“Did they detail all the ways they want to cut you to pieces and leave you a mess for your mom and dad to find?” he asks. “Did any of them say they wanted to leave you in so many pieces that there would be no hope of your parents having an open casket at your funeral without you looking like Sally fromNightmare Before Christmas?”
“King,” I whisper. I feel my eyes widen, and I can’t quite catch my breath. My legs shake, and I think I’m going to be sick.
“And let’s not forget they tried to fucking shoot you.”
“Please,” I beg for him to stop torturing me like this. Why can’t he just let me live in my bubble?
“Stop saying they aren’t serious,” he orders.
“Okay.”
“They’re serious.”
“Okay.”
“What was the PR crisis?” he asks, abruptly changing direction again. It keeps me off balance and jittery. I know he wanted to scare me, and he has, but after last night, I just feel… I don’t know, broken maybe? Between King and Bobby, and then DHR and my dad’s crazy announcement, it felt like each one took another piece of me, and now there’s not enough pieces left to survive.
I force a heavy breath between my lips. “Bobby has strong ideas about what dinner last night meant,” I hedge.
“And that would create a PR crisis how exactly?”
“Because he’s decided that we should date, marry, and then I’d pop out his little race-loving babies,” I say, letting my frustration take over my words. I’m not watching what I say in front of King, and I had no idea that he would react poorly. I had no idea his body stiffened at the thought of me marrying anyone and having their babies. “And while I’m doing this, I’m not racing, because he’s decided I need to retire, as in now, so he has a clear path to my family business. Not that I think I deserve it just because, but I have literally been training for this my entire life. In fact, I’ve had no life, because I’ve devoted it to DHR and whatever my dad thought I should.”
I do not pay attention to his reaction to Bobby wanting to steam roll right over me for my spot in the racing world, but then again, racing is a cutthroat sport, so it’s no less than I should have been prepared for. I have just never thought it would come from my friend. King has always thought of me as a spoiled brat. It wouldn’t surprise me that he probably thinks I’m getting my just desserts.
My phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Adrienne, what the hell is going on?” my dad yells over the phone. “You’re retiring?”
“No, Dad.” I sigh. “I’m not retiring. Bobby would like me to.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dad,” I say softly. “I’m not sure I should be giving you the gritty details of my date last night.”
“Did he touch you?” he thunders, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’s so mad.
“Dad, calm down. We just went to dinner,” I answer him. “We just went to dinner the one time.”
“Then why is he calling me at six in the morning to ask for my permission to marry you and to let me know you’re retiring effective immediately?” Dad asks, and I feel my face burn hotter and hotter, and I fear I’m in danger of my head exploding. I never gave Bobby the impression that I was okay with his plans. How could he have done this? “Well, Adrienne?”
“I have no idea. We went on one date,” I explain. “And it was last night. He told me over dinner that he wanted me to retire. He said there won’t be room for both of us at DHR when he takes control of the company. I did not agree. I thought we’d talk about it later, but I was wrong.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No, Dad,” I say quietly. “You’re not. You love Bobby like a son, and you’re going to keep on doing that. I don’t think I should have told you what happened between us, because we’re both competing for the control of DHR—per your wishes, I’ll remind you.”
“And why shouldn’t you tell me?” he asks a little irately. “I’m your father.”
“I know you are,” I say with a smile on my face. “It’s something that gives me great joy. But you are why Bobby and I are competing this season, so my telling you we had an altercation is a little like going to the principal because a boy pulled my hair on the playground.”
“I’m your father.”
“You’re also my boss and deciding who will be your successor, so my complaining to you as a daughter is not evening the playing field.”
“Fuck the playing field,” he snaps.
