Page 59 of Out of Control

Not when I’m cuddled up beside him with his arm wrapped around my shoulders. We’re watching some oddly interesting documentary. Yet another unexpected surprise about Oliver Rossi—that he likes documentaries.

The conversation has been incredible. We’ve covered an array of topics from surface level things to the theoretical.

He continues to impress me with his knowledge. With the way he sees the world. With his command of what he wants. But there are a few things he switches topics on.

Any mention of his family is met with a sarcastic comment. “My parents are . . . my parents. Stuck in their ways. Married to jobs they don’t need. I know this because I’ve sent them plenty of money to make sure of that. They say they’re proud but who knows . . .”

Blair. His ex who was on again, off again during a ten-year span. “She was what I needed at the time, but we grew apart. I was a complete asshole. No excuses there, I was. I see that now. And someone loved her better. She deserves that because I didn’t.”

The perception of him. It’s our last topic as he drives me home late that night. “They can call me whatever they want, but they’ll sure as fuck be on their toes when I’m in their rearview mirror or racing beside them.”

“So you race dirty on purpose?”

“I race the way I race, Sofia. It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it? And even if I don’t race dirty, people perceive that I do so anytime there is a wreck, it’s my fault. People love a villain.”

“But you lean into it. Don’t you want people to know the real you?” I ask.

“No. It’s easier this way.”

“But why?”

He turns and looks at me. “Because you get sick of trying to show people the real you but not be believed. It’s easier to be what they think you are. You know all about that, don’t you?”

His words serve their purpose—to stop my line of questioning—and to maybe put me in my place.

I clearly hit a nerve.

“I still think you should let them see the real you,” I whisper but say nothing more as he makes the final few turns to the Navarro family home I’ve been staying at since I committed to the gallery space.

It was built in a crowd of luxurious homes at the base of the hills of Monaco. The drive may be windy and private, but that doesn’t stop the neighbors or their security from looking closely at the cars that drive down it.

And in a town full of extravagant cars, everyone knows the drivers and theirs.

I turn to look at Rossi through the darkness. I take in his profile—eyes, lips, expression—and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. The Navarro privilege in a town full of it? A spoiled rich kid? A woman with First World problems he never thought in his upbringing he’d be a witness to?

“Who else calls you Ollie?” I ask and get the faltered and puzzled response I was looking for. It’s the same look he gave me the first time I called him that.

“Why would you assume that?” He glances over to me.

“It’s just a hunch,” I shrug. “But something about the name softens you.”

“I am not soft.” He tsks but a smile curves one corner of his lips and tells me I’ve guessed right. “And if you ever tell anyone that I am, I’ll deny ever knowing you,” he teases and squeezes my thigh.

But I let the question die as we drive in silence.

“My nonna called me Ollie,” he says quietly with a reverence that’s almost tangible. “I hated the nickname with everything I had but somehow she took it, turned it into something good so that . . . when she called me Ollie, it felt like she loved me more than the whole world.”

“Oh.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth. “Why did you hate it?”

He gives a subtle shake of his head and doesn’t answer my question when he speaks. “It’s why I went to the music festival. She was my biggest cheerleader in all things—on and off the track. She’d passed away and I needed time to clear my head, to get lost in everything I wasn’t, before the season started.”

I rest my hand on top of his that’s on my thigh and squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s the cycle of life.” He shrugs it off but I know there’s a lot more than just the death of his beloved nonna.

“I—I won’t call you that anymore. I’m sorry—”

“No. I like it. It makes me smile.” He sighs as he takes a left. “And you’re right, it softens me. You soften me.”