“You’re fearless,” he said, “is that it?”
“No. Of course not. I have fears like anyone else. I’m afraid of death and being injured just as any sane person would be.” She cleared her throat. “It’s just there are other fears, but they’re not there when I’m behind the wheel. Or at least they don’t seem present at the moment.”
Shit. Now he’s going to ask what other fears? Say something. Quick.
“I grew up racing,” she said. “My happiest moments were when I was racing.”
She swallowed.
When it was taken from me and I thought, along with my grandfather, I’d lost it forever, it wasn’t a case of me wanting it back. I needed it back. It was the same thing as needing me back.
Not that. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Say. That.
“I just need it,” she quickly added. “I guess you could say, I have a need for—”
“If the next word out of your mouth isspeed,this photoshoot is over.”
She burst out laughing. “No, I wasn’t going to say that.”
She heard the door open and shut. Celeste must have stepped out. It was so quiet. Only the photographer and her.
And that camera.
She was suddenly so aware of that black lens, she couldn’t see anything beyond it. It seemed absent of all light, and yet she felt as though it were a window—and one too large into her past. Any answer she gave would only prompt more questions, pushing that window open wider still, until … She shuddered, but only on the inside, steeling her body to remain still.
Like anyone who was practiced in the art of lies, she knew the best ones were those that held an ounce of truth. And an ounce of truth was all she was willing to give.
Don’t lie. You’re through with lying. Tell enough to tell the truth but not enough to tell the whole truth.
CHAPTER NINE
ROCCO
Rocco stared at her.
She looked. Different. And yet. The same.
It’s her eyes. There’s something about her eyes.
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” the photographer said. “I guess it’s just the mindset of a Formula 1 driver baffles me. All the work, the time, the sweat, and the tears you have to put into becoming one of only twenty drivers in the world to get in—what is it—seventeen hundred, eighteen hundred, give or take, pounds of metal and send yourself hurtling around a track at over two hundred miles per hour? I always wonder why they do it. What drives them to do it?”
“It’s hard to put into words. There’s this quote, I don’t know who said it. ‘Speed has never killed anyone …’”
Rocco knew the quote. He recited the rest of it along with her silently in his mind.
“‘Suddenly becoming stationary … That’s what gets you.’”
The camera flashed. She blinked.
The photographer turned toward the door. “Ah,” he said, spotting Rocco. He raised his hand. “Good. You’re here. I see you’re suited up. Ready to go?”
Rocco nodded before glancing over at Nico. The light was shining in her eyes. She held up her hand in an attempt to shield them.
“Okay, Rocco,” the photographer said, “get up there.”
“What are you doing here?” Nico demanded when he came out from behind the light.
“The same thing you are.”
