High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  She also, surprisingly, missed Anderson. Not just for the company itself and the sense of security, but also the quality of his company—his dry wit, his ever-present sense of compassion toward her. Of course, Anderson could be a bit much at times, too, but his departure left a gaping hole. She was back to being herself, left to her own devices. It was enough—almost—to make her want to get the first plane out to Nagoya.

  Jim would be the first to tell her she was moping and feeling sorry for herself. Cass sighed and flipped open her phone to check the time—midnight. Maybe Ronan was available to chat after his morning workout session. She had to talk to him before the race in Suzuka tomorrow. Not that she was getting superstitious or anything, but she felt … uneasy at the thought of him racing without having at least talked to her first about the track, the dangers, the good parts, the strategy, what time he hoped for.

  “Heyup.” And there he was, grinning in to the screen, his sexy, half-naked body revealed as he toweled off his hair, then pulled on a baby blue Japanese kimono-type bathrobe that somehow managed to make her pulse leap. She must be desperate if the sight of a man in a kimono sent her heart racing.

  “You’d love this place.” He gestured to a delicate arrangement of pink orchids on the white table behind him. “Everything’s so minimalistic, so serene.” He smiled into the camera. “How’s life back in the Old Smoke?”

  Cass didn’t survey the room with her phone in case he’d see the empty highball glasses on the TV table. She should’ve cleared it up. “I’m fine. Everything’s … fine.”

  “Did you do anything yesterday?”

  “Yesterday?” She shrugged. “Not much. It was raining.”

  He laughed. “If you let a spot of drizzle bother you, you won’t get anywhere in London. There’s a Japanese garden in Holland Park. I was just thinking of that today.”

  “Maybe another time,” she said.

  “Or take a train toward Lewisham, get out at Island Gardens, and go through the pedestrian tunnel under the Thames. Or get off at Greenwich and go to the maritime museum.”

  “I might try something indoors. You know, warm. It’s chilly for October.”

  “Warm …” Ronan rubbed his chin. “The Freud Museum? Charles Dickens Museum? The Royal Arcade on Old Bond Street.”

  “OK, you can stop there.” She laughed, scribbling the names down, more as an act of compliance than anything. She wasn’t in the mood for culture, for literature, for high-end shopping, for anything. Still, she might as well go to one of these just to be able to talk about it with him.

  “So what have you been doing?” he asked, pulling on a crisp, white shirt.

  “Oh … this and that, you know.”

  Ronan lowered his eyebrows. “Not really, no.”

  “I went to Hyde Park.” She’d seen it from a taxi. Close enough.

  “Yes, always worth a look.”

  “Ready for tomorrow?” she said brightly.

  “Yeah. It’s a nice circuit. I like it anyway. The car’s in top form.” He squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them. “Just have to adapt to the time zone. Still feels like midnight somehow.”

  She did the math. “Which means you’ll be driving early morning British time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not your best time.”

  “Yours either.”

  They laughed in unison. “We know each other’s weakness already,” he said, clipping on his watch. He glanced at the clock face and frowned. “Oh damn, gotta finish dressing and go. Meeting at nine sharp with the head of engineering. But I … are you …?”

  “Spit it out, Ronan.”

  “Are you okay? I worry about you there by yourself.”

  Warmth stole through her. “I’m fine,” she replied.

  “No panic?”

  “None.”

  “Is that why you’re not getting out? Are you afraid of the Tube or something?”

  Her lips twisted. “No. Of course not. I’m just lazy, not afraid.” But how true was that? Was that why she’d been holed up here in her dad’s flat, bored out of her mind? It was easier to evade his questions hiding behind a screen like this. The thought of having a panic attack in public was terrifying.

  • • •

  The next morning she walked toward Bond Street. Of all the options, the arcade Ronan mentioned seemed the easiest. And goddamn it, she was tired of being so afraid—a prisoner in Anderson’s luxurious condo. Bond Street was the “poshest” place to shop and sat on the highest-valued real estate in the country, according to one website. But it was situated close to Anderson’s apartment. She planned on window-shopping; maybe she’d buy a book or travel guide.

