I dodged again. She cut me off, arms splayed wide.
“How about a coffee? Or better still, dinner. On me, of course.”
“No and no.”
I attempted escape for the third time, but the damned woman was too bloody nimble. I expelled an irritated huff. “Reilley, move.”
She planted her hands on her hips and gave me her best cocky expression. “Make me, handsome.”
I squirmed at the moniker, and the noise escaping the back of my throat sounded remarkably like a growl. Bloody woman pushing my buttons. I didn’t have time for this shit.
I picked her up and bodily moved her out of my way, purposely plunking her down hard. I hoped it jarred her back, because she jarred my goddamn nerves.
Every. Single. Time.
I marched into the car park with her footsteps—and her laughter—hot on my heels.
Reilley and I were complete opposites. She was bubbly to the point of extreme irritation, happy-go-lucky, always managed to find humor in every situation, upbeat, positive, plus any other too-fucking-cheerful attribute you could think of.
In comparison, I was quiet, serious, somber, reflective. At least that’s the person I now was, not the man I used to be. Tragedy had a way of pulling you up short and sending you hurtling down a different path. Don’t get me wrong, I knew how to have fun, and I laughed and joked with my friends, but I didn’t go around smiling at everything and everyone. Not anymore. Not like Reilley did.
Maybe if she had my life, she wouldn’t be so fucking happy.
I reached my car a few steps ahead of her and I climbed in, but not fast enough. She grabbed the top of the door because she knew it’d stop me from slamming it. It’d break all her fingers, and however much this woman irked me, I wasn’t that kind of a guy.
“Reilley.” I sighed again. “What d’you want from me?” Even though I knew the answer, I couldn’t help asking. It was like a reflex, except each time I hoped for a different response. Something like “You dropped your wallet. I’m only following you to return it.” Of course, Reilley answered with the usual response.
“Come on, Devon. You’ve got a great story to tell. Twelve years at the top of your game in one of the most challenging sports in the world. All those fantastic nuggets, stories about drivers you’ve seen come and go, the changes you’ve witnessed. The fights, the arguments, the stress, the highs and lows. Formula One has millions of fans across the globe. They’d love a true behind-the-scenes exposé, and from one of the most experienced engineers in the business. It’d sell like hot cakes.”
I turned the key in the ignition and pressed the gas pedal. The engine growled, effectively speaking for me.
I glared at her. “Remove your hand, Reilley, or you’ll lose it.”
She grinned. “Pleeaasse, Devon. Pretty please. Give a hardworking girl a chance.”
I suppressed a grunt of frustration. The damn woman never took a single thing seriously.
“No, no, and no,” I said emphatically. “Not this side of Hell freezing over.
“Five percent of the royalties. My best and final offer.”
I barked a laugh. “Get it through your head, woman. It doesn’t matter what you offer me. I’m not interested. Now move.”
I expected her to stand and argue for at least a few minutes more. That was her normal MO in dealing with my dogged refusal. Instead, she surprised me by letting go of the frame and stepping back. Slamming the door quickly before she could change her mind, I drove away.
The roads around the track were still busy, although as the race had finished a couple of hours earlier, most of the crowd had now dispersed. I headed toward Melbourne, my hometown, a sense of melancholy washing over me. I used to adore coming here, catching up with old friends, seeing my parents and my sister, playing with my niece and nephew. Now, whenever I returned to Australia, it was with a heavy heart and the sour taste of guilt in my mouth.
The nearer home crept, the deeper into depression I sank. Remorse was a terrible emotion. It pulled you into very dark places. It sat on your chest, forcing shallow breaths from compressed lungs, and burrowed into your brain. It poisoned your insides. It forced you to live in a world of what-ifs—the kind that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I parked in one of the visitors’ spaces and locked the car. On heavy feet, I traipsed inside. As usual, the reception area was quiet, apart from the piped music coming from one speaker attached to the top corner of the wall, the volume so low it could scarcely be heard. There were a few chairs in the waiting area and a coffee table with several out-of-date magazines.
