I pressed my lips together, clinked my glass against his, and took a sip.
“You might be, but I’m definitely not.”
“Well, only one person can actually win, right?” he said, a bitter note to his voice. His eyes darted in Volkov’s direction. I followed his gaze but quickly focused on Drake. He’d already had a few, judging by the strong odour of alcohol on his breath.
“Too true.” I took another sip, and another. My mind was racing. I got the feeling he wanted to talk. All I had to do wasgently encourage him. “It must be hard, being in his shadow all the time.”
“You have no idea.” He leaned conspiratorially close. “Have you ever felt completely overlooked?”
I nodded. “I have.”
“You know, last season, he pretty much won the Constructors’ without me. I may as well not have shown up. But I did. I fought for every place. It’s just never come as easily to me as it seems to for him.” He knocked back the rest of his drink and I mirrored him, nodding sympathetically. A server with a tray of full glasses approached and Callum scooped up two of them, passing one to me.
“Thanks,” I said, but my voice didn’t seem to register. He jumped right back into his tirade.
“I’m still fighting. Fighting the car, fighting the press, fighting for every little taste of victory. I’m good, Archer. Really fucking good. But next to him? Next to his car?” He shook his head and I pressed closer, my hand on his arm.
“His car? Don’t you drive the same one?”
“You’d think, right?” He downed another glass and I took another big gulp, trying to keep pace with him to keep him talking. “Ross hardly even acknowledges me. In briefings it’s all about Aleks’s results, his concerns, the plan for his race. I’m just an afterthought and not even that sometimes.”
“That sounds awful. Not being appreciated is the worst.” My mind was starting to feel sluggish, but I sipped the champagne anyway. It was working. I glanced down at my clutch on the tall table beside us, hoping my phone was picking this up.
Callum swept a hand through his thick, blonde hair before pressing closer to me.
“You want an exclusive?”
“Do I ever?” I grinned.
“Callum, darling?” A woman materialised beside us as if summoned by dark magic. She was a little older than me, dark hair swept up into a top knot. She shot me a look that made me step back. I vaguely recognised her from Obsidian’s PR team.
“I’m speaking with this lovely lady,” Callum said, waving his glass towards me.
“I know,” the PR woman said, smiling that sickly sweet smile. “But the people from Laurent Échelon are eager to talk to you. Come on, darling.” She took hold of his arm and tugged him away, glancing back over her shoulder at me with a satisfied smirk.
Damn.
I put down my glass and picked up my clutch. I strode from the room, swaying slightly, and headed down the corridor towards the rest rooms. I steadied myself with a hand on the wall. The flocked wallpaper bumpy beneath my fingers. I pushed open the door to the bright, white-tiled bathroom, fished out my phone and stopped recording. I opened the audio file and skipped to a few minutes before the end to listen. I could make out Callum’s voice, but it was slightly muffled. It would need a light clean-up, but it was better than nothing. He hadn’t really given anything away except for his own discontent at Obsidian, but that would add colour to the story.
I grinned at my reflection and stowed my phone back in my clutch. I needed more. I needed a reputable source on the record saying that they were swapping the mapping software between qualifying and the race, or someone admitting the fuel level is low for race day. I needed someone to explicitly tell me the team was cheating. Without that, all I had was conjecture. I couldn’t quite tell what the drivers themselves knew. That was frustrating. I wanted a name, someone specific to pin it on.
I freshened up and stepped out of the bathroom, bumping straight into a brick wall of a man. I staggered sideways on my high heels, still tipsy from the champagne.
“Sorry,” I muttered before firm hands took hold of my upper arms, steadying me and leaning me back against the wall. I looked up into the ice-blue eyes of Aleksandr Volkov. “Oh. You.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, half scowling, half concerned.
“Fine.” I swept my hair off my face and straightened myself up.
He was standing too close, invading my personal space, his eyes full of cold calculation. Damn, he was big up close. Tall, lean, firm.
“Why are you still sniffing around my team?” he said, his voice low, his accent thick.
“You know why, Champion. I’m pursuing the truth.”
“If you had anything, you’d have published your story by now. Give up. Go home.”
“Oh I have plenty,” I said, tilting my chin up in defiance that wasn’t entirely justified.
