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“Damn, Robson Chase Hartley. You did it, brother,” Clay finally affirms, tapping my cheek.
I pull my brother closer and give him another hug. The sleepless nights, the disagreements, the quick-fix pizza dinners, the eureka moments—all led to this. He is my hero. I can’t wait to see Fat Kerry’s face when he apologizes to Dad.
We make our way to the shore. My brother still hasn’t let me completely out of his reach, as if guarding me in case I tumble into the water, despite the shallow depth and the crawling pace of the dinghy.
“How did we do?” I ask.
“Three hundred twenty average.”
“Fuck!”
“And you exited the course at three-sixty. You crazy man!”
I nod to myself. I was just following the clues from the water.
“I was serious, Rob, you’re not gonna do this. Ever. Again.” I never thought Clay would be so rattled, but he is genuinely on edge.
I tap my little brother’s cheek. He’s not little anymore, but he looks so damn cute when he’s worried about me.
“Congratulations, Mr. Hartley!” A reporter from PowerBoat Magazine is the first to greet me at the jetty as Clay frees me from my safety gear. “How do you feel? You’ve overtaken your uncle!”
Fat Kerry is nowhere to be seen. But if he doesn’t honor our deal, I will drag that dickhead out in his pajamas and take him to LA, so he can face Dad and apologize.
“Thanks. What can I say? Records are meant to be broken.” I lower the zipper of my racing suit.
“Did you know that you didn’t just break the European record, but the world record too?”
It didn’t cross my mind when Clay mentioned the numbers. But of course, I actually have toppled the record set by that freak Aussie Ken Warby forty years ago.
“It was a team effort. I’m just a face. My brother Clay—without him, this wouldn’t have happened.” I nod at Rocky, my trusty engineer. “Rocky and team, guys, today is yours! Last but not least, Dad, this is for you.”
My crew and the crowd clap, with a few whistles here and there.
“Is it true that Kerry Hartley stole trade secrets from your dad?”
“We’ll send you a press release about that,” I deadpan. This shit is too controversial to be discussed in a candid interview.
“Now that you’ve broken the record, I heard it from the grapevine that you’ll donate, according to my sources, ‘quite a hefty sum to various children’s charities.’ Any comments?”
I glance at Clay, who gives me a shrug. The world isn’t supposed to know that, because one—it’s not a bet, per se, the donations will go ahead regardless of today’s outcome, and two—the money will come from my own pocket, not Hartley Marine’s. But these things leak, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“It’s up to you to believe the grapevine or not,” I say, not wanting to confirm or deny.
The enthusiastic voices of the four topless girls overpower the reporter for a few moments. “We love you, Rob!”
Hearing that, another reporter chimes in. “Well, in the interests of all the lovely ladies here, and out there, are you single?”
There we go… the question everybody loves. I smile at the reporter, while still making my annoyance clear, and throw glances at the crowd to buy time and think about my answer.
What does ‘single’ mean? That I’m incapable of loving someone? That I’m a rich playboy, just living for the good times? To me, it means I’m simply without the company of someone I’d devote my life to, because she doesn’t exist.
“Well, my status changed today,” I say, leaving the reporter staring at me in anticipation. “I’m now,” I look around, “the world water-speed record holder.”
The reporter nods, acknowledging my successful attempt at dodging his question.
Suddenly, behind the ring fence of crowds and reporters, Malcolm, my head of European operations, tries to get my attention while speaking into his cell. He looks like he’s going to cry. And it’s not tears of joy.
“Excuse me,” I say and leave the interview. Clay follows closely behind me, stopping the reporters from following us. “What is it?”
