“He will fall in line. He knows what’s at stake,” I promise. I truly believe that too. Just like I believe Damien is the right person for this job. Well, one of them. “Now who is going to back you up on this?”
"This guy is my recommendation," Henri says and turns his phone screen to face me. "He applied with our Marketing and Public Relations department last month, and we didn't hire him because he was ridiculously overqualified for the job, but I kept his resume. He used to own his own firm. Bullet Proof PR."
I lift my eyebrows. “That firm out of New Zealand? The one that worked with—”
“Every actor with a successful comeback story. Every rock star with a successful rebirth. Every brand with a successful rebrand. Yeah. He owned that firm. And it was Australian.Heis Australian.”
I look at the headshot on the web page Damien is showing me. The guy looks to be a little older than Gabriel, but not much. He's clean-cut with an intelligent glint in his eye. Axel Walsh. "Damien, your thoughts?"
"He's a fit. He needs the money if he's applying for entry-level jobs," Damien replies. "He doesn't have a record. I checked. And he's openly gay."
“He sounds perfect. So what happened to his company? Did he sell?”
“His business partner left, took the clients. It was ugly,” Henri informs me. “I’m not sure why the clients willingly left, but here is something I do know — he is good friends with Billy James. So he knows the sport, somewhat.”
Billy James is a driver on a European team called Mirabella Racing. Billy and the rookie Grady Lewis on the Larue team are the only drivers who are friends with Gabriel. Well, friends might be a stretch, but I've seen them talking to him. Willingly.
"Interesting…" I stare out the window as the dirty streets and gleaming towers blur by. "Set up a meeting with him for me, please. As soon as possible."
"Already done. He's meeting us at the Paris office tomorrow at ten," Henri says, closing his laptop.
"And you still think the relationship thing is how we should go?" I question because I am second-guessing everything about this now.
“Yeah. I’m positive it’s the right path,” Henri replies confidently.
“Axel might have some ideas of his own we haven’t yet considered,” Damien adds. “And that’s the type of guy we need. Someone who knows the game and can think on his feet. I like your son, Louis, but he is a wild card.”
“I will not argue there,” I confess. Gabriel’s passion is one of my favorite things about him, but it tends to make him moody and unpredictable.
“But I’m confident if we get this Walsh guy on board, he’ll help this whole thing calm down quicker than anyone else. Maybe even quicker than Henri.”
"Pft!" Henri makes the quintessential sound of a pissed-off Frenchman.
I smile for the first time since Gabriel’s troubles began. Because I feel like there might be a light at the end of the tunnel that isn’t an oncoming train. And it’s Axel Walsh.
1AXEL
This is my break.The miracle I’ve been looking for. The light at the end of a very long tunnel. A tunnel I threw myself in. Because I’m an idiot who falls for shady, selfish assholes. I shake off that last thought and play with my cufflinks for the millionth time.
I want to check the time but I don’t wear a watch and I’m scared that if I pull out my phone, they’ll walk in at that exact moment and I’ll look like an asshole. So I twist my cufflink instead and try to stay calm. I don’t know what job they’re offering me but unless it’s head clothing designer or bathing suit runway model, I am confident I’m qualified.
I built a PR company from the ground up. I went from making seventeen thousand my first year to one point four million last year. I did that. No matter what Eric tells people, I know it was all me. And yeah, Allard Couture is an already established, billion-dollar mega-brand, but I can put out mega-fires.
The door to the room opens and a tall, slender man in an Allard suit walks in with a cool smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Walsh.”
I stand and lean forward to shake his hand across the table as a shorter, rounder man in a different Allard suit walks in. “Hi. Damien Fischer. I’m head of legal.”
“Oh and I’m Henri Boutin,” the first guy, whose voice I recognize as the one who arranged the interview, says. “And this is Louis Allard.”
Before I can register what’s happening the man who built the company saunters into the room, closing the door behind him. He turns and greets me with a warm, but brief smile and extends his hand. “Bonjour. I’m Louis. Please have a seat.”
I am going to faint. Louis Allard is interviewing me? It’s like applying for a job at the White House and having the President interview you. I am not prepared. And I am most certainly not prepared for the next thing that happens.
“So listen, Axel,” Damien says, dropping his elbows onto the table. “We have a unique situation. And you might be the right fit.”
And then, Damien the lawyer, asks me to sign a non-disclosure form. Which I do without even reading because I know how this business works. I have to pretend this never happened, this meeting, or I get sued. Fine. But why? Why is there an NDA at a job interview?
My question gets answered as Damien takes the signed form back and launches into a story I’ve heard at least fifty times before. Rich guy gets accused of something inappropriate by a woman. Rich man denies wrongdoing. Woman sues. Only the name in this story is one I know. Gabriel Allard. Son of the man sitting across from me, an elite race car driver and also… a guy I once kissed.
