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When he had finished speaking to Cornel, he spotted her, and his eyes lit up again. He went to her and grabbed her by the hips once more, then lifted her with ease in the air. Violet could no longer contain her giggle as he spun her around, the world around her blurry and bright.
“God, I made such a good time, baby!” he exclaimed, placing her down, his smile as big and bold as a carnival clown’s.
Violet was spinning, and not just with the zeal of Franco’s lovely company. She was thinking about the smell of car oil, wondering if it was something she should bring up to him that day or let it go as nothing.
“Really? You’ll have to explain it all to me again,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him and teasing.
He scooped her hand into his, leading her to the monitors to watch the replay. Violet tried to focus, nodding along as he spoke rapidly about the specifics of racing, the influence of weather, and the shape of his vehicle. But Violet’s mind kept drifting back to that gasoline stench, haunting her, filling her body with a dread she wasn’t ready to face.
TWELVE
FRANCO
On the day of the qualifying race, Franco was as focused as an archer pulling a bow back and pacing their breathing. Everything else needed to disappear in order for the race to go well. He wasn’t too concerned, though, because it wasn’t the main race; he had it in the bag as an experienced driver, no matter what position he came in.
But then, of course, his pride and reputation were also on the line. He was one of the most known and respected drivers who would appear on the course, and both his fans and critics expected him to do exceedingly well. He didn’t need to put too much at risk during the qualifying, but there were still paying customers, and paying customers must be entertained.
Franco began his day in his usual ritualistic form: going for a run, working out, and heading to the track early to discuss any influences of weather or altering impacts on the course. Qualifying days were far easier going than the days of the big race. It was like a rehearsal for a play.
That meant everyone was laid back but excited at the same time. Franco found himself floating, feeling relaxed and cool the way he normally did. But there was something different, something like a spark flickering in the dark.
He knew without needing to think about it that the spark inside him was Violet, the woman who had turned his world upside down. He had softened to her presence immensely like a razor that had been dulled but in the most beautiful way.
It felt like he had been reborn, having her by his side as they drove to the track, having gone for a run and worked out at the gym together. They had said nothing about the shifters who had attacked them the day before; that would only distract him, and Violet had sensed that.
The care she gave him, as well as the respect for his craft, was making him long for her even more keenly.
It was troublesome, but he put it on the shelf in his mind. First, the race, then the potential fated mate business.
The day was gray and ominous-looking, with a faint hint of fog billowing over the horizon. His brows stitched together with concern while they were flagged through the throngs of fans, the ones who had camped out all night to catch a glimpse of their driving hero.
He arrived at his pit area with Violet in tow, where he and Cornel immediately began discussing the weather. It was vital when it came to racing, especially since it was beyond any of their control.
“It’s not supposed to roll in for another eight hours,” Cornel said, his leg propped up on the desk that held the monitors. “The track is dry as a bone and will stay that way all day. Likelihood of perspiration is less than eight percent.”
Franco nodded, flowing through his movements the way a monk walked through a temple before meditation. Violet had detected his routine and had seated herself next to the monitors where the rest of the team would be observing the race.
Her presence was like a vibrant butterfly in an ash storm. Hard to ignore, even for the least artistic of observers.
“And the walkabout?” Franco asked, unfolding his fire suit.
Cornel eyed his clipboard, removing the pen cap with his mouth and letting it jostle up and down as he spoke.
“Smooth, flat, flawless, ready for the taking.”
Franco was satisfied. The bleakness of the day had implanted something quietly sinister inside his belly. But he had to ignore that too. Feelings weren’t facts.
“Great.”
A few hours later, fans filtered into the venue. He heard the faint rumblings of enthused spectators, stomping and shouting. The noise mixed with the revving of multiple engines and the steady purr of other sounds.
Franco let the adrenaline flow through his veins like a golden river. This was what he lived for … the feeling of living on the edge and the stirring applause and cheers. Those were what kept him going during the loneliest of hours.
Then, it was time. There were several rounds of qualifying races, and he was in one of the last few to garner more attention from the thirsty spectators.
Franco slipped into his fire suit, adjusting it to fit snuggly and comfortably. Before picking up his helmet, he went to Violet, who had been sitting on a stool and watching with serene curiosity as he and his team went over the car and track conditions one final time.
He didn’t know what he was going to do before he did it. But when he went to her, standing before an angelic being dressed in a lilac-shaded blouse and form-fitted jeans, he touched her chin and raised those ocean blues to meet his eyes.
