“That’s not what I meant.” She grabs his wrists when he reaches for her, well aware that he’s letting her stop him. He’s leashing his strength at her request, and the feel of him flexing under her grip is intoxicating. “We’refriends, Julian.”
“And that’s enough for you? Being friends?” He might be allowing her to hold him at bay, but that doesn’t stop himdevouring her with a gaze that sends delicious licks of flame across her skin. “I’d hate to think that I was leaving you…unsatisfied.”
It occurs to Clarke in this moment that Julian’s never really tried to seduce her before. They’ve flirted, sure, with varying degrees of intent, but she’s never actually been on the receiving end of Julian Casperi going after what he wants. It’s very nearly overwhelming, a full-body experience even though they’re barely touching, and it takes every ounce of willpower she has not to give in.
She’s not ready for this. Not ready for him. It would ruin them, if Clarke let this thing between them reach critical mass before she could come into it on equal footing and with a clear conscience.
“What would satisfy me is knowing I have a future in racing,” she says, letting the frustration of the reality she’s facing douse the sizzle. Gods, she’s sick of rationalizing disappointment. “You’re the Galilean Golden Boy, and I’m nowhere, with no good options. If you and me got together, and then I got a seat somewhere, everyone would say I got it because you called in a favor.”
“So let them say it! We’ll know it’s not true.”
“Perception matters in this sport. It’s why we’re here, pretending!”
Julian shifts from fire to stone. He takes a step to the side and carefully plants his palms on the table. “Are you still pretending?”
His voice is tinged with uncertainty and hurt, and Clarke can’t let that stand. She puts her hand over one of his on the table. “No, of course not. This is real. But I can’t give you more of me, not when I’m already giving so much away to everyone else.”
“I’m hearing ‘not yet,’ ” Julian says. He turns his hand over and threads their fingers together. “I’m not hearing ‘no.’ Is that—are you—”
“Clarke?” Julian and Clarke both jump, heads snapping toward the tent flap. Sara’s standing there, eyes averted. “Sorry, but we need to go. We’re going to be late to team dinner.”
Clarke slides off the table, glad for the excuse to leave before she had to answer what Julian was about to ask. She doesn’t know what she’d say. Julian is forever just putting it all out there verbally, but Clarke’s always been better with actions than words.
The tent flap falls shut behind Sara. On impulse, Clarke presses up onto her toes and pulls Julian into a hug. His arms come up to wrap around her lower back, and she feels his body relax in increments.
There’s comfort here, with her face tucked against his neck. There’s a promise of more, in the way he holds her close. There’s a wild urge to kiss him, when she reluctantly pulls away and his jaw skims past her cheekbone.
“I’ll see you on the track tomorrow,” he says quietly as she steps out of his reach.
A small, wry grin creeps onto Clarke’s face. “I’llbeatyou on the track tomorrow.”
He gives her a playful scowl and puts his fingers on the clasp of his pants. “Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave.”
Clarke blushes, giggles, and flees.
30
Another race, another mechanical failure.
Naomi finds Clarke in her prep room, after. “You’ve been tapped for press.”
Clarke looks up from where she’s been chucking things at the couch as hard as she can to try to vent her feelings so she can survive debrief without screaming or crying. Possibly both. “Why?”
There’s no reason for the press to want to talk to her. Her yaw control, which allows her to turn the nose of her ship left or right, stopped working halfway through the race. The technical team, to absolutely no one’s surprise, thinks it was secondary to shimmy. Clarke compensated with pitch and roll as best she could, but couldn’t keep any sort of competitive pace. She finished fifteenth.
She should be proud of her personal performance. She managed her ship. She kept her head. She pushed through the lingering pain from Tempe Terra. She got across the finish line, got a point. Julian didn’t. Neither did Delphine. They crashed into each other. No injuries, but their ships couldn’t continue.
She’s not proud. She is violently, abrasively frustrated.
Naomi is not impressed by either Clarke’s flat delivery or theminor destruction she’s wreaked in the ten minutes since getting out of her ship. “I don’t know. Fix your face. Let’s go.”
Fix her face?Clarke will fixNaomi’s face, with herfist—hey, there’s an idea. Maybe Julian can get Clarke one of those boxing droids to keep in her prep room.
She messages him to ask on the way over. He’s frustrated, too, his discontent over his DNF only offset by the fact that Delphine is coming away from this weekend with no points, either, and writes back that he’ll have it delivered for next week’s race.
I’m happy for Engel, at least, he adds.And Thierry, holy shit. Tell him congrats from me when you see him?
Clarke smiles, ducking her chin to her chest so no one will get pictures of her being inappropriately cheerful. Julian’s teammate took second, and Thierry—Thierry fucking Allaire, twenty years old, in his rookie season—won his first F0 race today. The happiness is a breath of fresh air she desperately needs, walking into this press conference.
