“No dice. Unless—” I leave the word dangling, like a lure at the end of a fishing line, floating temptingly in the current.
He takes the bait, just like I knew he would. “Unless what?”
“You up your offer.”
He tips his chair back, balancing it on two legs, and stares quizzically at me. “I didn’t take you for the greedy type, mon ami.”
I’m not his friend, I’m his employee. Maybe. But I don’t bother to correct him. Not on that point, at least. “Not for me. For Stefan. His charity. I want you to agree to fund it for the first year, with a promise to continue to help him in the future if it takes off.”
Which, knowing Stefan, I’m sure it will. He’s one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. Hell, he could even give Jacques a run for his money.
Now it’s Jacques who hesitates and me who pounces. What the hell. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Except a few months of good, old Kentucky peace and quiet. And maybe my ever- loving sanity. But I’m not sure I don’t deserve to suffer a little—or a lot—after what I did to Stefan.
“Come on, mon ami,” I say, throwing Jacques’ words back at him. “It’s a good cause, and the donation will look great for your corporate image. And don’t forget the huge tax write off.”
The front legs of his chair fall back to the floor with a dull thud. “If I agree to this, you’ll work with Grady?”
I nod.
“And you’ll stay with him for the rest of the season?”
I nod again.
“No matter how hard it gets?”
I wonder what he’s not telling me about this guy. Like what exactly is his problem? And what led to the breakdown with his current—or I guess now former—race engineer? Those are questions I should probably ask, and more. But against my better judgment, and with thoughts of the look on Stefan’s face when his funding comes through, I swallow them down and stick my hand out across the table.
“I keep my promises. If I say I’ll stay, I’ll stay.” Even though it’s going to be like stabbing myself repeatedly with a rusty, serrated knife, reliving every moment of that last crash with Stefan whenever I’m at the track.
Jacques takes my hand in a vise grip and pumps it up and down like he’s a politician angling for my vote.
“Then we have a deal.”
CHAPTER2
Grady
I fucking love Belgium. And not for the chocolate.
Well, not just for the chocolate. There are also the French fries. They fry them in lard and they’re fucking amazing.
Then there’s Spa Francorchamps, one of the best tracks on the circuit. It’s fast and fun, a mix of long straights and challenging corners that lets drivers push their cars to the edge of their capabilities. If its dry, that is. Which, fortunately, it looks to be this weekend.
“Hey, Rook.”
From anyone else, those would be fighting words. I hate the nickname the veteran drivers have slapped on me, short for rookie. But this isn’t any driver. It’s Gabriel Allard, my best friend on the circuit. At least I know when it comes from him, it’s said with affection, not contempt. Or worse, resentment.
Like me, Gabe’s a nepo baby. Him because his dad’s the main sponsor of the team he drives for, Mayflower Racing. Me because mine is a five-time world championship winner. Either way, we’re both screwed. People think we’re only behind the wheel because of our famous fathers.
But I don’t let that bother me. Not much. I’m a pretty zen guy. I figure as long as I know I earned my spot with blood, sweat, and more than a few tears, that’s all that matters.
Or that’s what I tell myself, at least.
“What’s the deal, Banana Peel?” I ask.
Gabe winces. He hates my corny rhymes. Which is why I keep coming up with new ones to torment him. Hey, what are friends for if not to push each other’s buttons, amirite?
“I’m here for the press conference.”
