“Me too! Arthur, what the hell? What happened to working together?”
“You happened,” he counters. He’s angry in a way I haven’t seen before,rigidlyangry, completely constrained. A mechanic bumping into him would tip him to the ground and make him shatter.
“I’m not trying to get him back,” I whisper as quietly as possible. “We were just talking. I have to put up with him while we do this.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m not—”
“If you don’t want me flirting with journalists, you can’t flirt with Max,” he says.
“I was not flirting with him. And that’s not even the same thing. And if it was, how canyoube this mad about one smile?”
At that, Arthur’s eyes snap to my face. After too many seconds of staring right at me, he says, “I have my reasons.”
Lordy lord, he might not deserve to get knocked around by F1 teams like a human chess piece, but he’s such a frustrating person. He stumbles on me having a single semi-pleasant conversation, followed by a very not-pleasant conversation, and he thinks I’m going to bail on our plan. I wouldn’t still be here if it wasn’t for Arthur. I’m in England forus. I slept four hours last night because ofourconversation yesterday.
Whether I like it or not, Arthur and I have become my new package deal.
And if he wins today—without me agreeing to help him—everything we’ve worked for won’t matter. He’ll get sucked deeper into Holmes’s manipulative marketing scheme, while my beautiful footage will get scrapped into the junkyard of Max Black’s PR machine. Unless we take this leap of faith together, we’re both going to have to jump a lot further, alone.
That’s when I realize something funny. Winning today ups Arthur’s release clause. It’s going to make it harder for us to break his contract and make my film—but neither of us had suggested that he purposefully throw the race.
Giving up a win isn’t his style.
Nor is it mine.
That’s why I roll my eyes and exhale out, “Whatever. I was going to tell you I made up my mind.” Because I do trust Arthur, about this and this alone. I’ve finally met my match when it comes to wanting to be the best at something; he’s just in a very different career field.
My vague statement has him frowning more. “Made your mind up about what?”
“Us.”
Arthur’s jaw works, like he’s overwhelmed by the wordusmeaningme and him.Then he lets out a breath. “Explain,” he demands.
A white spark zings through my frustration.
Yup. This is why I need to work with Arthur Bianco.
Life’s taught me that power is transmutable—but it usually comes from men, bubbling up naturally from the perpetual spring that is the patriarchy. Men can do anything. And yes, the rest of us can, and we should, and we do. But men have that innate, excruciating, incredible confidence to record found footage of strangers and call it a film, or throw paint on a canvas and sell it as art, or drive cars really fast and get paid millions. Just like Max can steal my life’s work out from under my nose, Arthur can look me in the eye anddemandthat I explain what I’m thinking, after all but telling me how little he trusts me.
Maybe that’s it. Power.
Power is confidence.
I lick my lips and try to find the courage that got me to England in the first place. “What I mean is… Your glove looks like it’s half off.”
Arthur looks down at his gloved hands, startled. Then—slightly irritated? “My gloves are fine.”
My heart is already awake and alert. It’s beating louder, worried, second-guessing. “Let me see it. I—I just want to check.”
Arthur’s razor-sharp gaze roams up my face, attempting to peel back my sudden switch in demeanor. He doesn’t stop trying when he holds up his hand, stretched out just enough for any onlooker to think he wants me to take it.
And I do. I have to use both hands to wrap around his wrist, arranging it so that his palm is toward me, fingers bent. I inspectthe wide plane of his palm, then gently turn his hand around and study where his shiny gloved fingers meet his knuckles.
Arthur’s voice is church quiet. “What game are you playing now, Graywood?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
