12. Chapter 12
12
Chapter 12
FINN
I activate the onboard fire extinguisher and jump out easily, the adrenaline still flowing through me. Lachlan is off to one side and I jog over as we watch the safety crew put out the fire together.
“Sorry mate.” Lachlan heaves a massive sigh.
“Cheers.”
I slap him on the shoulder because this is one we get to walk away from, and I couldn’t give a fuck about the cars.
An ambulance picks us up, and we fight off their barrage of questions. They drop us off at the track medical centre for a check-up.
It’s mandated by the Grande Prima to make sure no underlying injuries go unnoticed, since most internal injuries aren’t immediately apparent when you’re running on adrenaline.
In Texas, fifteen years ago, I had vaulted over the car, unaware of my broken collarbone, wrist, and fractured ribs.
Erik comes to see me to tell me the car’s safety standards have passed the test and there won’t be an internal investigation because the cause is pretty apparent.
He’s blood red in the face, voice shaking, and ignores Lachlan studiously.
“D.N.F?”
He nodded. A “Did Not Finish” in terms of score. Zero points.
When they finally clear me, I join him on the way back to the paddock where Reuben gives me a good-natured handshake. He placed twelfth and is grinning ear to ear. We don’t score points for anything after tenth place, but you would swear he’d single-handedly kept us in the running.
I sit through a very tedious debriefing and am happy when we wrap it up.
I’m sore all over.
When I get up to make my way back to the hotel, Erik holds up a hand to me, asking me to hang back. After Jack and Reuben and our aeronautical engineer have shouldered their way out of the room, Erik approaches me cautiously.
I know what’s coming.
“Finn, I think you should just speak to someone. I know a very good phycologist that has helped drivers in the past-”
“No thank you, Erik.”
I watch as discomfort flits across his face, followed by resolve.
“I’m just worried that this could affect you long term. I would be happy to cover-”
“No, thank you Erik.”
He sighs and shuts his mouth.
I know what he means.
I’ve been driving great all season. If this puts me off, they can kiss any chance of a good placement in the manufacturer’s league goodbye.
I frown. He has his heart on it.
With a pang, I realise, so do I.
It’s not that I’m opposed to the psychiatrists. I saw one for a year after the accident. After Grace. We couldn’t connect. I dreaded the thought of starting over with someone new. And since I had made up my mind all those years ago, I couldn’t see the point.
I wave and head out. A car is waiting for me, and it takes me to the Luxury Dune Hotel. It’s gorgeous there. The suite isn’t on a floor in the main building. It’s a whole private villa in an exclusive area behind the hotel. I walk straight through the open French doors in the sitting room and kick off my shoes before I hit the white sand of the beach.
I whip off my shirt at the edge of the water, and I walk straight into the sea. When the salty water hits my waist, I sink under the surface and hang there for a second, suspended in time.
In Texas, fifteen years ago, I had battled every human instinct, forced myself through willpower alone to stay hunched over Grace while the flames licked my flesh away.
Everything about that situation had screamed death.
The only other time in my life I had fought instinct so fiercely was when I had forced myself to walk away from Camille.
Everything from that situation had screamed life.
I think, for the thousandth time, about how she tasted, the waxy warmth of her, the tremors in her thighs that I had pressed close to my cheeks.
The creamy skin of her stomach, and how I had known when she reached for me, I had made a mistake.
When I went there, I had thought that I could fuck her. I had fought an erection at the prospect of sinking my fingers into her upper arms, drawing her over me, lowering her down over the length of me, buried deep. I would have watched her ride me, the flesh on her stomach undulating as she worked her hips backwards and forwards, her breasts swaying along. I would have placed my hands on her hips, measured her rhythm so that it lasted a long fucking time and then I would have left her, with reckless abandon to ride me out to a furious climax and I would have gripped her thighs and pulled her into me, so that when she came, I could feel her clench around me deep inside her, and then I would have fucking kept her there until she collapsed on top of me so that I could roll her under me and start all over again.
That had been the idea.
Somewhere in the half an hour I had spent there, things had changed.
She asked me if my passion for racing had returned, and why, and I had told her it was her.
But the lie changed everything.
I had abandoned the idea then. But then the book, with the empty photograph, and how she had told me, plain and true, that she thought I was remarkable.