I signed in. The receptionist barely raised her head. She offered up a faint smile, but that was about it. After me coming here for four years, they no longer worried about identity checks. As long as I signed in and out, I met their security requirements.
Sweat beaded across my forehead as I took the stairs up to the second floor. My heart hammered against my ribs as Charlotte’s room came into view. I paused right outside and sucked in a lungful of air, held it deep down there for a few seconds, then let it out slowly. I repeated the same process three times, and once I felt confident I had a firm grip on my emotions, I pushed open the door.
Sunlight streamed in through a large picture window, and beyond the glass pane, the carefully tended gardens could be viewed. Charlotte was sitting in her wheelchair, her back to me, staring outside. She was alone, but that was okay. These days she didn’t need to be supervised twenty-four hours a day. Those awful occasions where she’d stop breathing for no apparent reason were behind us now. Four years further on and, finally, the medical staff had stabilized her.
At the time of the accident, Charlotte and I had only been dating a short while and, given my job as chief engineer for Nash Racing—the top team in Formula One—took me all over the world, we’d probably only spent a total of six weeks in each other’s company.
In my spare time, I liked to climb, to hang off the side of mountains with a steel pin and a thin length of rope the only things between me and the unforgiving earth below. Charlotte hadn’t climbed before we’d met, but she’d wanted to impress me, so she’d taken some lessons at an indoor facility.
Then we’d gone climbing for real, and that one decision had catastrophic consequences.
I grabbed a chair and carried it over, placing it beside her. “Hello, Charlotte,” I said, stroking my hand down the back of her head, smoothing her hair. I removed a tissue from my pocket and wiped the corner of her mouth where she’d drooled. “Sorry I’m late. I had a slight issue to deal with.”
The opacity in her eyes briefly lifted, and she smiled. She waited for the ventilator to inflate her lungs, then asked, “A bad problem?”
My mind cut back to Reilley and her determination to change my mind about the book. If I didn’t find her tenacity so irritating, I’d think it was funny. Who in their right mind would want to read about my life? Especially as the juiciest part, if I could describe what I did so crassly, was something I had no intention of sharing—ever. Hell, I’d spent the last few years making sure no one found out. Only a handful of people knew the truth. I intended to keep it that way. What happened to Charlotte was no one’s fucking business anyway.
My family had been nothing but supportive when it had happened, repeating over and over that it hadn’t been my fault.
Charlotte’s twin sister, Caroline, on the other hand… she blamed me. Did she fucking ever. Caroline made it her life’s mission to heap as much guilt on my shoulders as possible, and when I couldn’t take the weight anymore, she’d pile in with even more accusations.
Regret pressed down on my chest, the guilt suffocating. I squeezed my eyes closed and forced the harrowing thoughts aside.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, referring to her earlier question. “How about a trip through the gardens? Would you like that?”
I used to suggest we went for a walk, a turn of phrase more than anything, but Charlotte couldn’t walk because her spinal cord had been cru
shed in the fall. The worst thing was that she still had full mental capacity. As bright and clever as she’d ever been. Yet, she could only move her head. From the neck down, nothing. A once active woman cut down in her prime, all because of me. Even now, years later, I still suffered from a recurring nightmare where I’d watch her fall, arms flailing, and I’d wake with a jolt, the image of her slumped body impossible to erase.
“I’d love it. You’re so good to me, Devon.”
My heart thundered. Painful, too-rapid beats. I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing until I wrestled both it, and me, under control. Charlotte hadn’t once blamed me. Not even in the terrible months right after the accident when her anger and frustration had spilled over. She’d shown nothing but gratitude, while I’d wondered how I’d ever look at myself in the mirror again without feeling revulsion at the image staring back.
I waited for the light-headedness to retreat, then gave Charlotte a bright smile, released the brake on her wheelchair, and pushed her to the lift.
