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CHAPTER EIGHT

NICO

N ico sat waiting for them to finish setting up the lighting in the studio.

She sighed. Even though she’d had her usual dose of caffeine this morning, she felt tired. She hadn’t slept well.

After that coffee stunt, even sleep wasn’t a prick-free zone.

She kept dreaming about him. And it was always the same dream.

Her hair got stuck in his zipper. But instead of him disengaging it, he pulled her down and rolled her over, pinning her shoulders to the ground.

His eyes drifted down to her breasts, and it was as though there were some kind of direct connection like an on-off switch between his eyes, her nipples, and that arrogant grin.

Eyes on breasts—check. Nipples engaged—check. Arrogant grin blast off—check.

Rinse. Repeat. Check.

She sighed.

When her hair had gotten stuck like it had, she’d been close enough to smell him. She remembered that smell when her body was pressed into his while she’d checked his pockets and when she’d kissed him outside Drink and Dive—a woodsy, wildlife kind of scent—part cedar and part animal.

Why did you bend over just because he asked? And now that I think about it, he didn’t ask. You could have remained standing. Then he would have been forced to stand up.

Why did you let him put you in that position?

What position? Vulnerable?

No, not exactly. But, something.

She knew what the annoying, arrogant, asshole, prick was doing. He was trying to mess with her head. Undermine her racing before the season even started. Make her lose her confidence.

Just as I expected.

No, that wasn’t right. Not exactly.

He was doing what she’d expected. He just wasn’t doing it in the way she’d expected.

It was different than when they’d gone after each other on social media.

It feels different.

She stood up and began pacing.

At least the dream always ended where it did. That was a good thing. Any other man, and she might have preferred the dream not stop. But given it was that annoying, arrogant, asshole, prick, better it end before …

Before what?

Before he did … something.

Her phone buzzed. It was Charles.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Just waiting. We haven’t started yet.”

“Nervous?”

“A little. You know I don’t feel comfortable in front of a camera.”

Ping.

“What’s that?” Nico asked.

“My phone. Photos of your coffee run. One of them’s gone viral.”

Ping.

Viral?

And then Nico thought of the men dressed in those outfits.

I guess that makes sense.

“Why are you bending over Rocco Vittori while he’s sitting down?”

Someone took a photo of that?

Nico felt beads of sweat sprout above her upper lip. So what if someone took a photo? There was nothing interesting or special there.

So why did someone take a photo of it?

“Nico, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Uh. My hair got stuck in his zipper. He was trying to get it out.”

Charles laughed. “ Your hair? Got stuck in his zipper?” He paused. “How exactly did that positioning even come about? Him sitting down and you standing over him like that.”

“He wanted some sugar.”

“Well, well, well,” Charles chuckled. “Looks like he got it.”

“In his coffee, Charlemagne.” Nico huffed.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

“You should read some of these comments.”

“That’s not the one that’s gone viral?”

“It is. It’s sexy. You should take a look.”

Sexy?

“Damn it, Charles. This is your fault. It was your idea.”

“Oh”—he snorted—“so now you’re done blaming the brain floating in a vat of ginger ale in Brainerd and on to blaming me.”

“I thought it was a toss-up between Duluth and Brainerd.”

“No, it’s Brainerd. Brain-erd. Get it? Clever, no? In any case, just remember, you were all game to do this, Nico. You know you were. Besides, given some of the comments from those socket slingers, gasket gurus, and suspension sensei you’ll be working with, sounds like it was a big success.”

Ping.

“Who?”

“You know, the guys who put the car together and make sure everything’s humming, those wrench wranglers and spark plug samurai.”

“You mean mechanics and engineers?”

“Right.” Charles paused. “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Rocco’s not doing the photoshoot with you, is he?”

“No! Thank God!”

“What are you wearing for the shoot?”

“My racing suit. Why?”

“I believe those suits have zippers, in which case—”

“Stop right there. If the next word out of your mouth is hair or zipper, Charlemagne, I swear—”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about hair and zippers.”

“Oh, really? Well, that’s good because I forbid you to ever utter the word hair in conjunction with the word zipper within my earshot. Ever again.” She paused. “And if you weren’t going to say something about hair and zippers, what were you going to talk about?”

“Nothing.”

“No, you were going to say something until I stopped you.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to ask you something.”

“Oh really,” Nico said, rolling her eyes, knowing full well Charles was lying. “What were you going to ask me?”

There was a moment of silence before Charles spoke.

“I was going to ask you what you think the universe is made up of.”

“You were not. There’s an easy answer to that.”

“Oh, really? What is it?”

“Well, matter—molecules, atoms, that sort of thing.”

“Uh-uh.”