I had lost control there. It made me feel like a king, how she saw me. I had to taste her. When she reached between us to undo my jeans, I had wrestled with the thought that she was in control and, technically, she would be fucking me.
I could practically feel her fingers running over the silky head of my dick.
Had to draw her hands away there, because if she touched me like that I’d have fucked her for sure and then I would have lied to her too, and then I would have fucking hated myself more than I ever have.
And today, at the track, when I skidded out, in that millisecond before I hit the barrier, I felt the fear, the terror.
I heard she was back.
It wouldn’t be long, because Dixon would be back soon, and I wouldn’t have to fucking look at her.
I have an image of her here, in the water, with her legs wrapped around me, head thrown back in ecstasy, her breasts pressed against me. I’d run her nipples along my jaw and when I take them into my mouth and taste the salt of the ocean on them, I’d bite down softly and have her hurt the way I hurt for her, and I’d carry her out and lay her down on the beach because I want her pressed up against something that would keep her close so that I could bury myself inside her and wrap a hand around her throat to feel her thrum when she comes.
* * *
CAMILLE
Italy in September is breathtaking. We’re in Faenza, in the Emilia-Romagna region.
I’m sitting at a street-side cafe, bathed in golden light from the setting sun. Around me people are chatting away over wine and food, and I watch a small child feed the pigeons on the piazza that stretches away before me, her mother handing her pieces of bread from a loaf that she tears apart. The Renaissance architecture makes a stunning backdrop for a small fresh food market across the plain and I watch people haggle for fresh cheese, bread, pasta, and cured meat.
When my coffee is finished I intend to walk over and grab some for myself. My mouth waters .
Turns out Italy is a pretty popular place for Grande Prima drivers. We have spent every day here at a different driver slash team principal’s house.
Except one.
Finn lives here. We’re due to film him Monday, the day after the race.
Ridiculously, I had hoped that Dixon would be back by now and I’d get to skip it altogether.
Since I figured out that he won’t get involved with women on a meaningful level to spare them pain, I am furious. Who does he think he is taking away someone’s choice? Surely it’s my own choice whether to get involved with him or not. I know the risk.
I had spent time with the wives and girlfriends and satisfied that curiosity within me.
But then that crash in the Netherlands. The short seconds after the car hit the barrier, flames everywhere. Until the moment he jumped out, unharmed, my mind had filled in a thousand horrors. The fear I had felt for him then.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure anymore at all.
But a thought is nagging away at me. It’s been in the back of my head for a while now.
This is his last year of racing.
I shudder and grab my backpack, leaving some money on the table to cover my bill.
When I take a slow walk over the piazza towards the market, my phone vibrates.
IRISH (18:50) Can we talk?
Shit.
The way my stomach swoops. Ridiculous.
I tried to call him many times after he walked out on me. He had completely and utterly ghosted me after going down on me.
I feel my cheeks warm up with embarrassment.
I lock the screen and shove my phone back in my pocket. I browse through a couple of stalls and end up with a little more food than I had planned. Everything is so fresh I can’t resist. I’m making a baguette packed with all this delicious goodness tonight.
Then I’m watching my favourite rom-com on the hotel television, badly dubbed in Italian.
Amy video calls me shortly after I return to the hotel. It’s late where she is. I can tell from the slight slur in her speech she’s buzzed.
“I miss you!” she drawls. “When are you coming home?”
I laugh. “That depends on Dixon.”
“Right. How is he?”
“Not doing well, I think. He avoids the question when I ask.”
“That’s so sad.” Amy gives a hiccup. “But then again forever love was never your style.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know.” She sighs. “You will never put a guy before work. Since uni you’ve had a one-track mind.”
I knew Amy in university, but we weren’t as close then.
Our Media Studies professor had been an avid journalist all his life. Now, retired, he taught with fervour and passion, something that really resonated with my young mind.
“The stories we tell matter.” He slammed a fist onto the desk. “You get to be a voice for the voiceless, and it is both a burden and a treasure, and you need to handle it with the respect and dignity it deserves.”
And that weekend, I had broken up with my very new boyfriend, because he wanted to spend his time at uni partying and having sex, and I had this calling inside me that he would never understand, and thus never respect.
I had stories to tell.
“Amy, you need to go to bed.” I laugh.
