High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “Good luck Sunday. We’ll be watching.”

  • • •

  “Liam, don’t be such a wanker. It’s not funny,” Viv said three hours later. She slumped on the sofa and kicked off her pumps.

  “See where you’re sitting?” her brother insisted, “He was right there.”

  She ignored him and rummaged in her handbag for her phone. “Battery ran out. Look, I’m loading it up now, and if there isn’t a message from Adam Fontaine telling me he’s in London—or as you say, was in London—then you are making the coffee tonight.” It was typical of Liam to joke around but really unlike him to be so goddamn cruel.

  Liam shrugged.

  She settled back with a copy of his last week’s The Economist with no intention of checking the phone. “It’s your turn anyway, so I think you might as well start making it now.”

  “Viv, check the frigging phone.”

  She gave him a withering smile and pressed the phone on. Her heart jumped. No joke—Adam had called at 17:05, three hours ago, and at 17:07 and 17:15 and … there was no message.

  “But … but he’s in Malaysia, preparing for the race,” she said, dumbfounded. “Isn’t he?”

  “Well, he’s on his way back there now, I’d imagine. He said to tell you the beer tastes better this year.”

  Viv frowned and searched her brother’s freckled face. When had she told him that?

  “Four empties of Westvletern in the kitchen. I’d never drink that much on my own.”

  Liam was either getting much better at lying, or he was telling the truth. And the evidence was piling up.

  “All circumstantial,” she muttered, stomach lurching. Good God. It is true. He’ll mess up his qualifiers, the stupid man!

  • • •

  In the middle of the race, Adam groaned aloud; the thunderstorm had hit the Sepang circuit on lap twenty-four, a fierce wind blowing in from the east. Having started in seventh position and fallen to eighth on lap two, things were going from bad to worse.

  “Gotta hold on ’til the pit on lap twenty-eight,” Bruce said. “We’ll tell you when. Watch out for debris at the end of the straight.”

  Adam heard the strain in his engineer’s voice. Bruce had been so disappointed with him only qualifying seventh that he’d refused to talk to him all morning. But during a race, feelings had to be pushed aside, along with any self-doubt, or regrets, or fatigue.

  The only consolation was that Vivienne wouldn’t have to comment on this drastic performance on live TV. With any luck she wouldn’t even be watching the race. He hadn’t heard a thing from her, even though Liam must’ve told her he’d been there. So her feelings were clear.

  He was using the aerodynamic tow from Anderson in front, which helped on the straights but not in the corners. And Ronan Hawes right behind was dying to overtake, so he had to fend him off by reducing the available angles going into the corners. All the time.

  “Stick to one line,” Bruce warned. “Keep it legal.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Give it up, Hawes.

  But then in the second corner on lap twenty-nine, just before the pit stop, Hawes found his angle and overtook.

  “Damn,” Bruce and Chad yelled simultaneously.

  “You’re coming in,” Bruce said, all the frustration audible now.

  • • •

  “Noooooo!” Viv and Liam leapt up from the sofa in unison.

  “Why did he let him overtake?” Liam moaned. “Boyfriend one overtakes boyfriend two.”

  “Information overload,” Viv said, ignoring the comment. “He’s got drag from Dave Anderson in front to think about, and Ronan’s been up his ass the whole race. He can only change his angle once in a corner to ward him off—any more than that, and he’d be accused of deliberately blocking him—but he went a bit too narrow there.”

  “You saw all that?” Liam asked.

  She shrugged. “This is my job, you know? Uh, was.”

  Her brother picked up the sheet of paper they’d used to work out the points. “So if he’s in ninth now … he’ll pick up two points and he needs more than that.”

  “Anything can still happen,” she said hopefully.

  “No, Reece’s got it in the can. Look at him, smug bastard.”

  Reece’s red car was a few seconds in front. Catherine was doing the commentary, and it grated to hear her blunder her way through. The way she eulogized Reece’s driving, you’d think she’d had a fling with him. The minute the thought formed, Viv felt thoroughly ashamed. Wasn’t this the very prejudice she’d fought against for so many months?

