Chapter Thirteen #2
Around one of the longer corners, Taz saw the smallest gap to overtake the driver and gunned his car.
His rival closed the gap abruptly, and Taz was between his car and the barrier, his car scraping along the concrete bollard.
Taz hung on, trying to keep control of his bullet-fast car, but his rear slid sideways.
He spun out, his back clipping his rival’s bumper as they headed into the straight.
Both cars spun twice, Taz spun again, and the commentators announced the suspension of the race.
As both competitors came to a stop, the announcers started discussing who was at fault.
Had Taz misjudged the gap he’d tried to squeeze through, and had it been too small?
Or had the other driver been too overzealous in trying to squeeze Taz out?
What did it matter? Both men were out of the race, both drivers failed to secure much-needed points.
Both would be hot-as-hell furious. Millie, panicking, ran out of the press room and sprinted to the area where his race engineers sat on the pit wall, a structure located against the fence between the pit lane and the main straight.
They were in direct communication with Taz, and they would know if he was okay.
Please don’t let Taz do anything stupid. Please don’t let Taz lose his temper.
Millie, and the world, watched as Taz opened his door and climbed out the window of his car. What was he going to do?
Taz kept his eyes open as the car spun around, the crowds a blur and the track flipping in and out of his vision.
This, again. Once was unlucky, twice was becoming a habit.
As the car slowed down and he could tell he wasn’t going to hit anything hard like a concrete bollard, his heart rate dropped and his grip on the wheel loosened. Another day at the office.
When the world stopped spinning, Taz rested his head on his hands on the wheel and thought he was getting a little sick of being a superfast spinning top.
This could’ve ended badly; he could’ve woken up in the hospital.
Or dead. And this time there would’ve been no Millie in his hospital room. No Millie at all.
He looked around, thinking for the first time that it was just a race, just a place in a championship that no one would care about in a few years. He wouldn’t have kids or grandkids to boast about him being an ace driver, all he would have was an empire no one but him cared about.
Empires and money didn’t keep you warm at night, couldn’t make you laugh, weren’t there when you were sick and sad or needed someone to celebrate with.
Empires crumbled. And people who tied themselves to empires did too.
He’d cheated death twice in a car lately, and for what? To prove to himself that he was better than Alex. It was such BS: He was better than Alex. He was as good a driver as him, and a better businessman than his dad as he’d grown the De Rossi name into a brand worth billions.
But more than that, he hadn’t built it all on a lie.
He wasn’t one person in public and another in private.
He didn’t do Class A drugs, and he didn’t share them with too-young girls.
He respected women. He was a demanding boss, but not overly so.
Okay, maybe he was, but his employees were the best paid in the business and received huge perks.
People clamoured to join his team because he had a reputation for excellence. Yes, his reputation had needed work, and Millie had restored some of its lustre. He intended to keep it that way. Oh, he’d never be Alex-in-public perfect, but he didn’t need to be.
Two crashes later, and he was done trying to prove that he was better than his brother.
It was time to say goodbye to him, to loosen the hold he and their father had on his thoughts and life. And yeah, it was time to create his legacy and to live his own life. Hopefully with Millie. If she’d forgive him for being a selfish, stubborn, self-absorbed ass.
But first, he needed to exit this car, which was hotter than the seventh circle of hell.
Taz pushed his seat back, giving him a few more inches between his torso and the wheel, and pulled a lever to release the steering wheel.
After dropping it onto the grass through his open window, he disconnected his harness and hauled his tense body out of the car.
His race engineer’s voice cut through the buzz in his head. ‘Taz, are you okay?’
He wasn’t hurt, but every muscle in his body, thanks to the Gs he’d experienced, ached. ‘Bit shaken, but okay.’
He heard Len’s sigh of relief. ‘Was it your fault or his?’ he asked.
Taz considered his question, as he watched Jean-Pierre exit his car and remove his helmet. ‘Does it matter? The result is the same.’
Taz looked around. The race had stopped, and the crowd was quiet; it seemed like everyone was holding their breath. He caught Jean-Pierre’s wariness and realised the crowd was waiting for his response, to see how he’d deal with this latest track setback.
