Right on cue, his full lips curl into a half-smile. “And what?” The words are a taunt.
“And a jerk,” I finish lamely.
“Hmm. Feeling tired today, intern? You’re resorting to using synonyms to describe me.”
“Calling you an asshole bears repeating,” I say sharply. “Nice work in the race, by the way.”
His mood instantly sours. His brows slam down, and his customary glare returns. “You would know all about failure, wouldn’t you? You’re about an inch away from getting fired, and you couldn’t even follow the simple instructions of staying out of my way.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d move to Mars to get away from you if I could.”
“That so?” he seems amused. “Tickets would be pretty expensive. Can you afford that on an intern’s salary?”
If I wanted to, I could probably become as rich as the rest of my family… but I have morals I won’t compromise.
Hunter’s texted me several times to remind me that he thinks I’m stupid for refusing Reynard’s invitation, and I’ve ignored him. Unlike my shark of a brother, I’d rather live in so-called squalor than take anything from the manwho broke my mother and disowned me before I was born.
Thomas rounds the hallway, then stops cold at the sight of me and Asher engaged in a Mexican standoff. “Jesus,this again?” he growls. “Victoria, you were supposed to keep out of his way.”
“Believe me, Itried. It’s not my fault he’s like a bad case of the plague.”
“The plague is a bad case in and of itself,” Asher comments drolly. “Better work on your insults, intern. You’re starting to get lax.” He shoulder-checks me and disappears.
Thomas shakes his head at me. “You couldn’t manage it for evenone race…I’m starting to think this’ll only end with one of you killing the other. And if you kill our second driver before the season’s over, you’ll be in even deeper shit than you already are.”
I return to my cramped hotel room an hour later, buzzing with frustration. At myself for struggling so much with the algorithm, which has turned out to be a much more difficult project than I expected. At Asher for being an asshole. At the team for being so damn dysfunctional.
Ialmostdecide to skip out on the video call I have scheduled with Delilah and Keith, but it’s the first time I’ll be able to speak to them both at the same time in months, and I miss them. We’ve almost always had a long-distancefriendship, but the space separating us has felt like a chasm recently.
I order up the cheapest bottle of white wine on the menu, pour myself a big glass, and open the link to our video chat on my laptop.
Delilah and Keith are mid-argument about something when I hop on, their voices raised and hand gestures animated. Lilah, like always, is gesturing with a stack of papers and red pen. Keith holds a fifty-dollar mascara and eyelash curler.
I love my friends.
Keith is beautiful in the traditional, aristocratic sense. His features are so perfectly proportional he’s almost painful to look at. His lips are full and coated in a gloss, his hair is a light blonde and perfectly styled in attractive waves, and his gorgeous eyes glitter like precious emeralds.
“There you are!” he cries. “Can you please explain to our dear Delilah that there is absolutely nothing wrong with fucking her boss if it gets her a promotion?”
Dear god.I pick up my wine glass and swirl the sweet muscat inside. “Um… no.”
“Thank you,” Delilah says. “I should be filing a sexual harassment suit, not hopping into bed with him! Jesus, he’s asenior partner. He should know better than to proposition me.”
“You’re being short-sighted,” Keith argues. “You think I’ve never slept with a photographer to make sure they got the best shots of me? Or an editor to make a critical column into an idealizing one? Comeon,Lilah—”
“Stop.” Delilah holds up a hand. “You’re telling me things I can’tunhear, and this conversation is not covered by attorney-client privilege.”
Keith goes on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Why, I was just inside this lovely Russian podcaster this morning, and let me tell you, hegushedabout my talent and sung my praises during recording.”
I screw my fingers into my ears. I absolutelyadoreKeith—he’s hilarious, gorgeous, caring, and truly one of a kind—but his propensity for oversharing has caused me far too much trauma over the years.
“I’m going to sue you for sexual harassment if you don’t shut up,” I hear Delilah say primly, even through my plugged ears. “I donotconsent to hear about your sex life.”
“Since when? I recall a time when you were asking me to coach you on how to best go about a sloppy-toppy.”
“Fucking Christ.” I drop my hands and gulp my wine. I amfartoo sober for this conversation.
“I don’t think He would appreciate your commentary,” Keith says glibly. He unscrews his mascara and applies an extra coat to his eyes. “Delilah, my love, I’ll get back to talking sense into you in a moment—”
