“It was a joke, Pippa.”
“The good news is, that image of you with the invalid—”
“I believe the word is handicapped,” he interrupted, staring up at the ceiling.
“—has spread far and wide. All our efforts to revamp your image, and someone posting that on social media was all it took. The pictures have been shared and tweeted out all over the place this morning.”
“Maybe because it wasn’t staged?”
“The series of shots was emailed to our offices this morning.”
“From the kid’s dad?”
“No. Just from some random email account. We tried to find out who the sender was, but our email bounced back.”
He rubbed a hand across his eyes. It was too early and he was too tired to follow this nonsense.
“So a bunch of the pictures the kid’s dad took—”
“No, these were professionally shot photos with excellent resolution. A series of them, from you approaching the boy to the two of you discussing something, then you kneeling next to him, signing his cap, then him putting it back on. Pretty great stuff.”
“Who took the pictures?” he asked. God. Had he been followed? Christ. Were there other pictures coming? Of him and Brynn in the hotel? In the pool?
A chill swept over him.
“As I said,” she spoke slowly as if dealing with a child, “we don’t know. But some of them showed up on that F1 Phenom blog this morning, some on a Facebook fan page, and we got some, so …. ”
“Any other pictures—beside the kid?”
“No,” she said, suspicion lacing her tone. “Is there something out there that we need to know about?”
Women by the dozens … hell, people by the dozens posted selfies with him, with all the drivers everywhere.
Calm down, Maddux.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Is that it?”
“Yes, good luck this weekend.”
“Thanks.”
He hung up the receiver.
He’d lost a sponsor but his “image” was improving.
Whatever.
He punched his pillow and lay back down, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. Had someone followed them? And if so, who? The press, F1 … or Belamar?
Chapter 14
A week later Brynn checked her phone again for the room number. She’d had a few days with Belamar in Tokyo to waffle between excitement and regret about the Maddux Bates experience. Regret—and panic—had driven her out of the hotel room once he’d turned on the shower in Singapore. But once they arrived in Nagano and she’d received the first of a dozen texts from him, it had strapped her emotions right back into the roller coaster seat. This fling with Maddux was a few weeks of insanity in a ridiculously sedate life. And Maddux had assured her he would be discreet. He’d convinced her he had almost as much to lose by alienating Belamar as she did.
She knocked on the door to his suite. Maddux ushered her in and swept her into his arms.
Three hours later Brynn stretched, smiling as Maddux stroked a hand down her naked back.
“Finally awake?” he asked.
“Finally? I don’t know how you do it—all this travel is wearing me out.”
“Tell me something about Brynn Douglas,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”
“A secret? I don’t have too many of those,” she lied.
He nodded, moving onto his side, propping his head on his hand to study her while she stared at the ceiling, pretending to think.
“And you’ll do the same?” she asked, turning to meet his smiling, green eyes.
“Yep.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not smart.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Is that a joke?”
“No. I struggled academically.”
“Please. You’re a doctor.”
“Yeah. And I was valedictorian of my high school graduating class. Then in college, I discovered there were people exponentially smarter than me, and I’ve been playing catch up ever since.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Brynn, you’re a doctor at a prestigious medical institute.”
“So?”
“So clearly you’ve passed any number of difficult tests in your life, been hired—”
“I work hard,” she insisted.
“Oh, I see, so because you aren’t some prodigy you think you’re not smart?” He shook his head. “You don’t strike me as insecure.”
“I’m not insecure and I know my strengths. I’m good with people. Believe me, it’s not easy to get where I’ve gotten without a lot of natural intelligence, but I’ve managed—it’s all about work ethic,” she confided.
His brow lifted. “You’re not having me on, are you?”
She laughed. “You’re so funny, Maddux. Half the time you have that cocky Texan accent thing—and then you drop in this totally odd British phrase. And you have no idea you’re doing it.”
“Quit trying to change the subject.”
“I realized at some point in college that I was going to have to work twice as hard as most of my friends. I didn’t have the advantage of great education, my high school was small and pretty average so I never needed to study too much or well. And I’m not gifted. But I was determined, and there were a lot of very smart, incredibly gifted—intelligent, whatever—people at college who weren’t.”
“Weren’t?”
“Weren’t motivated. Weren’t willing to give up the social life, the love life, the rest of it.”
“You gave up those things in college?”
“College and med school. And then after, we all did. None of us had much of a life outside of work.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I’m sure it does, Maddux. You’re a lot like me.”
“Dumb?”
“Single-minded,” she said, softly.
“Did it ever occur to you that everyone thinks that, at some point?”
Her head cocked. “Thinks what?”
“That they’re unworthy somehow. That their success is a fluke, some kind of accident.”