It didn’t take us very long to reach the gardens, and once I stepped outside, I could breathe properly again. There was something about being inside that place that felt suffocating.
We strolled along the paved pathways, and I pointed out the colorful flowers, a bee burrowing for pollen, a bird pecking at a juicy worm. Anything really to fill the void where my soul should be, and block out the screaming in my head.
We must have been out there for thirty minutes or so when I spotted Helen, the lady who ran this place, poke her head outside the doorway at the rear of the property. I waved. She waved back and then came over.
“Hey, Devon. Sorry I missed you arriving.”
“I snuck in, Helen,” I said with a friendly smile.
Helen crouched next to Charlotte’s wheelchair and tucked a lock of hair that had blown across her face into a bobby pin, then felt her forehead. “Are you cool enough, Charlotte?”
“It is quite hot,” Charlotte replied. “And I am rather tired.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I asked, berating myself for not noticing her flushed cheeks and sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.
“Stop fussing,” Charlotte said. “A short nap, and I’ll be fine. It’ll give you time to have one of Helen’s scones. You know she makes them specially for when you visit.”
Helen smiled. “It’s true.”
I gave her a playful nudge. “Go on then.”
After tea with Helen, I spent the rest of the evening by Charlotte’s bedside, reading to her, playing music, and then I sat in silence waiting for her to drift off. When I was sure she’d fallen asleep, I tiptoed out of her room, closing the door quietly behind me.
I popped in to say goodnight to Helen, as well as the nursing staff covering the night shift, and promised to return tomorrow. Until the day came when I’d have to travel to Bahrain, I’d visit Charlotte every day, because it’d be months before I could get back here again.
Three times a year was all I usually managed. March, for the Australian Grand Prix, August when the racing world took a three-week break, and December, before we started winter testing. The rest of the time I was circumnavigating the world, earning what I needed to keep Charlotte in this home. It was expensive, but worth every penny, even if only to assuage my own crippling remorse.
What worried me, though, was what happened when I couldn’t do my job anymore. I saved as much spare cash as I could, but even if I worked until I was sixty, saving every spare dollar, it wouldn’t be enough to look after Charlotte for the rest of her life.
I tried not to think about it.
Reilley
I sat cross-legged on the bed back at my hotel room and tucked in to my solitary meal for one, reflecting on the earlier conversation with Devon. I hadn’t expected a change of heart, of course, but what slightly concerned me was that he seemed even more determined than usual to resist the idea of a biography.
He looked tired, dark circles beneath his eyes making him appear older than his thirty-four years, and I couldn’t help wondering what troubles he carried inside him to create such an outward affect.
Did Devon really believe I only wanted to tell his story because of the money it would make me? That was definitely one of the reasons. I’d done my research, and I knew there was a rabid bunch of readers, obsessive Formula One fans, who would devour a book about the enigmatic and taciturn Devon Gray.
But money wasn’t the only reason. I had more than enough zeroes on my bank account to keep me comfortable for the rest of my life.
My interest in him went much deeper than the mighty dollar. See, I had a slight crush on Devon Gray. And by slight, I actually meant colossal. Whereas most of the girls who followed motor racing were all about trying to bag a driver, for me, Devon Gray with his reserved, quiet manner, smooth olive skin, inky black hair, and dark, soulful eyes was everything I found attractive in a man. He might be a stubborn ass and completely closed off emotionally, but that simply motivated me to find a way to crack him wide open.
Devon, though, didn’t even know I existed, other than as an annoying wasp buzzing around his head, blathering on about telling his life story. Still, having to work for it, to really need to put in the effort would mean that when I finally claimed my prize—and I was one hundred percent certain it was only a matter of time—the taste would be all the sweeter.
