Do not go there. Do not go there. Do. Not. Go. There.
She started to laugh.
He pointed his finger at her. “Don’t you laugh. Don’t. I mean it. Explain what you mean when you say I had the win until I didn’t.”
She managed to stop laughing, but not without some difficulty. “I think you’re the only driver, other than Ian, I’ve ever seen race fearless. I mean you used to.”
“No one races fearless.”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s just say you made it look like you were fearless. When you raced, how can I describe it? It was seamless. It’s like there was no separation between you and the machine. It felt so intuitive. So right. It was a thing of beauty.”
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting her to say. He only knew it hadn’t been this.
It felt like that scotch had crystallized into a rock the size of a meteor, which was now stuck in his throat. He swallowed.
She sighed. “As a rookie, you came on the scene, rode that track like you’d been doing it for years. It must have scared the shit out of the other drivers. To be that good. From the very start.”
“Well, I trained and practiced. A lot. My father put me in my first kart when I was three years old. I mean I couldn’t race at that age, not officially. So he made his own track and had me karting around that.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest you didn’t put in the time and the hard work. But so did the other drivers. And I never saw one of them hit the track as a rookie like you did.” Her gaze locked on his. “But somewhere along the way, things changed. There’s always a moment when you hesitate. I used to think it was just doubt. But then I noticed you did it even when you were ahead, when the win was a virtual lock. And always on the final turn. It doesn’t matter the track. Always on the last turn you’ll see before the checkered flag. So, I’ve been wondering if maybe deep down you don’t want to win. That last race of last season at Silverstone, you would have won if you hadn’t taken your foot off the gas that fraction of a quark that you did. Sure, Ian was close, but he wasn’t in your space. Maybe he was cutting it too close, but when you took your foot off the gas and started to brake, you skidded just enough so that there was no way he couldn’t hit you, going full throttle as he was. So even if he was in part responsible, so were you.”
Was that how it happened? Was that what Athos had been trying to tell him?
In the rare moments when Clarke was honest with himself, he knew it wasn’t just Ceci Rivers and Ian Anker that were responsible for his poor showing the last few seasons. Because he could feel them—Naomi and Niles—in the car with him, much as he did his best to deny it. That day when Niles was airlifted off the mountain in Aspen never left him. None of it would have happened if Clarke hadn’t jumped at the chance to do something reckless and stupid, if he’d had enough character and resolve to swallow Tilney’s taunting and turned that switch off.
Ceci shrugged, sighed, and wrapped her hand around her glass. She was about to pick it up when he reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. He felt a flicker of a tremble like the sudden appearance of a firefly—here and gone. Her hands were so soft he couldn’t stop himself from running his fingers up and down hers. Her eyes were glazed, but she wasn’t hammered. Just drunk enough to have told him what she did and possibly not remember any of it tomorrow. She would see right through any suggestion that they order coffee, and she would reject it.
“Can I have a drink?” he asked. “Just a small one. I want to get the taste of that swill out of my mouth.”
When she pulled away, the back of her hand stroked his fingers and palm. That firefly returned fluttering over his flesh, heading south. He held his breath.
“Go ahead,” she said.
He took a long swallow, leaving barely a thimbleful in the glass.
“Thank you,” he said, handing it back to her.
She stared down at the contents and lifted her gaze without moving her head. “It won’t matter. There’s always more bourbon. Somewhere.”
She threw her head back and finished what little liquid was left.
When the waiter came up with the check, he handed it to Clarke.
“Could you wrap this up to take home?” he asked as the waiter took his plate.
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter said before walking away.
Ceci leaned over and snatched the check from him.
She smiled triumphantly. “They do say race car drivers have quick reflexes.”
Crossing his arms, he sighed. “So you keep telling me.” He held out his hand. “I’m paying for this.”
“No, I am. You can pay for the next quote-unquotedate.”
It was perfectly reasonable, so why did it make him so uncomfortable?
When the waiter returned with a to-go bag, Ceci handed her card to him without taking her eyes off Clarke. “Why does that make you so uneasy?”