He stroked a hand down her shoulder; nerve endings nowhere near the site tingled. It was hard to concentrate. Would she ever get used to having this degree of physical perfection in her bed? Would the outrageous chemistry be muted by familiarity? Her hand toyed with the sheet. They wouldn’t get that far. He was an interlude in a whacked out couple of months. Long-term was not feasible with a guy who jetted around the planet, leaving a contrail of beautiful women and races in his wake.
“Do you think those things?”
“Me? Nah. I got a double dose of confidence and ego from whoever was handing them out. Good thing because that’s half of racing right there. It’s as much instinct and ego as practice.”
“So you are one of those disgusting naturally gifted people.”
He considered her. “I wouldn’t say that. As you said, I’m single-minded. I’ve spent my life in cars—but there is some natural ability to it. Flexibility. Strength. Body type. But most of it is mental.”
“Mental?”
“The F1 highs are incredible—and I say this as a person who won the championship in my sport last season. There is nothing like it. May never be again, for me.”
“So why keep racing?”
“I love the sport. On the track, in the paddock, in the garage, I’ve always loved cars and speed. It does something to my brain.”
“Endorphins,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Figures you’d make it medical. The closest thing to it is sex.”
“I’m not even going to ask if sex is better or worse.”
He winked. “With you? Better.”
She reached for the extra pillow and thumped his head with it. He took it away, laughing.
“What about the lows?”
His face altered in an instant, his expression troubled. “
The losses are tough. I’ve had losing seasons before, difficulties with cars, but at this level, on this stage? The emotions are … intense and public and masking them is a real challenge.”
“Anger?”
“Anger is the tip of the iceberg. It’s easy to express anger.”
She nodded.
He sighed and rolled over onto his back, losing the sheet from the upper half of his torso, revealing a perfectly sculpted chest and abdomen.
Brynn slid down, propping her head on her arm.
“There’s anxiety, despair, jealousy.”
“Of the other drivers?”
“And their tech and their teams when you are struggling. Everything.”
“Sounds like me in med school. What about fear?”
“Fear is … I don’t feel fear out there during a race. There’s no room for it. Not anxiety either. And that’s the beautiful part of racing. It wipes out most of the emotions, all the distractions—if you can focus, really focus,” he shrugged, “then you can drive.”
“What about road rage?”
“There’s some anger—mostly at myself when I get passed, or do something stupid. Then there’s the dread when you get an indication something may be going wrong with the car. But there are also times where everything aligns, everything but the course disappears—”
“The zone.”
“Yes, and all the crap you put up with is worth it for those moments. And then winning, of course, which is why we do it, right?”
“What crap?”
He laughed. “Pretty much everything that happens off the track. The talking head thing, the sponsors. It’s necessary, but not my thing.”
She studied his features. No cocky grin, no drawl, his expression thoughtful.
“I achieved my goal very early in my career, so now I spend the next, what, decade? Chasing that high, those wins.”
“Right,” she said. “I got where I wanted to be—or I think I have.”
“And?”
“Lately I wonder if it was worth the sacrifice.” She threw her arms out. “I’ve never really been anywhere. I’ve wanted to travel of course. But it’s always been pushed off. The planned semester abroad turned into medical school applications. The trip I planned with friends to Italy was canceled because I had to study for boards. I’ve never let myself do this. And I envy you.”
“The travel? I’ve gotten used to it, but in the beginning I really missed home. There’s no home out here.”
“You don’t call Texas home?”
“I don’t call anywhere home. Not really. England, near Supernova, is the closest; it’s where I spend the offseason. So was school really so intense that you gave up your social life, your plans to travel?” he asked.
“Pretty much. And the last few years, since I’ve been practicing, going home to Wisconsin to see family eats up all of my vacation. You have no idea how much I envy you all this.” She waved a hand toward the window.
“This?” He reached for her.
“Traveling, meeting people, different cultures, even your sport, and … ”
He captured her hand, and a shiver ripped through her as he pulled her into his embrace. She inhaled the scent of him in the vague glow from the skyline. “Fun.” She settled on fun, afraid to reveal what was stirring beneath her sternum that had nothing to do with lust. “I planned to travel after my residency, but I didn’t have much time off before my fellowship. I told myself I’d travel all over the world once I established myself at Gates. And do you know what the irony is, Maddux?”
“What?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
“It’s that I meet people every day who live their dreams. Cancer motivates people to do the things they’ve always wanted to do. No matter the prognosis, it makes them realize that this time is finite. They schedule trips, seek out adventure, take more time with their families. Mend fences. Not all the time; you know there are the exceptions. Some of them,”—like Belamar—“even go against medical advice. Decide against treatment to realize those long suppressed dreams.”
“You said you were a slow learner,” he said, his arm tightly around her.
“No matter what happens on this trip, I’m glad I got to take it. Your turn.”
“After,” he said, planting kisses down her throat. She pushed him away.
“Now.”
She punched the pillow up into the headboard and rested up against it.