  Along the way, her eyes gravitated toward a red and white shirt in a dusty shop window across the street. It reminded her of something. So did the caps sitting below it. It was his Formula One colors, the exact same. This was an F1 fan shop. Without bothering to think, she made her way to the crosswalk. Here was something worth buying.

  A bell jangled as she entered the dark shop’s interior. A mid-sixties guy was folding T-shirts in front of the counter. He nodded to her with none of the loud pleasantries she’d have received in the States. But she preferred it this way. She fingered the shirt emblazoned with Ronan’s name. His teammate Mitchell had a Pantech shirt, too. And drivers for the other teams like Trent, and Smith. A little cap with “Hawes” on the front called to her, so she tried it on in the mirror. By now the elderly shopkeeper was eyeing her. She guessed not many women entered his den of racing enthusiasm.

  She removed the hat and tiptoed over to some brightly colored silk items on the table. “Hmm, what are these?” she mused aloud.

  “They’re neckties, ma’am. Great present for a man in your life what likes Formula One and Ronan Hawes in particular.”

  “Oh, the man in my life likes F1 very much,” she said.

  She’d put it on and nothing else for their Skype call. And buy one for Anderson—no, he couldn’t wear it since Nautilus sponsored another team. “I’ll take two.”

  The man’s wiry, white eyebrows shot up in surprise but it didn’t stop him from getting to the cash register in Formula One speed. “Watching the race in the early hours, ma’am? Or will you wait ’til later to catch the highlights?”

  “Oh I’ll be up watching it.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Me, too. Let’s see him beat that Yank this year.”

  Cass nodded emphatically. She couldn’t have put it better herself. Buoyed by this experience, she swung the bag in her hand as she strolled down the swanky end of Bond Street. The sun even decided to come out, and it caught the polished, glazed surfaces of shop fronts and pillar boxes. A bronze statue gleamed in browns and yellows in front of a Rolex shop, a life-size bench called “the Allies,” she learned as she drew closer, with realistic statues of Churchill and Roosevelt sitting on it. They looked to be having a scintillating conversation. A gap between them proved large enough to accommodate one other person. A gaggle of Chinese schoolgirls stood in front, taking turns to sit down between the bronze statesmen and pretend to hug either one of them as the others took photos. Cass grinned at the sight. Then she had a mad idea.

  Dashing back to the shop, she arrived breathless.

  The man raised his brows.

  “Give me two more.”

  His hand reached into the case.

  “Supernova this time.”

  His hand froze inside the glass cabinet. “You sure, ma’am?”

  She grinned wickedly. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  She ran to the bench; the schoolgirls nowhere in sight. She fished out Ronan’s tie from her bag, knotted it loosely around her own neck—it took her three tries to get right—then lifted it from her nape and draped it around Churchill’s neck, obscuring his own crumpled bronze bow-tie. She repeated the procedure with the Supernova tie and put it on the Roosevelt sculpture.

  She took a photo, and walked on ahead.

  After a few yards she turned back to admire
her handiwork and saw two suited gentlemen stop, fish out their phones, and take photos of the statues. She sent the photo to Ronan as she walked back toward the shops.

  Ronan’s reply was almost instantaneous. “Pressure from the top? I have to win now! Thanks so much.”

  Now she had a mission. She had to find another statue. Maybe a donkey for her remaining Maddux tie.

  • • •

  Ronan won that Sunday night, leaving Maddux second. Cass sat in bed, playing her own drinking game, cheering and taking a sip from her glass every time he managed to get the lead. The race had been nerve-rackingly close until the final pit stop where Ronan gained a few milliseconds. She wanted to run up and sink her body into him as he stood waiting to get on the podium, looking exhausted but exhilarated. Maddux, obviously caught in an off-guarded moment by a cameraman, looked thoroughly disgusted. His gaze caught the camera then, and he adjusted his features into a grin. The Texan did not have a poker face.