And because he was Taz De Rossi, he chose a response no one expected. Tucking his helmet under his arm, he walked over to Jean-Pierre and held out his hand. Surprise and shock jumped into his eyes but the man, thank God, clasped his hand.
They didn’t speak, neither choosing to claim responsibility, but neither casting blame either. They met as equals, silently agreeing to instil some decency and sportsmanship into the sport and the moment.
The crowd roared its approval, and Taz took the moment to speak into his headset. ‘Len, can you get a message to Millie?’ he asked, his heart in his throat.
‘She’s standing right next to me.’
‘Give her a headset,’ Taz ordered. When he heard Millie’s breathy, slightly panicky demand to know if he was hurt, he knew exactly what he should do.
‘Mils, I need you at the press conference.’
He thought he heard her sigh of disappointment, but she rallied well and told him she’d manage it all. ‘No, you don’t get it,’ he insisted. ‘I need you there. With me.’
‘Okay,’ she replied, and he knew she didn’t understand what he was trying to say. But he couldn’t talk openly, not when half the crew was listening. He thought fast and said the only thing he could, a phrase nobody but her would understand. ‘Mils, you were right. I’m done competing against ghosts.’
Millie stood in front of the window of their hotel suite. It was late, and the sun had long slipped behind the horizon, casting a navy pall over the city, her thoughts spinning.
She’d accompanied Taz to the press conference, but after a quick hug and him squeezing her hand, they hadn’t managed to talk, mostly because he’d been besieged.
It hadn’t been the right time or place to talk, but it was enough for her to know that he wanted her there.
Not as his PR person or press officer, but as his lover, his support system.
That was what he meant, right? Or had she misunderstood him?
Millie sent a nervous look down the passage of the suite, wondering how long Taz would be in the shower. When he’d led her into his suite, he’d asked her to wait, telling her he needed a little time to decompress and to wash the day away.
She walked over to the bar, lifted a decanter and poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler.
The whisky was smooth and sensuous as it slid down her throat.
Pausing in front of the window, she rested her hand on the cool glass and wondered what his cryptic message had meant.
Could it be that he’d reconsidered her role in his life?
Or was she setting herself up for more hurt?
Taz snagged the glass from her hand and lifted it to his lips. His bare feet accounted for his silent approach. Lowering the glass, he lifted his hand and gently, using his index finger, pulled a strand of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear in a tender gesture.
‘Let’s sit, Mils,’ he suggested, taking her hand and leading her over to the couch.
She sat facing the view, and Taz sat next to her, his thigh and shoulder pressing against hers.
He’d changed into a slouchy navy cotton sweater and straight-legged white cotton pants and hadn’t bothered to shave or brush his messy hair. He looked disreputable and hot.
Millie swallowed and took a series of mental snapshots to remember later.
Taz leaned back, his palms on the wide couch behind him. ‘It’s been a hell of a day,’ he said, and she heard the exhaustion in his voice.
‘Hell of a day,’ she echoed. ‘How are you feeling after your crash?’
She felt his shoulder rise and fall. ‘My muscles are a bit sore from tensing when I spun out, but I’m fine.’
Should she compliment him on the way he’d handled the crash and avoided a confrontation with his rival? She might as well; it wasn’t like he could fire her. Well, he could, but she’d already told him she would be gone in the morning. ‘You handled the disappointment well,’ she murmured.
‘Mmm, but two crashes in a row is ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘And before you ask, my hand is fine.’
That was going to have been her next question.
Having nothing else to say, she stared at the slumberous sea, conscious of the tension between them.
Why was she here? What did he want? But her pride, the little she had left, wouldn’t let her ask.
He’d either tell her or he wouldn’t. She was done begging people to let her in.
‘My dad wasn’t interested in me,’ Taz said, his voice soft. ‘I was my mum’s kid, and I rarely saw him, and he and Alex were a tight unit. When my mum died when I was six, I was…forgotten is a good word. Ignored too. I was the third wheel.’
Millie turned to face him, blindsided by his out-of-the-blue-statement and openness. She lifted her thigh onto the couch. ‘Why are you telling me this now, Taz?’
He pushed his fingers into his damp hair. ‘Because you’re the only one I can tell, Mils.’
Okay, but she was leaving in the morning. Why now?