“Well, you already know that I hate the taste of Supernova.”
She smiled.
“And you can see that we’re having trouble with the car.”
“That’s no secret, Maddux.”
“My relationship with Vivienne McCloud last season?”
She stiffened. Oh God, she did not want to have a discussion about past or current relationships.
“That was more of a friendship than anything else,” he said. “She’s … well, last year, there was a lot of drama. She’d just ended things with another driver—”
“Ronan Hawes, your teammate.”
“Right. And I hit on her.”
“Of course,” she said, tightly.
“She wasn’t in the right place for anything really. She took the breakup pretty hard. I wasn’t above messing with his head.”
“Apparently she wasn’t either.”
He shrugged. “It looked bad, especially once the media made a thing of it, but there was nothing between us except, well, we became … allies, I guess. Viv was a journalist and savvy, in a way I wasn’t as a rookie finally on the main stage, and she helped me figure out stuff about sponsors and the press. I know it sounds bad, but Ronan—I mean, he barely noticed. He had buckets full of trouble last year.”
“And now? One big, happy Supernova family?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. We’re rivals, you know? It comes down to me or him, I’m all about me out there.”
“Are all of you megalomaniacal narcissists behind the wheel?”
“Not sure what that all means, but sounds about right.”
“If I were a psychiatrist, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
He laughed. “I’m sure. We don’t all contain our egos to the car. And F1 likes to play up the differences between us, pitting the ‘nice guy’ against the ‘bad boy’ or the Brit versus the American, but underneath we’re all the same. Do or die. All or nothing, at least when we’re in the cars—and that’s a goal of mine this year, to leave that in the car. I discovered last year that bringing in that baggage—making things personal with the other drivers—messes with my head as much as theirs. I’m no saint, but I think I learned some things last season about how to behave off track.”
She reached out a hand, resting her fingers on his muscular shoulder. Heat radiated through her at the casual touch.
“It must be tough, watching the season slip away from you.”
He reached for her, slipping his arms under her hips, sliding her down until she lay next to him.
“Mmm.”
• • •
Something vibrating on the dresser interrupted Brynn’s doze in Maddux’s arms. Was that his phone?
“Sorry,” he muttered, unearthing his arm from under her head he stretched to grab his phone.
Brynn watched his torso flex up as he swiped the phone off the nightstand and studied it.
“Not me,” he said.
She groaned. She rolled over to her side, unplugged the phone, and stared at the number.
Kristy Thomas, the oncologist covering for her. This couldn’t be good, since Brynn had checked in on her patients just two days ago.
She stumbled out of the bed, pulled on jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Maddux’s room was always freezing. She shook her head at him lying there, naked with the sheet half off. His eyes opened and he frowned.
“What’s up?”
“The covering doctor just left me a message.”
“Covering?”
“The woman taking care of my patients while I’m here.�
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“Ah. She need help with something?”
“I dunno. We talked a week ago and have exchanged emails about patient stuff. I’ve been getting updated. Lemme call her and I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
Brynn curled up on the sofa in the attached suite and listened to the tinny ringing on the other end.
“Gates Oncology,” the receptionist answered.
“Hi, Sadie.”
“Dr. Douglas! How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m in Japan.”
“So cool,” Sadie said. “You’re so lucky—I mean I would love to travel.” The woman sighed through the phone.
“Yeah, it’s amazing. Hey, Kristy Thomas called me a few minutes ago.”
“Oh.” The woman’s tone turned somber. “Right. Let me get her.” The call went to hold and Brynn listened to the recorded spiel about how Gates Oncology was consistently rated the top place in America for cancer treatment.
“Brynn! How are you?”
“Good, Kristy, and you?”
“Fine, fine. Busy but good. So,” Kristy took a deep breath, “Mrs. Jamison was just in.”
Brynn sat up straighter. “Sheila’s not due for—”
“She was having symptoms.”
Cold dread crept through her. “No, no. Her lab work was good … what, eight months ago?”
“I know,” her friend said, softly. “But she’s got mets. We’re not even sure where the primary tumor originated, there are so many—lung, liver, and from her symptoms, it’s aggressive.”
“Kristy, no,” she whispered. “No. Please, God, no.”
“I’m so sorry, Brynn. I know you’re close.”
Through numb lips she whispered, “She’s got teenage girls and a deadbeat for an ex, no family close, no place for them to go—there’s no money there.” Her throat closed.
“Brynn, I am so, so sorry. She’s lovely. She wanted me to call you and tell you she’s okay. I’ve set up hospice. Months, or weeks is my best guess.”
“I, okay, thanks—” Her voice broke. “Kristy, I’m sorry, let me call you back, okay?”
She disconnected the call with shaking hands, put the phone on the table, and gathered her knees to her chest, rocking.
“Brynn? God, Brynn, what is it?”
High Octane Page 29