by Holly Rayner
Chapter 8
Ashlynn
Everything buzzed the next day. As soon as I opened my eyes, I could hear the hum of people on the street below, walking towards the track. Car engines were being revved at the stadium a few blocks over, racers preparing for the day. It was like the hum of cicadas on a summer night.
Julien had told me about the first day of the FP100 tournament—the contagious excitement, locals and tourists coming together over favorite racers or a simple love of sporting speed. He’d said it was unlike anything he'd experienced elsewhere in the world, and he couldn't wait for me to take part in it.
I tried to feel the same excitement as everyone else as I walked to the track, but my nerves didn't leave much room for any other emotion. My fingers had trembled as I’d zipped up my red dress and fastened the straps of my heels around my ankles. I kept smoothing the fabric down over my hips, even though the dress had been starched and ironed within an inch of its life.
The walls of the hotel room, while gilded and perfectly decorated, had suddenly felt claustrophobic. When I’d left, I’d still had two hours before I needed to be at the stadium to warm up, but I’d had to get out of the hotel.
When Julien dropped me off at my room after our dinner, I asked him if he would be able to walk me over to the stadium in the morning.
“Not unless you want to wake up at four in the morning,” he’d said, laughing when I’d wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I need to get there early and check on my car and my pit crew before the pre-race interviews in the morning. I'll come see you before the race, though.”
On the drive back to the hotel, he’d asked Gérard to circle around the stadium, pointing out where I'd enter and the best way to get there from the hotel. I was grateful for his help, but I still just wished he could go with me.
Getting ready for dinner the night before, I'd been unsure whether dinner with Julien constituted a date or not. Unsure, I’d opted for a black dress that I knew accentuated some of my assets, but still had an air of business formal. He’d looked good when he’d picked me up, and his rolled shirt sleeves had spoken to a comfortability not found in most business meetings.
Finally, after spending most of the evening wondering how he felt about me, I’d decided to be bold and asked. I’d faced my fear of international flying to be at that table with him, so I couldn’t let my fear of rejection stop me. And without batting an eye, Julien had told me how he felt. It had been that easy.
For reasons I could not understand, the extraordinarily rich, attractive, race car-driving, hotel-owning, yacht-seller was interested in me—and Lord knew I was interested in him. It had been a huge relief, and I’d gone back to the hotel thinking that finally solving that puzzle would help settle the nervousness that had plagued me since I boarded the plane in Vegas. But instead, understanding Julien’s motives had just freed up room for me to focus all of my nervous energy on the performance.
I'd performed in front of huge audiences before. Massive crowds of regular opera-goers who were there to critique my every note. They’d known the numbers we had been performing by heart. Some of the most important reviewers in the business had filled the seats in the front row, and my confidence had never wavered.
Yet, performing for racing fans had me on the verge of a meltdown. What if they hated me? What if I was booed offstage? Images of people throwing rotten tomatoes at me while I belted out high notes made me feel queasy.
While walking to the stadium, I passed rowdy groups of people decked out in foam fingers and enormous headphones, wearing oversized jerseys with Julien’s face on them (I made a mental note to find out where I could secretly buy one for myself), and I couldn't help but wonder what Julien had been thinking.
These people were not my usual crowd. Most of them had likely never appreciated opera in their lives. They wanted a man with a twangy voice and an acoustic guitar wailing about his ex-wife and his dog and his truck…or whatever the French version of country music was. Not me.
The stadium was packed, but I found my way around easily enough, following the signs for the business office. I followed a cement ramp around a massive pillar, taking a right turn for what felt like ten minutes before reaching the top and seeing a set of double glass doors straight ahead.
As soon as I walked through the doors, chaos erupted. The next ninety minutes were filled with the organizers of the race talking to me in rapid French, which I didn’t understand. It quickly became clear that my limited grasp of the language wasn’t enough to sustain a back-and-forth dialogue, and as a consequence, our attempted walk-through of the performance was probably much more difficult than it needed to be.
After a gray-haired man threw his hands up in frustration and stormed out of the room, I assumed I had lost the job. Just as I was about to run crying out of the room, he walked back in with a mid-twenties woman with dyed red hair and black cigarette pants on. The man grabbed the woman by the shoulders and placed her directly in front of me. She looked bored.
“This is my father,” the woman said in a thick accent. “I study English in university. Talk slowly and I will translate.”
“You can?” I said, relief flooding through me.
She nodded, and in choppy sentences back and forth, explained that I would be announced over the loudspeaker, and then walk out onto the track where a large stage would be set up. I’d perform the songs I’d selected, and then, when I was finished, Monaco’s national anthem would play, after which I would leave the stage and the race would begin.
“I don’t know the national anthem of Monaco,” I said in a panic, my heart beating against my rib cage. “I barely know all the words to the Star-Spangled Banner. Julien didn’t mention anything about singing it, so I didn’t bother to learn, and—”
The woman, whose name was Anaïs, held out her hands to stop me mid-rant. “You do not sing. The speakers sing. It is a recording.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said, only realizing I’d said it out loud when Anaïs rolled her eyes and laughed.
