As Arthur goes around another time, and I follow with my camera, my seatmate narrates the action for me better than the announcer. “See that red car there? You got it with your camera? That’s Rafael’s Cavalli, real sweetheart rookie. Static’s around here somewhere, probably, if they even want to send their boys out today—they’ve got the darker yellow car than Leone. My opinion, just let the bastards cage-match between themselves and call it a day. A shame to see Static’s strategy wreck itself every weekend. Sodding ‘mustard rules.’?”
“Do you really keep track of all twenty drivers?” I laugh.
“Like I’m their goddamn mother hen.” The man snorts. “You get on social media, the online forums, that’s half the fun of this sport. You got your good guys, your bad guys, fights, loves, rivalries.”
I take a quick, hopefully quiet breath. I’m filming the circuit but getting this audio. “Who do you think Arthur Bianco’s rival is?”
“Is that a trick question?” he replies. “We all know it’s Jean at Leone. That’s who he used to drive with.”
My breath catches in my throat. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern. “Between you and me—keep this one from the big boss.” The stranger’s voice drops to a low whisper. “I’d like to see King go back to Leone, even if he’s got to put up with Jean again. He’s too good to stay reserve.”
I smile. “Good to know.”
Satisfied, I settle back into the wavelength between the voices, driver and engineer and announcer and fan, only zeroing in once Cameron’s excitement booms through my headphones. “Last lap. Stay careful and we can get third.”
“Third? Where’s your competitive spirit?” Arthur bristles.
“This is Faust’s car.”
“Mine today.”
The past half hour hasn’t been kind. Jean’s in first, someone from Cavalli is second, and Arthur is in third place, maybe fourth. Hard to tell when my vantage point gives me about ten seconds of the race at a time, television screen notwithstanding. The circuit is misty, though Cameron keeps talking, his excitement crisp. “Overtake Cavalli and you have a shot at second.”
“I’m not getting second, either,” Arthur laughs. “You see who’s up there? Come on.”
“King, I really need you to—slow down, slow down.”
My eyes snap to the screen. On one winding stretch of asphalt, orange zooms past the side of Cavalli’s cherry-red car, driving beside it for a terrifying moment, then overtaking it. Arthur pulls in front of the car, boxing it back, then accelerates hard. I don’t think the driver angling for second place even saw him coming.
“Your tires are overheating,” Cameron says breathlessly. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds bad. “It’s too dry now to go this fast. King, slow down now.”
Arthur doesn’t reply. He doesn’t slow down. My heart begins to beat harder against my skin, realizing that he’s still in second place, with that damn Leone in first. What happens if Arthurdoesn’twin? Will he still want me or—or want to use me? There’s only gold in front of him and mist behind him and ten seconds until I know how the rest of my summer is going to go. If Arthur needs me at his side instead of behind the camera pointed at him.
If I’m going to pretend to be his.
Then he’s going faster. And faster. And he isn’t second anymore. He’s—
“Arthur.”
The ten seconds between him and the finishing line evaporate, and that’s it. He did it.
Arthur won.
The air around me erupts with cheering. Second and third place cross, fourth, fifth, and my body tilts forward as the massive spike of adrenaline from the last hour and a half rushes from my veins, evaporating like sweat in summer heat. It’s over. He did it. We won.
Arthur pulls to the left of the other finishing cars, slowing and slowing until there’s smoke lifting from the back and a sickening bang from the front right of his car. My hand covers my mouth, and Cameron’s voice rushes onto the radio… because a tire’s blown out.
So that’s what happens when they overheat.
“Sorry,” Arthur chuckles.
“Goddamnit.”
“We’ll need new ones anyway.”
“Faust’s going to—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