“What do you mean, uh-uh?”

“Only five percent of the universe is made up of atoms, according to astronomers.”

“How do you know?”

“I read it somewhere. I can’t remember where.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the other ninety-five percent made up of?”

“That’s the question. Maybe dark matter or energy, they don’t really know.”

“And you thought I might.”

“It was worth a try. You want to know what I want to know?”

Not really, but I’m certain you’re going to tell me.

“What exactly are these astronomers doing with their time? It’s the twenty-first century, and they’ve only come up with five percent of the answer?

” He paused. “Now that is a real concern. But as for you getting your whatchamacallit stuck in the thingamajig of the annoying, arrogant, asshole, prick …”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told me not to say the H-word or the Z-word. HZ-Gate is forbidden.”

“HZ-Gate?”

“Do you really want me to spell it out? You told me you didn’t want me to say those dirty words. But I will do so, for clarification. Hair-Zipper-Gate. You know, like Watergate. Wiggate. Pantygate. Nutellagate.”

“You made that last one up.”

“I did not. It was a big scandal at Columbia University—widespread theft of Nutella from the dining halls by students.”

“I don’t really get Nutella.”

“I don’t either. It’s supposed to be chocolate.”

“But it’s not.”

“Exactly! Now there’s the real gate!”

There was a moment of silence.

Nico sighed. “Okay, just forget about HZ-Gate. I’m just glad I’m doing this photoshoot alone. That man is trying to mess with me. I don’t even want to think about what it’s going to be like once we hit the track … He’s so freaking competitive.”

“Not unlike someone else I know.”

“I am not that bad.”

Nico waited for a response, but Charles was unusually silent.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”

“I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, Charlemagne.”

Nico sighed as she grabbed her purse. If she had a manager, a Dario of her own, then they might have talked some sense into her before she pulled that stupid stunt.

She opened her purse and tossed her cell phone in.

There it was. That damn letter.

Why did she insist on carrying it around with her?

You know why. You have to read it. But what you really want to do is throw it away or burn it. Act as though there were no letter. But you can’t do that. You can’t go to Italy without knowing what’s in that letter.

She stared at the postmark on the envelope before quickly shutting her purse and tossing it on the chair beside her.

Mickey hadn’t contacted her in years. Why now? He must know she finally made it to Formula 1. If he didn’t know when he’d written the letter, he certainly knew by now.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she had a Dario who could manage Mickey for her?

Was there such a person? Then again, to do that they’d have to know about Mickey.

They’d have to know about her past. They’d have to know about Uncle Jack and Aunt Milly—grifters who’d taken off with her when her grandfather had dropped dead of a heart attack.

They’d have to know how she’d helped them con people.

They’d have to know about how she’d run off with Mickey and what she’d done with him.

Thinking about it made her feel as though the oxygen surrounding her had suddenly been sucked into a vacuum.

She drew a deep breath. That’s why she was better off without a manager. She could manage things. She’d been on her own a long time now and had a lot of practice. Look how far she’d come. She’d done all right.

“You ready?” the photographer’s assistant said, standing in the doorway.

Nico nodded and followed her into the studio.

“You’re gorgeous!” Celeste said. “Why don’t you ever do your hair and makeup like this? You look like an exotic Italian actress.”

Nico smiled but felt silly being done up so glamorously given she was wearing her racing suit.

At least she’d be doing the photoshoot alone.

She wasn’t comfortable in front of the camera.

If she were standing next to Rocco Vittori, she felt certain once the magazine staff looked at the photos, they would want to cut her out.

Celeste’s expression changed from bubbly to serious.

“I have to tell you something. Two things actually. First, this photographer doesn’t like his subjects to remain silent during the shoot.

So, he’ll ask you questions. I think he thinks it puts people at ease.

Or brings out their true self for the camera to capture. Something like that. The other thing—”

“Okay, Celeste, come on now,” the photographer said. “I want to get started.”

Celeste glanced from him and back at Nico, hesitating. “I’ll tell you when he has to change rolls. It’s no big deal.”

What’s no big deal? wondered Nico. Usually when people said that, the something they were referring to was very much a big deal.

The photographer’s assistant positioned Nico in front of the lights and the camera.

“What makes a girl want to race?” the photographer asked.

Nico blinked. The question had caught her off guard.

“And I say girl,” he added, “because I figure you raced karts as a kid. So, what makes a woman want to race?”

Do they ever ask men that question?

“I imagine what makes a boy or man want to,” Nico said.

He nodded. “Sex, money, and an easy hard-on?”

Nico laughed. “Something like that.”

“It doesn’t frighten you?”

She hesitated.

“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 is speed, 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 .