And boy, did I want to taste Devon Gray. Every single inch. I’d bet he was absolutely delicious. I wonder what his sex face is like? I imagined intense brows drawn low, jaw tight, and a nerve ticking in his cheek. He wouldn’t be one of those guys who looked as if they’d had a stroke, eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open. He’d be a silent orgasmer, too. I just couldn’t picture Devon crying out as he came. Maybe a groan low in his throat, but that’d be it. When I allowed myself to dream, I imagined him biting my shoulder. Not enough to draw blood, but possessive and sexy all the same. Yeah, I could totally get down with that.
Jerking myself back to reality, I picked up the half-finished meal and left the tray on the floor outside the hotel room. Thinking about sex with Devon had gotten me all hot and bothered. I briefly toyed with the idea of getting myself off when my phone rang, interrupting my fantasy. I slipped it from my purse and answered automatically without looking at the caller ID.
“Reilley Bennett.”
“He sign yet?”
I inwardly groaned. Simon. My publisher, and all-round demanding ass.
We’d worked together for eight years now, and while he could be brusque and difficult, he was also one of the most astute men in the business. He’d played a large part in my success over the last few years. I’d been told I had a natural gift for writing, and my persistent research often unearthed details missed by others, but Simon had proven himself to be a marketing genius. If it weren’t for him taking a chance on a complete newcomer when I’d pitched my first novel to him—a biography on Marchant Boulland, the brilliant, if reclusive, French composer—I wouldn’t be where I was today. It had taken me two years to dig into Marchant’s life, to persuade his friends and coworkers to talk to me, and even though I’d never managed to secure an interview with the great man himself, I’d sent him a copy of the book when it had finally hit the bookshelves.
He’d sent me an email, praising my work. I cherished that email to this very day. I’d printed it, had it framed, and hung it on the wall in my office back home in Chicago.
I could take the same approach with Devon, but the problem was, I didn’t want stories from others. I wanted them directly from Devon. I hungered for the inside track about the life of a guy I’d been more than a little obsessed with for close to three years. I could still remember the first day I’d seen him. An actor friend of mine had been invited to the US Grand Prix in Texas as a special guest of Jackson Racing, a team that no longer competed. But back then they’d been fairly big, and it was an honor to be invited. I’d floated down the pitlane in oversized sunglasses, a minidress, and ridiculously high-hee
led shoes. I remember being terribly impressed by the glamor of it all. For some reason, my gaze had found Devon. He’d been standing with one foot flat to the wall, his arms folded across his chest, aviator sunglasses hiding what I now knew to be absorbing eyes that lured you in and didn’t let go, and that was it.
That night I hadn’t been able to get him out of my head, and all these years later, I still couldn’t.
At the time, I’d had two books in the pipeline, one almost finished, the other at the very beginning. As soon as I cleared the decks, there had only been one biography I wanted to write.
A book on Devon Gray. Nash Racing’s talented, hot, and reticent chief engineer to their driving superstar, Jared Kane.
“Not yet,” I said. “But he will.”
“Hmm.”
I could picture Simon with his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against his teeth. One of these days, I swore he was gonna fall right out of that chair. I really hoped I was there to see it.
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me. I said I’ll get him, and I will.”
“We can’t wait forever, Reilley. You’ve got two weeks to persuade him. I’ve held a publishing spot open for you. If he doesn’t agree to participate, you have two choices: write the book without Devon’s input, or move on to your backup project. Either way, you will hit that deadline, unless you want your career adversely impacted.”
I clenched my jaw. Simon had never played such hardball with me before. I didn’t want to write the backup. The only novel that set a fire in my belly was the one I felt compelled to write about Devon.
“Fine,” I snapped. “Two weeks.”
I hung up on him. Miserable bastard. For the first time, doubt crept into my mind. If I hadn’t managed to persuade Devon to do this book in the last year, I had no idea how I could change his mind in the next two weeks.
There was only one tool left in my bag. I had to make even more of a nuisance of myself than I had up to this point, so much so that Devon would capitulate just to shut me up.
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