“I saw Marcus.” She laughs. “He’s not looking too great.”
I frown. Me and Marcus had been seeing each other for mere months before I came to film High Velocity . Surely he couldn’t have been serious about us.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Amy shrugs. “I think maybe he thought it was serious.”
I snort.
“Like Calvin before him.”
I laugh. “Calvin was years ago!”
“Yeah, but you left him to go film that lighthouse keeper in France.”
“It was never serious.”
“Cam, has it ever occurred to you that maybe it was serious to them?”
“No.”
We laugh together. It’s funny because it’s true in an awkward way. I wave her off. “Hit the hay!”
“All right, all right!”
“And phone me when you’re sober!”
But it’s too late, the call is already dropped.
Before I can set my phone down it pings. I have an email.
It’s from Finn’s agent. He’s asking if we can reschedule the filming of Mr Brennan’s home.
Shit.
Casey already booked our flights to Singapore for Tuesday, the day after we film his house .
I give him a professional reply stating that we would leave on Tuesday and that Mr Brennan could either meet his contractual obligation with WebFlix Max or he could choose to break contract.
It’s been my standard reply to the many agents, personal assistants, and team coordinators I have had to deal with this year. Very few of the drivers haven’t tried to reschedule us.
IRISH (20:03) How about Saturday?
For a moment I think he’s asking me out, but then his agent’s reply comes through, offering a tour of Mr Brennans’ home this Saturday evening after qualifying.
They are obviously communicating.
It will be rushed because there will be very little time to film what with a big race the following day.
Perfect. Cuts down on the time I have to be in his presence.
I want to say no to be difficult, but I absolutely dread going to his house and being in his personal space. The less time I spend there, the better.
This is a blessing in disguise.
I agree and drop a message on our group chat.
As expected, I get many complaints. We’ll be spending the day at the track filming the qualifying and then immediately after we’ll be filming Finn at his house just a way out of town.
And the next day we’ll be filming the race.
This after an entire week of filming other drivers at their homes. The crew is dead tired.
I promise them two full days off in Singapore and I let them negotiate me up to three. Everyone agrees.
And they get to spend Monday, a filming-free day, in Faenza, Italy, before we catch our flight.
What’s not to love, right?
* * *
CAMILLE
His home is situated on a small vineyard in the Romagna hills just outside Faenza. It is meticulously kept. When we make our way up a long gravel drive, I can feel the apprehension I have been feeling all day turn into full-on anxiety.
It’s a modest house. A big square of warm stucco with natural stone that brings it into harmony with the vineyard setting. It’s lit from below. Warm light cast the walls in a soft glow. There are large windows and glass walls and when he opens the front door, he’s freshly showered and dressed in tracksuit pants and sneakers, a white shirt crisp against his tanned skin.
He’s never looked more gorgeous.
I am absolutely in love with this man. His eyes find mine and he holds my gaze while we make our way over, shoes crunching on the gravel, dragging the large bags of gear behind us.
It’s a jarring sound in the otherwise peaceful yard. Already I can hear crickets, the air cooling down to prepare for nighttime, and I’m grateful for it as it brushes against my warm cheeks.
I haven’t seen him up close for weeks and it physically hurts me to see him now. It aches low in my chest, and I am struggling to compose myself.
I wish he’d look away.
He steps back at the last moment to allow us to step inside.
I come to a standstill on the threshold.
It’s perfect.
The wall of windows gives uninterrupted views of the lush hills, fading from the green of day to the blue of night as pink and purple bruises colour the sky in the wake of the setting sun.
There’s a stone fireplace that has been lit, the fire crackling away merrily, and in front of it a large stone-coloured sofa, so soft you could sleep on it, with thick luxurious blankets thrown casually over the arm.
There’s a book on the floor next to it, and a glass of wine.
When he bends to scoop it up, I startle him.
“Don’t!”
He rises tentatively.
“It’s perfect like that. It’s human.”
His eyes turn black, and he steps back and out of the way as Jay sets up. Evan crouches by his own gear and enthusiastically plans the shots he’s going to take of the house from the outside once night has fallen.
The walls are covered in paintings, but they lack a theme. Or skill level, for that matter. From bright hues to subtle transitions, the artworks adorn every open wall space. I doubt they were purchased from galleries.
