Because I bet someone as infuriating as NixonArmaswould make any stable woman want to go on a murder spree.
The rest of the drive, he remained helpful, while I spent less time focusing on the road and more on what he could have done to this woman for her to send him death threats.
He didn’t even question my horrific parking when we pulled up in the studio car park.
“You’d be better on a bike,” he said as I cut the engine. “You ever been on one?”
“My brother has one,” I told him, evading the question. “My dad did, too.”
“They watch?”
“My brother does.”
“He a fan?”
“He’s not really into glorifying people,” I said, getting out of the car. He was standing on the other side as I slammed thedoor shut. “Something we have in common.”
“You’ll get there, Livid,” he said, grabbing his leathers from the boot. “Soon enough, you’ll love my Ass-mas.”
By the time we arrived,Lucawas in front of the camera in his new leathers standing beside his bike. The set-up was the same as the one filmed a couple of months ago: strobe lights across a square room, the walls full of bold numbers of previousStormSprintlegends, the rider in question’s number lit up and larger than the others just behind them.
After joiningStormSprintand leavingSprint3, he could change his number. He’d stuck with 68, a nod to his cousin, who was numbered 86.
Nix looked atLuca, smiling and talking to one of the producers, and grunted before going to the changing rooms.
WhenLucasaw me, his smile grew. “Livie!”
“Hello, this looks great!” I said and gestured to the scene. “TheCiclaticolours suit you.”
He lifted a palm to his chest. “Oh, you flatter me.”
“Olivia Quinn?” the producer asked, offering me a hand to shake. I took it eagerly. “Jason. It’s nice to meet you finally. It’s even nicer to have a fellow Brit, too. Thanks for all your hard work on this. Must admit, it was on our list of things to do, but thanks for having the initiative to check everyone’s schedules.”
“I mean, it’s mostly forCiclati, so it’s my job,” I said. If the show’s opening sequence was without one of my members, my role as media manager would be fleeting.
“Above your job,” Jason commented. “Thanks. And thanksfor dragging in Nixon.” His brows rose and his lips pinched together in distaste.
“He just needed a little push,” I offered.
“Right,Luca, back on the bike, mate,” Jason said. “Let’s go.”
For the next twenty minutes,Lucafollowed the producer’s instructions seamlessly, smiling at the camera and laughing off any compliments the staff gave him. I took some pictures and video footage to promote him joiningCiclati, news that would be revealed later in the day.
“We ready for the team shot?” Jason asked me. “Nixon may need another push, as you called it.”
“I’ll go and check,” I said and followed the route he had taken. As a last-minute booking, we didn’t have free reign of the studio, only a small section. He would have changed in the general rooms, where the extras often did.
I opened the door, secretly hoping to get another glimpse of him. There was a partition wall that I immediately pressed myself against when I heard his desperate, hushed voice. In French.
“No, Mum, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay,” he was begging. “Yes, I’m safe. No, I haven’t heard from them. Well, I’ll let you know what they ask of me… I can’t, Mum, I had no choice; we had to film something. I’ll be back next week. I’ll get the first flight out. Mum, Mum — we have protection, I swear to you.”
There was a pause.
“Love you, Mum.”
Fuck, maybe the ex-girlfriend was more of a threat than I’d first thought.
I took a silent step back to open the door with so much force it banged into the wall. “Armas? You in here? We’ve beenwaiting.”
