Damien turns to me. “Why aren’t they talking about you? That’s the whole point of this charade. If they’re asking about you, they aren’t asking about her.”
“They should be asking about his driving,” I remind everyone but no one seems to care about that. “He’s doing better every race.”
“You need to handle this, Axel,” Louis informs me sharply so I know this isn’t up for debate. “Talk to him. He clearly isn’t listening to me anymore.”
Louis actually looks hurt when he says that. I watch him pace in the small space, his hands running absently over the front of his Allard Couture sport coat. He looks his age for the first time since I met him. He's sixty if his Wikipedia profile is to be believed, but he barely looks fifty, until now. Yes, his hair is salt-n-pepper but the salt part is a stunning, bright silver color. And unless he's upset, like now, his skin is smooth, wrinkle-free except for the crow's feet when he flashes a smile equally as mischievous as his son’s.
I feel for him. I know he’s just trying to make his only child’s life easier and his dream a reality. I clear my throat and nod. “I’ll handle it.”
I step out of the room without another word and cross the small corridor to Gabriel’s dressing room. The only person in there is his trainer, Enzo, who is packing up. “He left. Said he would stretch in the hotel sauna before the flight to Vegas tonight.”
I nod and move to the stairs to head down and find my car and driver so I can catch Gabriel before his steam. But I only make it to the bottom of the stairs before Damien calls my name. He comes marching down after me, his expression stern. "Listen, you have to do more."
“I’m on my way to Gabriel right now to make sure future interviews go more smoothly,” I tell him and swallow down the frustration building in me. I’ve decided, over the last ten days, I don’t like Damien much. He’s been with Allard Couture for over a decade and clearly Louis has no issue with him. But I find him abrasive and smug and his solution to all of the Allard business problems seems to be to spend money to make someone else handle it. He, himself, doesn’t seem to handle much of anything except the perks of the job—free travel, hotels, and dinners.
“Not that shit. I mean, yeah, fix that, but you have to get your little relationship out there in a big way. Fast,” Damien warns, and his wide mouth presses into a firm line as he glares at me.
“We are pretty damn public,” I remind him. “It’s not my fault the cameras don’t catch it.”
“Then fuck him on his damn car if that’s what it takes,” Damien argues, his head tipped toward me and his voice low so that any Mayflower staff wandering by doesn’t overhear.
“PDA is fine but I’m not whoring myself out,” I snap.
He rolls his eyes like I’m an overdramatic teenager. “You need to figure out a way to sell it better, without compromising your precious morals, because this isn’t working fast enough. And if it isn’t working, I will tell Louis to cut his losses.”
“I’ll make it work,” I promise, forcing my voice to stay calm and assured instead of bitchy and bitter, which is really how I want to sound.
Damien makes it worse by adding, "It's Allard's reputation on the line here. Yours is already in the shitter. This is your chance at redemption and you're only getting one. You want to leapfrog everyone into the director position, I need to see this working. Fast. Or else we can hire an external firm. Like Fast Fix."
Fast Fix. Wow, Damien went from verbally sparing to punching below the belt with that one. Fast Fix is the name of the public relations and brand management company my ex started last year when he walked out on me.
I inhale and it's shaky, but I refuse to acknowledge that threat. I really fucking hate Damien and that's just more reason to get this job done right. So I can leapfrog, as he put it, and get the hell away from him, and get my life back on track.
I walk out the paddock doors, promising through gritted teeth that I will get the job done.
Now to find Gabriel and convince him, because that’s who this hinges on.
10GABRIEL
AmI surprised when the sauna door opens and Axel steps inside the small, dark, humid room? Nope. I figured they’d send him. Actually—correction—I knew they would sendsomeone. I hoped it would behim.
He stands in front of me, barefoot but fully dressed, which is so absurd I smile. "You're probably violating some kind of hotel policy. I don't think they allow you in here with all those clothes on. It might even be a safety hazard."
“Oh well,” Axel replies and folds his arms across that broad, sculpted chest of his. I don’t know how often he works out, but it must be a lot because the man is all lean, sculpted muscle. “You need to stop throwing tantrums with shitty reporters. You’re feeding into their image of you as a selfish, spoiled rich kid who gets away with murder. And assault.”
Wow. He came out swinging. All-business Axel is hot, by the way. Five stars. Highly recommend. Almost makes me want to be a bigger brat next presser. Except I know if I don’t listen to him, my father might step in, so I guess I should listen. Still, right now there’s no harm in playing. I lean back, spreading my arms across the sleek wood bench. “So, how do you propose I handle it when all they want to ask about is the fact they think I’m a predator instead of the fact that I am starting in the points regularly now?”
Things did not go well with the media after qualifying. The same reporter who came at me the other day, who I found out is called Nico Hilliard, came at me again. And I snapped, again. Axel stares hard as if waiting for me to answer my own question because it's that obvious. Then he rolls his dark, delicious eyes and tells me the answer he wants to hear. "If you have questions that pertain to off-track events please consult my lawyer. But I can tell you anything you need to know about the race. The qualifying session. The practice. Insert whatever stupid part of F1 events here.”
His voice was amusingly bright during that little speech, which makes the scowl on his face all the more jarring. Axel gives good annoyed parent face. I nod slowly, my eyes watching the perspiration bead on his forehead. “I’m not sure I get it. Repeat that, just so it sinks in, please?”
The glare ratchets up. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I lift an arm off the bench and motion toward him. “Maybe you should take your clothes off. Before you melt into a puddle.”
“I’m not staying.”
"You should. Saunas are great for detoxifying," I explain and let my smile finally play on my lips. "And you definitely seem to need to let the toxins out."
He hisses out a ‘fucking hell’ and then his gaze gets less annoyed and more…serious. “I thought you gave a shit about this career. Am I wrong?”