Finn calls Casey over and takes her to the kitchen, where he asks her to help him pour out glasses of wine. I follow out of curiosity. Two large platters of food are on the counter, covered in plastic wrap.
“Thank you for accommodating my request,” he says softly, formally. “I know it’s been a long day, so allow me to host you to some extent.”
Casey shrugs and grabs a couple of glasses by the stem, the bottle under her arm, and a platter of food.
She huddles close to Bruce as he sets up lighting by the couch .
I smile.
They know my style so well by now.
That is exactly where I’d want to interview him.
I turn around to tell him about our filming plan and he’s standing so close he startles me.
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out, touches me softly on the arm. Withdraws.
Doesn’t step away.
He’s got that same look on his face.
The one he wore at the ball when he pulled me against him.
The one he wore on the couch when he lowered his mouth onto me while keeping his black eyes locked onto mine.
He’s thinking about sex and now, so am I.
Across from the kitchen is the open plan dining area, and the doors have been thrown wide to let the cool night air in. Beyond it is a small, terraced garden surrounded by raised flowerbeds. The sweet smell of fresh herbs drifts through the open doors.
I need to get away. I head for the safety of the crew, and we spend another ten minutes walking through the house, planning the shots, and a delightful couple of minutes in Finn’s bedroom, where a massive bed is made up in fine linen, another wall of glass doors thrown wide, and a huge bathroom with a walk-in shower and a claw-footed tub.
It’s gorgeous.
“This is nothing like the other homes we’ve filmed,” Casey remarks.
“I know.” I sigh. His bedroom walls are plain whitewash, and it throws the terracotta floor tiles into stark relief. Hand-woven carpets on the floor add rich natural colours, and his bedside table spills over with books .
She looks at me incredulously.
“It’s so small?” She shakes her head at me.
“It’s perfect.”
Jay gives me a sad smile and pats me on the shoulder when we make our way out. We brief Finn quickly and while he’s not being talkative, he isn’t being rude either.
It’s pretty clear he wants it to be as painless and as quick as possible.
Just like me.
We do the scenes of the house first because I am trying to avoid talking to him and I do all the interviews. When he finally sits down on the large couch in front of the fire, it’s pretty late. We’re all tired.
I pull up the questions I had prepared on my phone and clear my throat.
“What inspired your passion for racing?”
He starts by stating my question and then answering it, as per my instructions before we started. That way we get a natural style where it looks like the drivers are willing to share intimate details of their life freely and it draws in the potential audience by making them feel part of a personal conversation.
“My passion for racing was inspired by my father. He used to take me racing as a kid. Back then, Stanley Everton was my hero. His driving style influenced me heavily when I finally broke through to Grande Prima.”
His voice is low, soft, personal. The flames from the fire are mirrored in his glossy dark hair.
“How do you spend your time when you’re not racing?”
He’s keeping his black eyes on me like we’re the only two people in the world.
“I work out. I read. ”
“Please, can you rephrase-”
“Right.” He clears his throat, gives it a second or two and tries again.
“I spend my time off the track working out and reading books.”
The crew behind me is dead quiet.
“How do you prepare mentally and physically before a race?”
“I don’t prepare for races. There is very little you can control apart from your car. I focus on that.”
It’s a lie he licks away with the tip of his tongue.
There is a heavy pause where we both know he’s lying, and we both know the other one knows.
“What is the biggest challenge you faced in your career?”
He’s quiet for a moment before he mutters.
“No comment.”
“How do you balance your career with your personal life?”
He scoffs. His mood is growing steadily worse.
“Is there a philosophy or a motto that you live by?”
He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh.
I know he hates this line of questioning, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.
This thing that’s been nagging at me . I probably won’t see him again after this, not considering how he’s been avoiding me. But I have to know.
“This is your last year of racing.”
He shrugs.
How to put it?
“What are your plans for the future?”
He frowns. “I beg your pardon?”
I clear my throat. “Do you intend to, uh, settle down when you retire?” I can feel the blush creeping over my cheeks.
Stupid. Stupid. How desperate am I?
He looks genuinely confused.
“Uh, get married, have some kids, that kind of thing?”
You can’t be a race car driver and have a life.
But what if you were no longer a race car driver? Three months left on his contract.
He’s sitting very still.
He shrugs.
Then the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, he runs it clean across to the other side.