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The downcast look on Lily’s face makes me want to fix everything for her, Make it all okay. Her expression is all because of her father, and the ensuing crush of media. Her jaw still hasn’t unclenched. Her hands are at her sides, balled into fists.
A kiss would relax her. I lean in a few inches, ready, waiting for her to make the next move. Normally my swagger with women is undisputable, but Lily always did—and still does—make me feel like a bumbling teenager.
“Good night, Max.” She slowly closes the door, and I have to step away to avoid getting smacked in the face.Shit. She shut me down. I can’t blame her, not after the day she’s had. But it reopens an old wound, one that’s barely healed.
Chapter Eight
LILY
“I can do this.” As I speak aloud, I clutch a string ofkomboloi, or Greek worry beads. Papa bought the strand for me years ago when I was having a difficult time with exams in college, a little trinket he’d picked up during a trip.
Over the years, I’d nearly loved them to death, the azure blue of the beads shiny and familiar in my fingers.
“I am stronger than I think.”
I take a deep breath and stare into my hazel eyes in the mirror. The dark circles underneath are barely hidden by the tube of concealer I found in my purse. I tuck the beads into my purse and swipe on some lip balm.Gah. I look haggard.
“I am worthy just as I am.”
I release the breath into a long sigh as my phone lets out a shrill ring in the other room. Back when I worked at the video game development company, I’d said these mantras to myself every morning before I went into the office, in hopes they’d change something, anything, about the terrible working conditions and the harassment that I and other women were constantly subjected to.
They hadn’t, but I’d continued to repeat my mantras until the day I was fired. Since then, I’d gotten out of the habit, assuming they were merely rubbish. Now that I’m faced with getting my father back to health and running his Formula World team, I need all the help I can get. So it’s mantras and worry beads every morning from here on in.
I can do this.
In the living room portion of the palatial suite, I scoop up my cell. It rings while it’s in my hand. Since five this morning the phone’s been blowing up with texts, calls, and emails. Almost all are from reporters wanting to know what’s going on with my father, with me, the team.
It’s the part of this whole situation that I want to hide from but can’t. Eventually I’ll have to give a news conference, but I’d rather do it after talking with Papa and his doctor this morning. Knowing his prognosis will give me the strength to tackle everything else. I’ll also need to get the team’s PR department on board. Dammit, I probably should’ve done that last night.
Everything happened so quickly, though. Even now, it feels like a long, bad nightmare.
This call is different, though, because I know the number and the person on the other end. I answer after the fourth ring.
“Anh,” I cry.
“Sweetie, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I was on an all-night flight. How is Adrian?”
The lilting accent of my longtime friend is a balm to my ears. I’d met Anh de Havilland when I was an intern for Papa’s team and she was a grid girl, holding umbrellas over drivers and stunning the world with her Vietnamese-French beauty. Now she’s in charge of hiring the grid girls—they’re both men and women now, and called promotional models—for all the races, employed by the company that owns the rights to Formula World.
“He’s okay. I’m going to visit him. Where are you? I was going to come find you yesterday, but time got away from me.”
“Mais oui. I was with Bryce in Italy, but now I’m in Austin.”
Bryce is her longtime boyfriend, a top motocross racer from Oklahoma. He’s the American boy next door, complete with a cowboy hat, and he and Anh make a dazzling, if not startlingly different, couple. “I had to fly here early because two models are out and I need replacements. I have a long day of tryouts and interviews. Are you coming? I heard the news that you’re in charge of your father’s team.”
“Yeah, I’m flying out today after I visit the hospital. Will you be around for drinks tonight? Coffee? I know you’re busy.” Unlike me, Anh is an extreme extrovert. She’s always got a packed schedule, which is one reason why we’ve drifted apart since I left Formula World.
But she’s the kind of lifelong friend that you can see after many years and it’s like no time at all has passed.
“I can’t wait to see you.” I sigh. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“I’m sure you do.” Her words are pregnant with meaning, probably because she’s one of the only people on this planet who knows the actual, full history of me and Max, not just the rumors online and in the paddocks. “Text me immediately when you get to Austin.”
“Will do. Can’t wait to see you, it’s been too long.”
She bids me good-bye in French, and I hang up.
There’s a knock at the door, and I look up, alarmed. My god, I’ve been up for an hour and it’s been nonstop.