  It took until after breakfast before she could talk to Ronan. She looked a total mess and was desperate for sleep now. Luckily, he looked equally wrecked.

  “Are you up partying?” she asked.

  “Kind of,” he said sheepishly. “It’s the Japanese. You have a moral obligation to go out; you wouldn’t believe the pressure to drink.”

  “Good for you.”

  He peered into the camera. “And you? Did you see what that Churchill action has done?”

  “What?”

  “It’s gone viral. Benny told me. Look at any social media site. They’re mad about it. It’s been tweeted tens of thousands of times apparently. It’s been on the news in the States, even here in Nagoya.”

  “Is that so?” She didn’t follow social media. Here was the proof it was as bewilderingly random as she’d always suspected. “Is that good?”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “My sponsors love it. The more publicity the better, especially when I win.”

  “Oh. Well, it was fun. And it seemed to have brought you luck.”

  “Now, Cass Miller, you don’t believe that claptrap, do you?”

  “No.” She blew him a kiss. “But you do.”

  • • •

  Cass scoured the Internet for statues in London that were small enough to wrap a tie around and iconic enough to make a story. It was so much more enjoyable than exploring some musty, old museum just for the sake of it. And she ended up seeing more out-of-the-way spots and meeting more locals than she ever would have by following the guidebooks. She wanted one tie for each of the two races left in Asia, but soon she found herself traipsing back to that little F1 shop to buy more because so many lovely statues had presented themselves as perfect candidates. There was no reason she couldn’t adorn them even when he wasn’t racing. The shop owner greeted her with the kind of smile she expected he reserved for Queen Elizabeth herself.

  “I’ve sold twenty of them in the last two days,” he said. “Had to make an emergency order.”

  “So there are none left?”

  He shook his head sadly. “But come back on Wednesday, ma’am.”

  “I will.”

  • • •

  “How the hell did you manage to climb up the Duke of Wellington statue?” Ronan asked the next night, from Kuala Lumpar. “I know that statue. You’d need a ladder to reach his neck.”

  “I did have a ladder.”

  He shook his head on the monitor. “Explain.”

  “I was looking up at it, minding my own business, and this group of guys came over and asked me if I was the Ronan Hawes tie girl—”

  “The Ronan Hawes tie girl?”

  “So I said yes. And they ran off to get me a ladder … without even asking.”

  “And then you got one of them to climb up and tie it, right?”

  “Of course not, I climbed myself. It wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t do it.”

  He groaned. “You could’ve broken your neck. It’s like, five meters high or something.”

  “Four and a half. And you sound like my mother. You realize I’ve had to climb ladders to check the helicopter, right?”

  Ronan exhaled. “I give up. So did you at least get a wander in the park after that?”

  “I walked through it to get to the Tube, yeah.”

  “The Tube? Sounds like you’re really settling in, Cass.”

  “I am.” And it was true. For the first night in a long time, she hadn’t needed to touch the bourbon. She’d slept soundly last night, too.

  Chapter 11

  Ronan stood on a bridge surveying the unique Venice cityscape in the hazy dusk; the timeworn buildings that seem to float on water, and the marble steps that descended into lapping, teal waters. How serene. What a contrast to the past four weeks in sweltering hot Nagoya, Kuala Lumpar, and Shanghai with a meager one-out-of-three wins to show for it. A sharp longing to be with Cass had cut through his euphoria in Japan By the time he’d lost in China, watching her talking about putting those damn ties on statues was the only thing keeping him from falling into despair. She’d given him hope and kept his spirits up by showing him how loyal his British fans were. How loyal she was.

