Another probing question. Shifting uncomfortably, I drop my eyes to his clean-shaven jaw. “Important. Powerful, I guess.”
“I can give you that, but better. Faster. More addictive.” His voice has gone deeper, a step softer. “Once you get into Formula 1, you don’t get out. Trust me.”
I have to laugh. “Are you saying that Formula 1 is more influential than American politics?”
“I’m saying that Formula 1ispolitics. And whoever is holding the camera controls F1,” he says. “There are ten teams, thirty different nationalities represented. You crash a car in Japan—someone loses ten million dollars in Bahrain. You win a race in Monaco, and you’ll be handed champagne from the crown prince. You want to make another movie, Graywood? I’ll introduce you to anyone you want. Studio heads, movie stars. You do this for three months with me, and the world’s yours after.”
That sounds good. Suspiciously good. Unfortunately for Arthur, I’m not currently accepting suspiciously good words from pretty men. “What else?”
Arthur’s smile drops. “You want more than that?”
“You aren’t traveling with the team,Bianco. We won’t be meeting anyone. So yes, I need more.”
“Besides going out swinging? Don’t you want to die on your feet instead of living on your knees?”
“I thought you preferred women on their knees,” I mutter before my mouth catches up to my brain.
But Arthur just laughs. Unlike his sly smirking, his laugh is less self-centered and more of a bassy wind chime clattering around in a thunderstorm. The noise sends a ripple of curiosity down my collarbones, like his anti-documentary ethos had. He doesn’t totally make sense. Nobody does, sure, but Arthur Biancoreallydoesn’t, and I can’t help but think that if we’d met another way, I might’vewanted to film his story. If I could’ve made a documentary about Arthur and Formula 1 my way, without Max and Ignition’s marketing team smoothing down the edges and coating it with a thick PR glaze, I could’ve made a hell of a movie about this weird man and his weird life.
Oh.
A movie about Arthur Bianco. Celebrity sports superstar, at a crossroads in his career. A nephew about to betray his uncle’s dynasty. All my favorite elements are here: palpable human interest, a tight timeline, intergenerational drama. Plus, the visuals might be kind of cool. If the cars do actually go fast.
I blink, thinking. Considering.
Then I smile.
Arthur’s been watching me, and he must be able to read my idea all over my face, since he’s now glaring. “No. Absolutely not. The whole point is that nobody makes a documentary about me.”
“No, the point is that Ignition doesn’t make a film about you,” I correct him. “I would be operating as a free agent.”
“How?” he shoots back. “You’re on the contract with Ignition.”
“Technically, Black & Graywood is on the contract.”
“A business you no longer work for.”
“Which is good. I’ll be able to use the film I shoot.”
“Once again, how?”
“I… don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out, though.”
“We won’t.”
“We will,” I say firmly. “Because the only way I’m helping you ruin Max’s documentary is if you let me film one about you. That’s my offer.”
“What happened to ‘oh, poor Arthur, I’m so sorry that you can’t consent to this evil movie commissioned by the evil sports company’?”
I snort. “I got locked out of my business email.”
Arthur looks at me. Obviously. But he’s really… looking. I know how focus changes a face, the wrinkled brow and slack mouth, how eyes trace back and forth, trying to understand. Then his gaze flicks up to mine and locks into place, and I wonder if anyone’s ever told him that his eyes feel like two spotlights, too bright, too hot, zeroed in on my every breath.
“You’d have to sell your movie to Leone,” he says, cautious. “But they might be interested, since it’d boost my brand there. And I do have my own legal team that could deal with the fallout of using Ignition property. F1 is ironclad when it comes to copyright.”
“I couldofferthe film to Leone, and only release it once you’ve settled in, but I’m going to make this movie how I want to. They might not like that.” I pause. “You might not like it, either.”
His unwaveringly intense expression doesn’t change. “Is that a threat?”
