for years – we’re not exactly great for the brand.
I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the final straw.
They’re probably dying to restructure us, or even sell us to a rich investor.
Even if they did want to help, I don’t know if they can.
We’re talking at least thirty million, and even the top teams run on tight budgets. ’
I don’t know if this is a sore subject or I’m stating the obvious but… ‘Doesn’t your dad own half of Colombia? Surely he’d be interested in investing?’
Tiago snorts and glances down. ‘I always said I’d do this on my own or not at all. I can’t stand the idea of being a nepo baby. My dad’s buddies wanted to invest in the early days but I wouldn’t let them. I can’t… change that…’ He wavers.
I get it. It’s easy to have strict principles when you have nothing to lose, but when the people he works hard with everyday are facing redundancy and the team he’s grown to care about so fiercely faces dissolution, things aren’t so clear-cut.
He abruptly looks at me. ‘What would you do, Jules?’
I sit beside him, careful not to jolt the cushion he’s sitting on.
‘It’s admirable to want to make it on your own – I really do admire you for that – but this isn’t just about you anymore.
It’s your team, your brother, your sister, your cousin.
I wouldn’t make any decisions based on blanket rules you set for yourself years ago. Think on it.’
He accepts it with a half-smile.
‘What do your family say?’ I ask.
He chucks a laugh. ‘They think I’m an idiot for not accepting help.’