I’d thought arriving two hours early would make me look crazy, but as it turned out, I needed every extra minute to get ready. By the time all the details were ironed out, it was time for me to head down to the track to prepare for the performance.
The cars lined the track, and I looked around desperately, hoping to see Julien. I needed reassurance, something. I felt lost at sea, like I’d been left alone to sink or swim, and in that moment, I felt like I would sink. I would even have gone for one of Brianna’s “you can do it” text messages in that moment.
Julien had heard my pop opera performance, my voice backed with synthesized instruments and beat drops. But the pieces I’d selected for the race were quintessential opera. They were the songs that had made me fall in love with the form. But what if they weren’t what he was expecting? What if Julien, along with everyone else in the stadium, was disappointed?
I knew it was too late to change my mind. The man in the booth already had my music selections. But still, I wondered if I’d made a horrible mistake.
Then, suddenly, I was being tapped on the shoulder. I looked over to see a round man with a white mustache standing next to me. He nodded towards the stage. It was only then that I heard the announcer over the speakers. I was being welcomed onto the track.
The concrete track radiated stored warmth from the sun, and it only added to the nervous sweat rolling down my back. I couldn’t imagine being one of the racers in the cars. I was only opening for the event, and still, I felt like I would pass out.
Anaïs had relayed that there would be several more minutes of announcements between my first cue to enter and when I actually took the stage, so there would be no reason to rush, but I still found myself anxious to get to the stage. Because, even as nervous as I was, the stage felt like home base.
I knew what it felt like to be standing on a raised platform, but walking across an open track with race car drivers and thousands of spectators staring at me, wondering whether I
would trip on my heels and fall on my face (okay, maybe I was the only person wondering whether I’d trip and fall)? I didn’t know how to do that.
My chest was heaving violently, a rasping sound coming from my throat. It had been so long since I’d performed the way I wanted to, since I’d been able to stand on a stage and be myself. In the bar in Vegas, I couldn’t imagine anything better than belting out an aria from a Puccini opera, but now, I felt vulnerable.
A high-pitched whistle cut across the din of the track, followed by a shout.
“Ashlynn!”
I turned to see Julien standing next to his car. He had on a black race suit, his black helmet tucked under his arm. Something inside of me warmed at the sight of him. He was waving both arms in the air so I’d see him, and I lifted one hand in response. He pressed his hand to his mouth and blew me a kiss. Part of me wanted to catch it and store it in my pretend pocket, but the idea felt too intimate. Even a pretend kiss from Julien would be enough to unravel me.
When I finally made it to the stage, I hesitated at the steps, unsure if I should go up or not. And then, before I even had time to look around for someone to tell me what to do, I heard my name boom over the loudspeakers, roaring applause washing down from the stadium in a wave.
I took a deep breath and mounted the steps, the full Monaco sun beating down on me, and Julien waving excitedly from the track.
When I sang my first note, I decided I would only ever perform at racing events in the future. The crowd was incredible. They cheered my high notes, clapped when I held a note out long, and offered deafening applause at the end of each number. It was nothing like the polite applause of the theater-going crowds. These people were alive and eager for a show, and things couldn’t have gone any more perfectly.
The same man who had tapped my shoulder to tell me to walk onto the stage was waiting at the base of the stairs to usher me up to the stands. He offered a hand to help me up the stadium stairs, and blushed when I thanked him for his help.
With my performance finished, I finally felt the rush of race day. The entire stadium seemed to vibrate with the roar of the engines coming to life. People all around me were cheering Julien’s name and the names of the other drivers. And when the shot rang out and the cars tore off of their starting lines, I was on my feet, shouting and waving my arms like I’d been to a thousand races before that one.
I kept my eyes trained on Julien’s car, my heartbeat matching his breakneck pace around the track. There were a few close calls, cars swerving near him before grindings against the barrier along the edge of the track, or Julien needing to swerve at the last moment to avoid rear-ending someone. Each time, I stopped breathing until he was out of danger.
By the time the race was coming to an end, I felt like I’d been in a race of my own. My body was exhausted from the adrenaline and the heat and the non-stop noise, but I also felt free.
I managed to work out that a man named Alain was close on Julien’s tail. The crowd seemed split in two, half cheering for Julien, the other for Alain. As they rounded the final corner of the track and squealed into the home stretch, it was all I could do to keep from screaming myself hoarse, begging Julien to drive faster, to not let up.
And then, he won.
The crowd erupted, strangers hugging and clapping one another on the back. The woman behind me placed her hands on my shoulders and squeezed as she jumped up and down, shaking her dark hair wildly. Music began to blare over the speakers as the cars slowed to a stop.
When Julien stepped out of his car and pulled his helmet off, his black hair was standing straight up with sweat, his face was flushed, and he looked happier than I’d ever seen him.
Anaïs reappeared next to me and pressed her hand to my ear, shouting over the crowd. “Julien has requested that you meet him on the track.”
