25 Russia

25

RUSSIA

LATE SEPTEMBER

PHAEDRA

I’m in Sochi for race week, finally with the team again after a month of bullshit dealing with the business-y parts of the transition after Mo’s death. Also Aislinn guilted me into sticking around North Carolina longer, because she was worried Mama would think I have no use for them now that Dad is gone.

Some Russian government muckety-mucks (as Mo would’ve called them) are throwing a bash to ensure there will continue to be grands prix in Glorious Mother Russia. Invited: FIA bigwigs, drivers, team principals, and owners.

While many may assume a fancy ball universally appeals to women, I’d rather get dysentery. I had to go shopping yesterday with Nat, who insisted neither of the skirts I own would work. She bullied me into buying the strappy midnight-blue gown I’m currently wearing.

Even I know better than to pair Converse with this, so I’m in heels, which means I’m about as graceful as some flailing B-movie alien. It also explains why I’ve been parked at a table all evening, poking at a plate of food that probably cost enough to feed a Chechen village.

Cosmin is here, of course. I’ve never seen him in a tux before tonight, and he looks annoyingly fuckable. I’ve had too much to drink to deal with this fact. I’m attempting to enjoy caviar (and failing) when two long, bare woman’s legs stop beside my chair, and my first tipsy thought is Who let in the naked chick?

My eyes travel up. One side of my face unglamorously bulges with a mouthful of caviar and toast while I struggle to swallow.

Sage Sikora is wearing a friendly smirk and a dress that makes her look like a dominatrix—all straps and buckles. She pulls out the chair beside mine and sits, leaning an elbow on the table like a bored kid, and I love her already.

“All this shit they’re serving is nasty,” she says, flicking a hand at my plate. “Personally, I was hoping for tacos.”

I choke down the caviar and take a mouthful of the pricey wine, somehow managing not to swish it before swallowing, like the class act I am.

“Same.” I extend a hand to shake. “Phaedra Morgan, with Emerald. I’m kind of fangirling big time over you right now.”

“Aw, shucks,” she says as we clasp hands. “Thanks. And I know who you are. You’re not ‘with’ Emerald—you are Emerald. Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you.”

My throat tightens with the still-fresh grief, and I worry that a convo about my dad—combined with the bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild I’ve commandeered—might make me weepy and fuck up the eye makeup Nat so painstakingly applied.

I sweep one hand to indicate the crowd. “You figure about half these guys are Russian mafia?” I joke.

She wrinkles her nose and narrows a pair of mischievous, coppery-brown eyes. “They’d better not find out you’re on to them, or someone’ll poison your drink.”

“Ha! Why do you think I’m guarding it like I’m at a frat party?”

Sage laughs. Her dark-rooted, wavy hair is dyed aqua, piled on her head in a messy updo, and she has safety pin earrings. If she weren’t nearly a decade younger than me, I’d want to be her when I grow up. She has a neck tattoo , for fuck’s sake—a life-size peacock feather tipped with realistic-looking fire.

“You know I’m a fangirl of yours too, Boss Bitch,” Sage tells me with a chuckle, squeezing my knee. “You’re eternally my hero for smacking down the Coraggio team boss with that hilarious butt plug shade on social media last year.”

I lift my glass in a toast. “The snark heard ’round the world. It’ll outlive me.”

“And rumor has it you are or were fucking Cosmin Ardelean, and wouldn’t we all love to break off a piece of that snack.”

Her words are like a splash of ice water hitting my gut, but I give an indifferent shrug.

“Oh, you could break off your own piece—he’s historically promiscuous, and you’re like some gorgeous punk rock, racecar driver Bratz doll.” I grab an unused glass and pour her a generous serving of the Chateau Lafite. “Shoot a well-timed wink in his direction, and you’ll be playing seven minutes in heaven in the coat closet.”

She accepts the wine and takes a sip. “Over between you two, huh?”

“Yeah.” I pick up one of the toast points, then set it back down, sighing. “Still stings—I’m drunk enough to admit. But I have no claim on him, so don’t worry that I’m being territorial. Feel free to shoot your shot.”

Her face is compassionate, small full lips pushed into a sympathetic pout, dark brows together. She touches my knee again, and in my wine haze, I’m not sure she isn’t flirting.

“Tempting, but I don’t sleep with other drivers—that’d be crazy. If I hesitate a hundredth of a second because some jerkoff from a rival team has seen me naked, I might as well hang up my helmet.”

“Wise words, girlfriend. It’s why I got scraped off the pit wall.” I gulp the last few inches of wine and release a showy sigh as I set the glass down. “I’m not getting within one dick length of Ardelean again—I’d like my old job back.”

As if I’ve summoned Beetlejuice by saying his name, the man who essentially canned me and sent me home to North Carolina appears at the table.

“Miss Sikora,” Klaus greets my companion. “Lovely to see you. What a fetching ensemble.”

