“It wasyour fucking fault!” he roars, getting in my face. “Yougave me the suggestions that made me not just place last but get lappedthree fucking times!Do you know howembarrassingthat is?”
My spine snaps straight, and all of my defenses slam into place. Is he really turning this onme?I’m the only person left who’s actually trying tohelphim! “That’swhat embarrasses you? Not the fact that you’ve been behaving like ajokeforyears? You choose to take it out onmyadvice?”
“I haveneverdriven that badly, so yes, it’syour fucking fault.”
“You only drove that badly because you don’t even bother to get to know your goddamn car!” I shout. “Youskimmedthe manual when you should be treating it likeyour fuckingbible. I have no idea why you’re still even in F1 if you hate the sport so much!”
He points a finger in my face, his eyes narrowed with fury. If I were a more reasonable person, I’d back down right now and disengage, but Ican’t.He’s insulting me in every way that matters, and I just can’t keep my mouth shut and let him get away with it.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’s not yelling anymore. Now, his voice has dropped to a terrifying, haunting whisper. “No—fucking—idea. You think I’m making a joke out of the sport, but you’re the one walking around with a holier-than-thou, I-know-everything attitude. I’m glad to break it to you thatyou don’t. You’re a child playing at being an adult and having a serious role in a high-intensity sport. ”
That one hurts. I know that I’m too young and toofemaleto be taken seriously as readily as the older, more experienced men around me. Having that thrown in my face knocks the wind out of me, like he’s hit me in the diaphragm.
He takes a step back. Works his jaw. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“I’ll stay out of your way,” I say curtly.
He shakes his head. “That’s not enough. I don’t want you around hereat all. I’m going to tell Ilya to keep you the fuck away from the races and tracks. Slink back to HQ and do your work asfaraway from me as possible. I’d tell you to fuck up and get fired soon, but you’re doing a fine job of that on your own.”
He shoots me a lethal glare before spinning on his heel and disappearing, leaving me angry, upset, and most of all,crushed.
Chapter Ten
Victoria
The plane back to the States hasn’t taken off before Declan pulls me aside and awkwardly tells me to stay away from Asher at headquarters. He doesn’t mention upcoming races, which makes me assume I’ll be left in the dust—just like Asher intended.
I’m so upset during the flight I don’t get any work done. When we land, I don’t bother joining everyone who goes out to dinner and parties; instead, I slink back to my matchbox apartment, draw the blinds, and crash.
The next several days follow a repetitive pattern. I wake up, drag ass to headquarters, and work on analyzing the encryption keeping me from data I need. Each minute that I stall is a minute I’m closer to losing my dream of a career in F1, especially now that I’m on the outs with the driver I’m assigned to.
Oliver allots me a desk in his tech-room and gives me free reign to spend my time as I see fit, so long as I keep him readily supplied with baked goods. Ialmostask him for help with decrypting the data he sent me, but something stops me—probably the need to prove myself and dosomethingsuccessfully.
I know better than to take him letting me choose how I spend my time as a compliment. In reality, it speaks to how the team views me; irrelevant and not particularly useful. I guess that comes with the territory of being an intern, and it’s not like I’m not used to it, but it still stings.
Being left to my own devices means I have enough time to quickly realize that the encryption Oliver used is far from casual. It’s advanced and so convoluted that something tells me Oliver’s put on the grey-hat before. I won’t be able to get through it myself, and my pride and need to prove my value keeps me from asking him… which leaves me at an impasse.
Coincidentally, I get a text from my brother the same morning that I realize I’m dealing with advanced, probably hacker-level encryption.
Hunt: I’m in town. Clear your schedule for dinner.I’ll pick you up from your apartment at 7.
Nopleaseorif you have availabilities.If I didn’t absolutely adore my only full biological sibling, I’d give him shit for his bad manners.
But even if I tried to lecture him, I doubt he’d listen. Hunter didn’t make his money off being a diplomat; he made it from hostile takeovers and developing a proprietary mathematical trading algorithm that gives him a massive edge over his competitors.
His visit happens to be coming at the perfect time. Hunter has contacts in every corner and industry in the world. If anyone could help me get over the encryption hump I’m facing and allow me to save face with the team, it’s him.
Despite my frustration with my algorithm’s progress, existential fear of losing my job, and overall exhaustion with life, my heart bursts with joy when 7pm rolls around, and an SUV with tinted windows greets me in front of my apartment building. I’ve been in a shitty mood all week thanks to my blowout fight with Asher and constant blockades at work; I can really use some time with my older brother.
Hunter steps out of the back of the car. He’s dressed in his customary black Armani suit, Italian leather shoes, and has a Patek Philippe watch that probably costs more than my entire apartment building wrapped around on wrist. His severe expression, which typically vacillates between boredom and fury, makes way for warmth. His grey eyes, usually dim from boredom or irritation, crinkle at the edges with the hints of a smile as he opens his arms.
“Get your ass over here,” he says. I run into them, squeezing until he wheezes. “Take it easy,” he grumbles, mussing my hair. “You look thin. And sleep-deprived.” His brows slam down. “The last time you looked this bad was during finals in undergrad.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I tease lightly, then nearly slap myself at the dark pause that follows. I haven’t figured out when I’ll be able to see Mom again—and I don’t expect our next visit to be terrifically pleasant.
Because she’s not our mom anymore. Not really, not most of the time. The woman she was is deteriorating, drip by drip.
“Well,” Hunt says, recovering. “You know she’d want me to fatten you up. Let’s get going.”