  The distance had only amplified his lust for her, and his concern. He’d arrived in Venice a day earlier than she so he could adjust to the jet lag from the Singapore flight. She’d taken the Eurostar yesterday from England, and had been all day on a train down from Brussels today, due to arrive in two hours’ time. He couldn’t wait to see her expression when he escorted her to the gondola he’d ordered for 10:00 P.M. complete with gondolier and chilled champagne. She hadn’t been many places outside the United States since her childhood, and he was excited to experience Venice with someone who hadn’t been there, done that. Many of the women he’d dated had been as well travelled as he, and there was nothing new under the sun for them. There was only one little, black spot on the immediate horizon, and that was what he was about to do now. If he had the guts. One phone call. How hard could it be? He had to know what he was dealing with before the press did; information was power. Information meant being able to anticipate the next question before it caught him in deer-in-headlights mode at the next press conference for the world to see. And this was the only way. He sighed and looked around for somewhere quiet, somewhere far away from the chattering Chinese tourists who seemed to have accompanied his every step of the way since Shanghai.

  A café beckoned, a typically understated affair with two rickety tables in front of a ridiculously quaint stone house with shutters. He ordered espresso from a matronly Italian woman. Telling himself he needed the caffeine to get through this, he gulped it down in two. Twisting around the empty cup on the saucer again and again, he pulled out his phone and stared at the Google logo on the screen. He searched for Springhill Prison contact details and stored the number under the name “Harry Hawes. The two were synonymous in his mind. How to address him after ten years? Dad, still? Ronan gritted his teeth and ordered another espresso, to the matron’s delight. This would be the perfect time for a stiff drink if he were a drinker.

  “Pull yourself together, Hawes,” he muttered and pressed his thumb on the contact button. He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes wander over the tranquil alley scene playing out in front of him as the ring tone sounded. An Eastern European female voice answered. “Springhill Prison. How may I help you?” she said in a bored tone. The irony that he was calling Harry from Italy when the prison was less than an hour’s drive from Silverstone didn’t escape him. Neither did the fact that he and Cass had actually driven past it on their way to Danesfield House last month.

  “I’d like to speak to Harry Hawes, please.”

  “We cannot allow direct calls, sir. You must give us your number, and Mr. Hawes will then call you back on a prison phone. The call will be traced for security and safety purposes.”

  “Yeah,” said Ronan, frowning. He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t want to give Harry his number. God forbid. He glanced around the dark crevasses of the
café to see if there was by any miracle a public phone. Of course not.

  “Er, could you hang on a minute?” he asked.

  There was a bit of whispering and muttering on the other end of the line. Not very professional at all. “Of course, sir,” came the voice, a good deal more animated than before.

  “Actually, I’ll call you back, okay?” he said. They probably had his number on file now, but they wouldn’t give it to Harry, would they?

  He peered around again and caught his waitress’s attention. “Um, signora?”

  She bustled over, flapping her apron over and back in her haste to reach to the table. “Signore?”

  “You have a telephone? Uh … avete un telefono?”

  The woman’s plump face squeezed together in pleasure. “Telefono? Ma, naturalemente, signore!”

  She motioned impatiently for him to stand up, which he did. She grasped his forearm and all but pulled him to the back of the café where, indeed, a heavy, old, black telephone from the seventies sat on the counter.

  “Numero? Il numero?”

  She regarded him with blank, brown eyes, a crisscross of worry lines etched in her broad, tanned forehead.

  “You see, I’ll need them,” Ronan gestured to the world outside the door, “to call me.” He prodded his chest and then pointed to the phone. “To call this phone here.”

  Another blank look, and he fought the urge to groan. His Italian didn’t stretch this far. Damn Harry and his stupid prison. They could all go to hell; he didn’t have time for this.

  “Numero de … di … telefono?” he tried again.

  “Ah … ah … signore!” The penny had dropped. The waitress wrote down the number on a beermat, in painfully slow, ridiculously large digits. “E questo, e questo.” She held it up to him as if he had to inspect it for correctness or something. He took it from her fingers, nodding. “Grazie.”

  Pleasure flooded into her face again. He smiled back, just long enough to show his gratitude, short enough to hint that he needed a little privacy now. It was unnecessary, as she bustled off of her own accord. He heaved a sigh and dialed the prison again, using the funny, old-fashioned dial that clicked at every revolution. He’d never used an old phone before.