The journalists ask their questions. It’s filler, cute stuff about how he’s liking England and how he feels about the race tomorrow, etcetera, etcetera. A smaller woman in a polished gray suit appears at the barricade with a microphone. “Good afternoon, Arthur, just one question for you. I was wondering, how does it feel to prove everyone wrong?”
Laughter ripples behind me, and with fizzling discomfort, I realize fans have gathered behind me to watch Arthur speak. “Fucking great,” Arthur says with a devilish grin. “Ah—dang.Sorry. That’ll be a fine, huh?”
“Probably.” The journalist laughs. “My name’s Katie, by the way.”
“Katie,” Arthur repeats. “Gorgeous name. Thanks for watching today.”
“Always. I always watch you race.”
“Well, then.” His smile compresses into a laser just for her. “Thanks for always watching.”
The fans behind me lose it, obviously amused by the Arthur Charms Women show. Great. Fantastic. Must be a regular occurrence. Maybe Arthur doesn’t even haveonesecret girlfriend that I don’t know about. He could have multiple, a list, including any media personalities he doesn’t immediately hate upon meeting, like me.
When the journalists pack up, I hurry to leave with them, the nonsensical pit beneath my feet growing wider with every nauseating moment. “Hey,” I hear behind me as I shove my camera in my bag. “Graywood. You all right?”
I don’t turn around. That’s why I don’t see, only feel Arthur taking the back of my elbow, his grip warm against my skin. We’re by a back door, but there are people around, and I yank my arm away from him and mutter through my teeth, “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t,” Arthur says, concerned but not totally unhappy. Slightly plussed, let’s call it. “We have the same schedule tonight.”
“I said, I need to go.”
“But we need to chat. Big updates going on.”
His playfulness makes me suck in a breath. “Can you be serious?”
“I am.”
I jerk my eyes up to meet his and I catch it again, Arthur’s cologne, carbonated and sweet and—that’shis scent. He smells like the chemical fumes from the track, toxic and honeyed, bad for you as you breathe them in. When I place it, the frustration that’s been building inside of me goes from a splinter in my finger to the entire forest falling over.
“I get it,” I snap. “You’re handsome and talented and famous so you can usually do whatever you want, but it’s not actually great to be around on, like, a human level. We need to be on the samepage! And I’m trying really hard here to not ruin my career because of you, so you can’t just come up and grab me in front of half the sports journalists in Europe whenever you feel like it.”
“You…” Arthur takes a step back from me. Swallows. “You’re mad.”
Another cutting realization from Arthur Bianco. Choosing silence, I zip my bag shut and swing it over my tired shoulder. Professionalism. Detachment. Not friends, only enemies with the same enemy. Max’s words from our fight in Glory Run simmer in my memory:You never let anything go.
Time to prove him wrong.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say with saintly restraint. “And please remember to not touch me without my permission.”Would hate to give anyone the wrong idea, I almost add.
I’m two steps away from the door when Arthur catches up. Probably took him a single giant footstep. “Are you—are you jealous?”
My stomach clenches like a fist and I swallow back something metallic and harsh. “No. Of course not.”
“You”—his voice drops—“seem jealous.”
“I’m not jealous that you called another woman gorgeous.”
“I called her name gorgeous.”
“Katie? Was she the firstKatieyou’d ever met?”
Arthur laughs. “It doesn’t mean any—”
“Save it. You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” I interject. “Go apologize to whoeversheis.”
He exhales, a sudden gust of air, as I grab the door handle. “Lilah. You were listening to the radio? Hey, Graywood. Stop.”
I nearly do. Then I wrench the door open, step through, and let it go.
