Clarke can’t think. Can’t take a deep breath without feeling him inside her. Can’t process anything other than the ghost of his fingers on her wrist, at her throat, between her legs, in her hair, or feeling his actual fingers kneading the muscles of her ass, spreading her apart so he can see where she’s split open around him.
“Let’s call it a race,” she manages, proud of herself when the words come out at all regardless of how breathless they are. “First to the finish line?”
Julian laughs. It shakes his whole body, and Clarke’s, too. “You already had a warm-up lap! That doesn’t seem fair.”
Clarke gets her forearms under her and rolls her hips, drawing a long groan out of Julian. “Then you’d better catch up.”
47
The FIC voids Julian’s lasttwo wins.
Julian gives all the right sound bites about accepting the FIC’s decision, understanding Chronicle needs to be penalized for Val’s actions, and being glad he’s allowed to keep racing this season at all, but they’re delivered with a scathing undertone you’d have to be completely dense not to pick up on (naturally, Silver Sight quotes Julian without any connotative indicators). He’s angry. He hates what Val did, and he hates the impact of it, and everyone can tell (except Silver Sight).
Clarke gets it. Both the individual and team trophies were in his sight last week; now they’re on the verge of being unattainable for yet another season, through no fault of his own. Clarke can read his anger in the messages he sends while she and Rhynn are rapid-fire negotiating a contract with Lennox’s people; she can hear it during their quick calls at the end of the day; she can see it when she spots him down the pit lane in Abu Dhabi on Thursday.
“When I ran into him in the hall of the hotel this morning and asked how he was, he said, ‘Awesome, thanks,’ like he was imagining dangling me under his ship and flying around the city until I bashed into enough buildings that I’d never ask questionsagain,” Thierry comments, coming to stand at Clarke’s side. One garage up, Julian and Graham are talking at the edge of Chronicle’s box. There’s too much noise coming from Martian Motors, between Chronicle and Enclave in paddock order, to make out anything they’re saying, but it looks tense.
Clarke should say something likeI’m sure it wasn’t that bad, but it probably was. “You’d be pissed, too.”
“Of course I would, but I wouldn’t be pissed atme.Ihave never done anything wrong in my life, ever. I’d just say ‘Thanks for asking, man, shit’s been tough’ and pull me in for a hug.”
“When have you heard him talk like that?”
“That’s not important,” Thierry says loftily, then nudges her with his shoulder. “C’mon, Baz sent me to get you. He needs us upstairs for something in a few minutes.”
Baz is Enclave’s social media guy, their Sara equivalent. Clarke’s been introduced to several hundred Enclave employees over the past four days and many of them have blurred together, but she’s spent almost as much time with Baz as she has with her core support team, taking advantage of the surge of support she’s received post-gala and the outpouring of enthusiasm for her move to Enclave to churn out high-performing content. Baz is excitable, smart, and (the most important characteristic, in Clarke’s book) seems genuinely excited to be gaining a job partner in Sara for next year.
He’s waiting for Clarke and Thierry in the small outdoor seating space attached to Enclave’s hospitality suite, cameras set out on the table in front of him. He ushers them into place, already talking like he has a quota of words he needs to use per minute.
“All right, guys, we’re doing a rapid-fire question-and-answer bit. Nothing too serious, just blurt out the first thing that comesto mind,” Baz says. “Everyone good? No questions? Okay, here we go. Clarke, what are you most looking forward to this weekend?”
“Getting back on the track,” Clarke says without missing a beat.
Thierry gasps, mock-offended. “Not racing with your best-friend-slash-new-teammate for the first time?”
“Why, is that whatyou’relooking forward to?” she shoots back.
“No, I’m obviously most looking forward to getting my second P1,” he sniffs.
Clarke doesn’t know Baz well yet, but she’s pretty sure the smile he’s got on is the one he uses when Clarke and Thierry go off-script in a way he thinks will play well. “Thierry, when’s the last time you talked to Umeko?”
“Uh, three minutes ago? She’s just downstairs. She’s still a reserve pilot. She still doesn’t think my jokes are funny.”
“Clarke, less than a week ago you were flying for another team. How have preparations for this race been?”
“Fast,” Clarke says, laughing. “Veryfast. There are so many people at Enclave who’ve been working incredibly hard to make this happen. Lennox, my new race engineer Hodge—”
“You’re doing it again,” Thierry interrupts.
“I am not,” Clarke scowls.
“You are,” Baz says. “It’s great, Clarke, very polite, but we want to just let you shine here, okay? So, again: How have preparations for this race been?”
Clarke wants to think about it and give an answer she’s vetted from all angles, but Bazdidsay to blurt out whatever her first instinct was. “Insane. Exciting. I keep feeling like a jerk for forgetting people’s names.”
“I’m Thierry,” Thierry volunteers.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Clarke says, snapping her fingers. “You’re in finance, right?”
