CHAPTER THREE CLARKE #2
“You used to be different,” said Porthos. “Before …”
It wasn’t just his brothers that went quiet then.
The room itself did. The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking off the seconds.
Jinx, one of the family cats, was purring in a corner and scratching the baseboard as he played with a bit of fluff he’d scrounged off one of the Persian carpets.
But none of it made any sound. Not even the wind, which was picking up speed and shoving the snow horizontally as much as vertically.
It should have rattled the windowpanes. But it didn’t.
Porthos didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to. They all knew. And they’d all learned not to broach the subject with him. Except for Athos, when the two of them were alone. But that was Athos. And he was different.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t need them to voice their thoughts. I can hear them all the same. No one knows better than me that I used to be a different man off the track as well as on it.
Clarke eyed the rifle. He’d tried to find Ceci after he’d retrieved it from Porthos that night. He could have just left it with the Huntington family, who’d been throwing the party. They would have located her and returned it.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not given her tone when she’d talked about the rifle and mentioned her father.
It was Aramis who broke the silence. “At least tell me this, after you ran off with her, you kissed her, right?”
“How could he kiss her with that mask on?” bellowed Porthos.
Aramis’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Why don’t you want to tell them about that kiss?
“Okay, that’s enough about the Rivers debacle,” Athos said. “You lost the bet. And you know what that means. My assistant will put your name on the roster. The charity auction is in a week.”
Aramis and Porthos laughed so hard, they both fell back on the sofa.
Athos immediately changed the subject. “On to other matters, I suppose I shouldn’t even bother asking whom you’re bringing to the Grouse Gathering.”
It was his mother who had come up with the name for the annual event held here at the family estate. It was meant as a joke, given this place had no grouse, unlike the nearby estates.
His mother had been English. But his father was American and had come from humble beginnings. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was.
Even though his mother had died many years back, when Clarke was twelve years old, his father kept up the tradition of the weekend event. This time, the event didn’t conflict with his racing schedule. So he didn’t have a convenient excuse for missing it.
When Clarke didn’t respond, Athos nodded. “Right. No one.”
The three brothers shook their heads and sighed.
Clarke’s hands flew up in exasperation. “Why are you asking me about this now? It’s months away.”
“Because of Dad,” said Aramis. “He’s so happy that it works out with the racing schedule this year. He would never allow anything to interfere with your racing.”
Clarke hardly needed to be reminded of that.
His father had part ownership in Elegante Racing and had been like a soccer mom on steroids for all of Clarke’s life.
That wasn’t really a problem for Clarke.
He was already so driven. He just wished his father could have given him space the few times he needed it, when Clarke didn’t have it in him to push himself.
“He still has hope,” said Porthos. “That you can turn things around and regain some of your former glory.”
Clarke preferred his father not have hope. The man had never gotten word that hope is the thing with feathers. His father’s hope felt more like a noose around Clarke’s neck with an anchor tied at the other end. And Clarke was just waiting for that anchor to be flung over a cliff and into the sea.
“Maybe having a date would make things easier,” Athos said. “Get Dad to talk about something besides racing. It doesn’t have to be anything serious.”
“I can fix you up with someone,” said Aramis. “Maybe a set of twins. Don’t worry, not the Chucky-doll twins. Another set. Wouldn’t that be fun? Me with one. You with the other. Of course, I’d have to give it some serious thought. I’d need to decide which one I prefer. That could prove difficult.”
Shaking his head, Clarke laughed. “No.”
He turned and gazed out the window. He knew just how many steps it would take and in what direction before he would arrive at the place where his mother had been laid to rest. In spring it was where the forget-me-nots bloomed.
“You are coming aren’t you, Leo?” Athos asked.
“You’re gonna catch hands if you don’t,” said Porthos.
“Of course I’m coming.”
Alone.
He picked up the rifle and headed for the door. “I need to get rid of this—I mean, return it.”
The sooner the better, he thought as he put on his coat and slung his scarf around his neck.
“Hold on a minute,” Athos said, holding out an envelope. “That’s the invite for the charity event. Make sure you wear a suit. And a good one.”
Porthos and Aramis came up beside Athos, grinning and laughing.
Clarke shook his head, refusing to take it. “I did not lose that bet.”
Athos sighed. “The bet concerned whomever was first to make a move on the girl. Given I approached her first and asked her to dance, that would be me.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who danced with her.”
“True. But given the move involves dancing and I was the first to ask her, it follows I was the first one to make a move. Asking her does constitute a move, does it not?”
Not as much of a move as kissing her.
Just tell them. It’ll be awful, but at least it’ll get you out of having to do this event.
Inwardly Clarke groaned. If he told them, he’d have to provide details. And that meant a mad lot of details where Aramis was concerned. He would insist on knowing exactly where each body part was at each moment, including the tongue.
And Athos might view it as a kind of betrayal. Kiss Ceci Rivers? The woman responsible for that crash at Silverstone?
Would none of his brothers come to his rescue? He only needed one.
“Come on, guys. Aramis? Porthos? Can’t one of you do the auction?”
Porthos shook his head. “Fair is fair. You lost.”
“Besides,” Aramis said, taking the envelope from Athos and slapping it into Clarke’s hand, “we don’t have the kind of pulling power an F1 driver has.”
The three of them stood, arms folded across their chests. They weren’t going to budge.
“It’s for a good cause,” said Athos.
Clarke sighed, shoving the envelope in his pocket. He picked up the rifle and marched out of the room. He’d just opened the front door when Athos came up behind him.
“You know what Porthos said, about you being different … before …”
Clarke felt his breath catch in his throat. It felt like it’d gotten stuck on something he couldn’t swallow.
Athos didn’t complete that thought. Maybe because he didn’t need to.
Instead he turned to something that no doubt he thought might make Clarke feel better.
“I hear he’s doing well.”
Clarke nodded.
“And she is too.”
Clarke couldn’t look his brother in the eye. “I guess.”
Athos sighed. “He doesn’t blame you, and she doesn’t either.”
“I know,” he muttered.
“Do you? Or maybe that doesn’t matter because you still blame yourself. And that’s part of the reason you haven’t won that trophy the past few years.”
Clarke’s eyes flew open. “No,” he snapped. “Ceci Rivers and Ian Anker is the reason I haven’t.”
“Fair enough. But I don’t think they’d snatch those wins if you didn’t help them out. If you want to get past Ceci Rivers and Ian Anker to hoist that trophy, you’re going to have to get past—”
Clarke didn’t let him finish. He waved his hand. Athos had told him all this before, he didn’t need to hear it again. “Yeah. Okay. I have to go.”
Once he stepped outside and shut the door behind him, he sighed, watching his breath form a cloud of steam, which was quickly shattered by the cold air.
Everything about her that night didn’t seem right. Her eyes, that birthmark and tattoo.
That kiss.
She didn’t kiss the way I thought she would. It felt like she yielded to me. But I can’t imagine Ceci Rivers yielding to any man. And certainly not to me.
He smiled when he thought of how he’d taken control on the dance floor.
That’s what I need to do on the track. Lead like that. Like I did once upon a time.
Funny that fairy tales always begin with that—Once upon a time. It makes it sound so final and done. But life doesn’t work like that. His once upon a time was gone. And even now, he wasn’t certain he could get it back.
He looked down at the rifle and cringed.
Why did I place her hand on my heart and say what I did? Where the fuck did that come from? I wish I could take it back.
But then why did she suggest the rifle might be loaded?
He held it up, pulled back on the slide, peered into the chamber, and sighed.
Of course, it isn’t loaded.
But with a girl like Ceci Rivers, you never know.