The reporters all assumed it was Ferraro’s strategy. Why wouldn’t it be? The team received the best possible result—a one-two that favored the championship leader. Julien should be happy for his team, for his brother.
But why did Thomas get his hopes up? What was the purpose of building Julien up so high? So he could fall harder?
If Julien had kept himself angled towards his brother and still failed, would it feel less like he was duped? Less like he had been taken advantage of? Or would it hurt just the same?
Julien wraps his other arm around the lower half of his face and screams his frustration into his mute limb. It helps. Barely.
After a knock on his door, Julien has to remove his lower arm to ask, “Who is it?”
“C’est Thomas.”
“Non, merci.”The last thing Julien wants to see is his brother’s stupid face again after hours of forced media duties together. He prefers the towel.
Maybe he can catch a commercial flight to Germany. Suffering in an enclosed space with the older Dubois for hours sounds much worse than stiff chairs and screaming babies.
The door opens anyway. Thomas just does whatever he wants with no respect to anybody else. “Ça va?”
“I don’t speak a lot of French,” Rafael says, suddenly beside Julien. How long has he been sitting at the desk? “But he said‘non’. It doesn’t sound very welcoming.”
“What are you doing in Julien’s driver’s room, Rafael?”
Julien doesn’t know either, but fuck Thomas. “It’s my driver’s room. I can have anyone I want in here. I don’t want you, so go away.”
The sound may be muddled by the towel, but the point still stands.
Instead of going away, Thomas gets louder. “In this sport you cannot expect to be handed?—”
A slammed door cuts him off, and Julien finally slides the towel from his eyes.
Rafael stands in front of the door, with his back to it. “You didn’t need to hear that.”
Julien can’t help but smile. “Thanks, but I’ll probably have to suffer through it later.”
“You’ll be able to digest it better later.” Rafael crosses the room and perches on the edge of the mattress. With a heavy hand, he pats Julien’s leg. “C’mon. Get changed and we can head back to the hotel. Sleeping helps.”
Julien groans again, but he still pushes himself up to sitting. His Nomex suit is gross and tight and sticky, but there’s something more pressing to attend to. “You missed a step between hotel and sleep.”
Rafael’s eyebrows raise. “Did I?”
Did he forget?
“I didn’t win, but I still podiumed. First, second, or third—that was our deal.”
“I didn’t think you’d be in the mood.”
What Julien isn’t in the mood for is being told what he wants and what he deserves.
He wants to go back out on that track and angle his car and destroy everyone, including his shitty, sweet-talking brother. Julien can’t do that, but he still placed second. He can still claim his agreed-upon prize.
Somethingabout today needs to go according to plan.
“If you wanna back out on me, tell me now.” Julien swings his legs off the massage table and stands with renewed vigor.
“Definitely not,” Rafael answers quickly. “I still can’t raise my arm very high, though, so I’m limited on what we can do.”
“Would you wear your brace?”
“What’s with you and my brace?” Rafael looks sexy tied up—it’s not a crime to enjoy it. “Yeah, sure. It’s probably a good idea anyway.”