  “Ronan’s in, too,” announced Liam.

  She glanced up from her calculations. “Please don’t let him overtake Adam in the pit.”

  “Remember the time Adam’s crew got the tires mixed up?” Liam said.

  “I’ll never forget. But that was before we … got together.”

  “What’s he like? After a race? Before a race? Is he like Ronan?”

  She sighed. Liam knew Ronan a little from having met him after two races. They’d got on well as fellow British men with friendly dispositions, but she’d felt it was surface only. She’d have paid good money to have seen Adam interacting with Liam. “No, he’s not like Ronan,” she said. “Before a race, he’s intense but calm. After a race, he’s … intense but calm.” She frowned. “Not much difference really.

  “And he’s not afraid to be critical in either case,” she continued, “but also very open to suggestions and willing to treat me as an equal when he talks about it …” Her voice trailed off as she got stuck on remembering Adam after his first no-finish in Hungary, how he’d mastered his emotions and good naturedly sat through the torture of an interview with her, which had turned into … their first scorching hot kiss and lovemaking.

  “That was the impression I got all right,” Liam said, and stood up to pull over the curtain as the late August sunshine was zapping in at eye level. Viv sensed he was fishing for information, but she was in no position to tell him how she felt. She hardly knew what to think herself.

  “Viv, look, he’s fallen to tenth.”

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “Viv?”

  She raised her head.

  “How on earth did you manage to do live commentary on this? Look at you; you’re a sniveling wreck.”

  “Shut up.”

  The remainder laps went by in silence, Viv unable to speak, and Liam scribbling down calculations—the permutations that would still allow Adam to win the championship. It was a close finish, with Maddux coming in first to surprise everyone. Reece came in second. Good old Maddux snuck past him on the penultimate lap. Adam followed ten seconds later in ninth. Despite his lowly position, the camera sought him out after the race because the only two men who could still win outright were he and Reece. No other drivers mattered anymore.

  “And there’s Adam Fontaine, the man in green,” chirped Catherine, “the man they call Mr. Spock. He’s had a disappointing finish here in Sepang, and he may have just handed Reece Marlowe the championship on a silver plate today. We’ll just have to hold our collective breaths until we see the final finish in November.”

  • • •

  After Malaysia came China, Russia, Brazil. Every Sunday or second Sunday brought a new continent for the F1 squad, and Viv had to admit she was glad she wasn’t traveling with them. To schedule the final races in this way was an act of cruelty. Adam got fourth in China, but it was fine because Reece only got fifth. In Russia the opposite happened. Both drivers seemed to be attached by some ironic cord of fate.

  In between watching and fretting over F1 races, Viv had started up her fledgling business as a PR agent. She took the plunge and cold-called a bunch of semi-famous sporting personalities around the Greater London area. Only one bite so far, but the satisfaction of running her own business made up for any lack of profitability.

  She missed Adam so much during those weeks, she couldn’t breathe at times. And it
wasn’t just the physical aspect that killed her—it was his presence, the way he completed her, the way she felt more centered when she was with him, more in touch with herself. He’d become her rock, steadfast, hard as coal, brittle as ice, challenging her perception, wanting her as a real person, wanting to work things out—until she’d run away.

  It was always easier to run than to let someone reach a deeper core—that uglier part of the psyche where thoughts were raw, insecure. And Adam had reached that part of her—the part that was afraid to commit, the part that shied from real conflict, the part that told her she was incapable of focusing on one thing and achieving it, the part that was unwilling to explore his darkness.

  She’d let him get away with his secrets because, in truth, she’d been too chicken to demand the full story. She’d wanted nothing to destroy what they had because it was too precious, and so she’d hidden it away. But living in the real world meant taking that relationship and facing the world together, and facing each other in private, wholeheartedly. It was time to stop blaming the media for what did and didn’t happen in her relationships.

  “I’ve decided,” she said to Liam the day after Reece’s Brazilian win. “I’m going to Monaco. I have to be there.”