“Me?” I asked.
She answered by pointing to the stairs and then snapping when I still hadn’t made a move.
The track was filled with racers and their families and press, so—unlike stepping out for my performance at the start of the race—this time, I was able to blend in amongst the crowd, finding my way off to the side of the podium. There, Julien stood in the center. First place.
Everyone was shouting Julien’s name, vying for his attention, begging to ask him how it felt to win the first heat of the FP100, but he wasn’t paying any attention. His eyes were scanning the crowd around him. I watched as his head swiveled slowly in my direction, eyes narrowed from searching, widening when he caught sight of me. I waved, and he grinned, giving me a thumbs-up just as the official times of the first heat were announced.
Camera lenses flashed like lightning when he saw his record-breaking time and threw a fist into the air. And then, they went off in a second burst when he was showered with champagne. Everyone was passing round glasses, toasting to his honor and to Monaco.
“Congratulations,” I said, when he finally made it off the stage and away from the photographers.
In an unexpected move, Julien leaned down and wrapped me into a hug. He had unzipped his race suit so it was hanging around his waist, his white undershirt exposed, and he pulled me against his chest. I could feel the heat rolling off of him, but more than that, I could feel his muscles stretching and pulling underneath his shirt. My face burned red, and I wrapped an arm quickly around him and then pulled it back, stepping away.
“You were incredible, Ashlynn,” he said. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Me? This is about you! You won!” I clapped a hand on his arm, and then quickly removed it when his bicep flexed beneath my fingers.
“Because of you,” he said. “You were my good luck charm.”
I shook my head. “You didn’t need any luck. You would have won no matter what.”
Julien ignored me and stepped closer, his lips pressed to my ear. “Come with me to the after-party tonight?”
I stepped back to look into his eyes. His face was bright and excited. Even though I already felt exhausted from the day and it was only mid-afternoon, I couldn’t bear to be the reason his smile would falter.
“Where is it?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
Photographers surrounded us again, cameras flashing, and I tried to move out of the way, but before I could, Julien wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me against his side. He looked down at me, lips spread wide in a smile, and winked.
My insides fluttered as I basked with him in the glow of his victory, wondering whether we were about to go on our first real date.
Chapter 9
Ashlynn
The after-party, held at one of the other hotels Julien owned, somehow felt more overwhelming than the stadium filled with tens of thousands of people.
The room dripped with crystals and colored lights and velvet. Surrounded by such decadence, I felt underdressed in my simple cocktail dress. Back in my hotel room, I’d felt sexy, and Julien had whistled his approval when he’d picked me up. But surrounded by women in designer gowns and jewelry that cost more than my car, I felt out of place.
Julien handed me a flute of a bubbly, and I swallowed it back in one gulp. I needed something to take the edge off.
“That was Monaco’s finest champagne,” he said, amused at my eagerness. “Just in case you drank it so fast you couldn’t taste it.”
“I’m a little nervous,” I said, deciding it was best to be honest. “I’ve never been to a party like this.”
“Operas have after-parties, though,” he said.
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “This is basically the same vibe, just elevated to Mount Olympus.”
Julien laughed and pulled me into his side. He’d been doing that more and more often, and I was a little worried by how used to it I was becoming. I liked being close to him.
“You look incredible. Have I said that?”
“You whistled,” I said with a shrug.
“Because I was too stunned for words. Now that I’ve
had time to come up with just what to say…” He leaned down, whispering against my ear, tingles rushing down my neck. “You are the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I didn’t really believe him, but it felt nice to hear the words all the same.
People kept coming up to us, congratulating Julien, many of them recognizing me as the pre-race singer—Julien translated for me so I knew what was going on. Some of them were fellow racers, jokingly lamenting that it was a wonder anyone even showed up to the races anymore. Everyone knows Julien will win.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” one man said in English.
He had spiky blond hair and a square chin. He was handsome, but his nose was flat in the middle, like he’d broken it on more than one occasion and it hadn’t quite set properly. He gave Julien a playful punch in the arm.
“I hit the brake on the home stretch because I knew Julien needed the confidence booster of winning the first leg of the tournament.”
“You wish, Alain,” Julien retorted.
I recognized him as the man who’d crossed the finish line a few tenths of a second after Julien. I half-expected some kind of brawl, or at least an angry stare-off. Instead, the two men looked at one another for a second, and then embraced, each clapping the other on the back in the way all men seemed to do.
“This must be the lovely Ashlynn,” Alain said, turning to me, all smiles. “You caught the attention of Julien while we were in Vegas. We barely saw him the entire trip.”
I laughed. “I told him he should see something aside from my show, but he insisted on showing up every night.”
“He’s persistent,” Alain said with a wink. “You wouldn’t mind if I whisked him away for a little bit, would you?”
Julien opened his mouth to answer, but Alain clamped an arm around his shoulders and spun him around.
“We need to make the rounds, but he will find you as soon as he’s done.”