MATURITY CAN BE A BITCH
BILLY
Of course she’s already here even though her last Insta post was her in a tiny bikini on a yacht in Miami twenty-five minutes ago. I don’t know much about social media, Clara handles mine, so I don’t know how she did that. There must be a timer-thingy on Instagram or something. I would ask if I cared, but I don’t. I hate social media and making a career off it seems like the seventh circle of hell to me. For Frankie, it seems to be a passion. That’s not something I can understand, and it pisses me off because for twenty-four amazing hours once, I felt like I got her. On every level. In ways, to this day, I still haven’t felt like I ‘got’ anyone else.
At the other end of the hotel bar, Frankie glosses those perfect, plump lips as a server puts a fruity looking drink down in front of her. Clara gives my elbow a little nudge with hers. “Stop being a brat.”
“I haven’t said a damn thing yet,” I reply.
Clara smiles. “You do your best bratting with your face, Billy. You don’t have to say a word.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just go over and talk to her.Civilly,” Clara orders, giving my arm another little nudge.
“I’m not here to talk to Frankie. I’m here to talk to Bash,” I correct and fold my arms across my chest. “He asked me to see him before the party, remember?”
Clara lifts one of her jet black eyebrows. “You think it’s smart to ignore the boss’s daughter?”
She says that sentence slowly, over enunciating every word like a kindergarten teacher working with a particularly slow five-year-old. She only does that when she thinks I’m being pig-headed. Like I’m too stupid to understand her words at full speed. When we were younger, it used to annoy the hell out of me, but since she started working with me after getting her kinesiology degree, I’ve come to realize when she talks like this, she’s usually right. Maturity can be a bitch.
I run a hand through my hair. I’m sure it’s disheveled, but it tends to look like that on purpose anyway, so no big deal. I refold my hand across my designer button down which is paired with some jeans. It’s as close to business attire as I like to get. Although, tonight for Bash’s birthday party, I’ll put on a full suit.
Frankie, at her tiny table by the window overlooking one of San Sebastian’s stunning beaches, is dressed for fun. She’s in a tiny, flouncy little, pale pink, backless sundress and shimmering flats with straps that wrap around her tiny, tanned ankles. Her thick, wavy hair that gets her endorsement deals with one of the biggest hair product companies in the world is swept up in the back with a few pieces left loose to frame that perfect oval face with the wide, sparkling eyes and the full mouth that makes any straight man’s dick twitch.
Yeah. She’shot. Hotter than my tires at the end of a race. Clara gives me one more nudge. “She’s looking at you, dumb ass. How can you be staring right at her and not see that?”
I blink and realize Frankie Castera is, indeed, staring at me. The bright blue straw from her drink resting gently on her full bottom lip. I don’t answer Clara because I don’t think she’d appreciate the truth, which is, ‘I was picturing my dick slipping between those perfect lips, so I wasn’t actually focused on what my eyeballs were seeing.’
I leave Clara at the hotel bar entrance and wander over to Frankie’s table. Her eyes never leave me. They never flicker with uncertainty or worry or caution. Those big, hazel eyes, shimmering with flecks of amber and moss, are stone cold. Emphasis on the cold. I’ve never asked this woman why she started to hate me, but I always thought it was excessive if it was just about a missed date. We were kids… right? Last night’s clip has finally given me some insight, I think. I guess it’s finally time to find out.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says airily.
“You think I’d miss Bash’s birthday?” I say with a lazy smile.
“I guess not.” She shrugs. “Well, see you there.”
She smiles, but it’s as cold as the look in her eyes. Frankie’s been throwing me the deep freeze for a decade, and I’ve never tried to thaw her out. But today is the day. I pull my hands from my pockets, yank out the chair across from her, and sit down. That gets a reaction. A blink. Better than nothing. “He’s been blowing up my phone all morning. Wants to see me as soon as possible. Know why?”
“Do I look like my father’s personal assistant?” She’s flippant and trying to blow me off, but she’s also smiling. It sets the hair on the back of my neck on end. Frankie Castera doesn’t smile around me. Ever. “Anyway you just missed him. He left with Adelaide.”
I lean forward. My hand, flat on the table, slides closer to hers, which is next to her glass. She pulls her hand off the table like she’s scared if she doesn’t I might touch it. “You know something. And you want to tell me,” I say and pull her glass to me. I lift it and take a sip from the straw that was between her pretty little lips a second ago. And then I almost spit. “What the fuck is this?”
“Shirley Temple.“
“What are you? Six?” Okay, maybe not the right words to end this deep freeze.
She stands. “Bye Billy.”
She swooshes by me, leaving a scent of something dark and delicious in her wake. I’ve never known what her perfume is, but I’ve always fucking reacted to it. In my veins. I hook her elbow before she can escape, and she spins so quickly that I know she expected it. “I saw your interview thing on Instagram.”
“I didn’t give an interview to Instagram.”
“I don’t know the exact lingo for all the crap you do, but one of the sports feeds has a video of you talking about drivers,” I tell her, trying not to sound as exasperated as I am about this whole conversation. Maybe sorting this out will finally make it easy to communicate with her again, like it was that night. “The thing where you say race drivers are greedy and aggressive.”
“You’re man-handling me,” Frankie says. “Exhibit A.”
“Honey if I was man-handling you, you’d be enjoying it,” I retort and I don’t let go of her arm. “I also heard you say you think all drivers would only be interested in you to get to your dad. And get a spot on his team.”