  “Um, Viv. Little problemo.” Liam made the universal gesture for money. “Tickets?”

  “No problemo. Savings.” She had her last-resort savings account that was meant to be rent for when she got an apartment. Some things were more important than money.

  “Well, in that case, I’m coming, too,” Liam said. He went to the fridge and pulled down their calculation sheet off its magnet. “How do we stand again?”

  “Two hundred fifty for Adam to 261 Reece,” she said mournfully. “Do the math.”

  “So Adam can only get it if he wins, and if Reece …”

  “Gets fourth or worse.”

  “Hmm. Does Adam like Monaco?”

  “Nope.”

  • • •

  On the verge of leaving Sao Paolo, Adam sat in the airport lounge and debated whether to send the mail twenty times before he pressed return. The reasons not to do so were numerous; the reasons to do so boiled down to a single one: to reconnect to family. Because Dad may not have much of a future left at all.

  Dad,

  You’re surprised to hear from me. I won’t labor the point.

  I’m coming to Saskia’s wedding on December fifth. Just so you know. She wants the family to be there. Mother will be there, too. I hope it will not be too much to ask for you to also be there, for Saskia’s sake, even if I show up.

  Best,

  Adam

  Chapter 29

  Monte Carlo, Monaco

  “Give me those frigging binoculars,” Viv said, kicking the side of Liam’s foot.

  “It’s my turn,” Liam said, elbowing her back. “Okay, lemme see. They’re on the grid now for the formation lap.”

  She seethed at her little brother. It had cost her a minor fortune to get these seats in Grandstand K, not to mention the last-minute flights to Nice. She’d cleared out her bank account.

  She didn’t know why she’d come, just that she’d had to come. She was worried about Adam’s frame of mind for this final race. He needed to win so badly that if Reece clinched it, it would surely kill him. Kill him. And yet, Reece was starting from a much superior position in the points table. Maybe it was a ghoulish journalistic streak within her that wanted to see Adam crumble? Or maybe she wanted final proof that he wasn’t relationship material.

  Orange car, green car, white car—Marlowe, Fontaine, Bates. She’d seen this lineup before—in an Arabian desert, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. Her stomach twisted at the thought of the pressure on Adam to get first and to push Reece into fourth somehow. All those curves. Had he already given up in his mind? What did that look like?

  “Be back soon,” she said to Liam, who merely held up his hand.

  She raced through the underground tunnel, squeezed past the whole row of spectators loitering around the exit. Her feet knew where to take her; she’d been here watching from the harbor area twice before. She had no press card, no VIP security pass, so she’d need some luck. She ran and ran, past spectators, security guards, race organizers.

  Bruce. She saw him at the entrance to the Gatari pit area.

  She stuck her hand in the air to wave.

  “Good Lord, it’s Viv. How are ya?”

  “Bruce,” she sputtered, “let me come in there with you. Please.”

  “Well,” he hesitated, glancing over at a group of race scrutineers. “Why not? If you’re quiet.” He held the door open and she slid inside.

  “I want to talk to Adam. Before the fifteen second rule kicks in.”

  “Oh no, you can’t do that, love. Chad only lets pit engineers—”

  She booted past him. “Sorry, but I have to.” She stole the Gatari cap off his head and shoved it on her own, glancing behind once to see him slack-jawed with shock.

  She ducked and twisted her way around the engineers and reached Adam’s car. She hunkered down to his level, just watching his profile. He stared straight ahead, his eyes tense inside that fiberglass visor. This could possibly have been the worst decision of her life.

  Or the best.

  Slowly he turned. His helmet flicked in a comic double take. He slammed the visor up, eyes wide, breathing heavily. He reached up to turn off his team microphone.

  “Vivienne? You’re here?” he yelled over the noise of the engine.

  “Sure am,” she yelled back.

  “I thought you’d given up on me.”

  “Not yet.”

  A slow smile. “Give me two more hours, okay?”

  “Come now.” Bruce’s arms were tight around her waist. “We all have to get off, or he’ll be penalized. You don’t want that.”

  “No.” She saw that the cameras were focusing in her direction now, so she kept her head down and followed Bruce back to the garage. Yes, she’d give him two hours.

  • • •

  “How’s the car, Adam?” came Bruce’s familiar call on lap thirty-five. He could hear the emotion in his engineer’s voice. He’d never made it to a final race before, and the perceived wisdom was spot on: it did feel different.

  It felt dream-like, like he was going through the motions, but they didn’t affect him, because he floated above it. Had he really seen Vivienne there, or was it an illusion brought on by excitement and inhuman amounts of adrenalin?

  “Revs 8,” Bruce said.

  “You got it.”

  “Any oversteer, understeer?”

  “None at all, she’s steady,” Adam replied. For the first time ever. The engineers, Marc and Olivier, had killed themselves this week working on the engine, tuning it to within a micrometer of its life. He’d never seen such dedication in the engineering team before, and neither had Bruce. He was the sole unsteady variable in the whole equation now.

  Vivienne was right here! That was why it felt different. He felt different. There was so much more to life than this race. She had said it in so many subtle ways before, but now that he’d a chance to get her back, the outcome of this race was unimportant in comparison.

  “You’re staying on softs. Albany’s two behind you. He’s fine. He’s holding the back. Watch Maddux behind you. He’s got one stop to go as well.”

  Even while driving it, it was the perfect race, despite it being Monaco. The car’s top form was allowing him to relax into Chad’s tactical plan. There was just the little problem of Reece Bloody Marlowe sitting in front of him.

  Round and round. Team messages back and forth. Another pit stop. Still two seconds behind Reece. But Reece would flag soon. He had to. Old habits died hard, didn’t they? Adam gritted his teeth.

  “Oh my good God,” Bruce crackled. “Reece has understeer, and he’s ignoring it.”

  “God, the idiot.”

  “He’s spinning! Adam, be careful, give him room if you have to. He may lose it and take you with h
im.”

  “Negative. I have Maddux on my tail.”

  “I know, I know. Let me think. He needs to change that front right tire. If he doesn’t, he’s a danger.”

  With only ten laps to go, Reece was never going to make a move like that. He’d race on, danger to himself and others or not. In fact, knowing him, Reece had probably switched off his team radio so he wouldn’t have to listen to their advice.

  “Adam, easy now,” Chad called, “we want you alive.”

  Then Adam saw it and heard it—right in front of him. Reece flying into the bend and slipping out mid-curve, way out, spinning—a 360-degree turn. His engine screeched as he tried to right himself again.

  “God,” breathed Adam, jerking left then right to avoid the tip of the wing that had flown off onto the circuit. “See that?”

  “Mate, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Adam responded tersely. “He’s out. How’s Bates?”

  “Yeah, Maddux had to slow down, too,” Chad yelled. “But he wasn’t hit. He’s fine. He’s five behind. Don’t worry about him.”

  “You’re all clear,” Bruce said. “Take this baby home, Adam!”

  “Roger that.”

  His engineers had already lined up in a neat row along the pits in preparation for the final lap to cheer him home. The sight of their perfect line formation in green overwhelmed him with pride and gratitude.

  • • •

  And there he stood. Viv watched him from the middle of the crowd at the podium. Formula One world champion. Waving. Smiling even. He was holding the champagne bottle. He leaned to say something to Maddux. Maddux laughed and gave him the thumbs up. What were they talking about?

  She was being jostled from all sides as the crowd went mad, reaching forward for a piece—a piece of something—success, fame, glory. She pushed back viciously. They were blocking her view of his face—a rare look of unguarded pleasure.

  Despite the heaving bodies, she was glad to be anonymous in this crowd after her mad stunt on the starting grid. Yes, she felt somewhat self-conscious about that. But now that he’d won, might Adam forgive her for exposing herself like that?

  He had somehow procured champagne flutes from the organizers. Instead of spraying champagne everywhere, he filled the three glasses carefully and handed the bottle to a race steward. The drivers clinked glasses like old ladies at a charity rally. Viv laughed. Had he just reversed a century old trend of wasting champagne?