“ Miz ,” she corrects good-naturedly, giving him a once-over that seems to speak volumes. “And you’re looking pretty fly too, Franke. Nice suit… and everything in it.”

Holy balls, have they fucked? Is there anyone Klaus hasn’t sampled?

“Sage is making that shit-ass Li’l Rascals go-kart of Harrier’s look like a McLaren MP4/4,” I drawl pointedly.

His lips twitch in amusement. “Indeed.”

“If they have any sense, the team’ll jettison Valle and make Sage permanent, even after Valle’s femur heals from the snowboarding accident.” I squint one eye at Klaus. “Yooooouuu fucked up, buddy boy—you and Mo both. Coulda locked down this little lady like I recommended, but y’all passed like sexist twats.”

Definitely too much wine. I’m getting punchy, and just accidentally called my dead father a twat. Time to pack it in and go home, kids!

“You appear to have been satisfied with Cosmin’s performance nonetheless,” Klaus quips.

“ Ooh, touché ,” I whisper. “Ouch.”

I pour myself the last of the wine, holding the inverted bottle aloft until every drop trickles into the glass, then gulp it down two-handed like a toddler with a sippy cup. Sage and Klaus fall into light conversation, which I tune out.

I suck my lower lip and scan the room for a roving waiter—y’know, because I definitely need more booze—but don’t see one. Instead, I catch sight of Cosmin. He’s talking to some FIA douche who has a woman half his age clamped under one stout arm.

Standing near the trophy wife is a curvaceous blonde in a black-and-white gown. She’s riveted by Cosmin, twisting a lock of hair around one red-taloned finger, and it rolls over me like a dark cloud at a picnic that he’ll probably take that chesty penguin-looking floozy back to his hotel room and do all the things with her he used to do with me.

I hate her so much.

Would it cause a fatal stampede to the exits if she suddenly burst into flame?

Sage stands and extends a hand to shake goodbye with Klaus, and he gets all gallant and brushes his lips over her knuckles. I frown, which he completely misses. But Sage catches it. She looks worried, and damn my stupid drunk ass , she probably thinks I’m annoyed because of some weird jealousy.

In reality, it’s because I loyally want him to be sadder about missing out on Natalia rather than cavalierly trying to pull Sage.

Really, Klaus? Sage wasn’t good enough to offer an Emerald seat, but a seat on your lap is another story?

I mercifully don’t say my boozy thoughts aloud for once.

She holds out a hand to me to shake. “I hope we’ll get a chance to talk more.”

“Oh God, really? That’s a relief. I’m not usually this much of a disaster, I swear. Please don’t remember me as a drunk, trash-talking idiot. It’s been a rough few months.”

She pulls me into a hug. Near my ear, she murmurs, “Don’t let the fuckers get you down, queen honeybee. Keep ruling.”

She smells amazing, and part of my brain wants to make babies all over her. This woman is a triple threat—gorgeous, talented, smart. My arms tighten for a moment.

“Thank you,” I breathe into her hair. “I needed that.”

She touches my cheek before walking away.

I remember Klaus is still standing there. He raises one eyebrow and pulls my chair out, gesturing for me to sit. I can’t tell if he’s being courteous or bossy—the wine is making me paranoid, and I’m afraid I’m in trouble for something, though I haven’t even talked to Cosmin all night. I lower myself unsteadily to my chair.

Klaus unbuttons his jacket and sits, stretching his legs out. “Aside from in meetings, you seem to be avoiding me since your return.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I look into my lap, running a finger along a tuck in the silky fabric stretched over my legs. “I guess I have a bone to pick with you, Klausy.” My father’s nickname for him spills out, possibly surprising us both. “Your ‘will they or won’t they’ flirtation with my best friend—jerking Nat around for months—it not only hurt her , but it put me in an uncomfortable position. Whether you two had cooked up a romance or not, it meant I’d have to pick sides at some point, with two of the most important people in my life.”

His tone is cryptically smooth. “It wasn’t about you. And I was unaware it was subject to your blessing.”

“Wow.” Little nettles of frustration and embarrassment sting in my chest. “Okay, perfect. Thanks—good talk.”

Two unexpected tears fall to my lap. I watch the pattern with mathematical fascination as they bloom on the blue fabric.

Klaus sighs. He reaches for the front legs of my chair, just below my thighs, and pulls me closer, then tips my chin up with one finger. “Forgive me, Schatzi. I seem to be making every conceivable mistake, both with Talia and with you.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that he has a nickname for Natalia. A tiny smile flickers across my lips and fades. Yeah, I called it—they’re not done.

“The thing with Nat isn’t the biggest reason I’m mad at you though.” My throat tightens with awful emotion. “Why didn’t you come to the sea burial?” I demand in a rasp. “I needed you! I had to put him in the water , Klaus. In… the… fucking… ocean !”

He reaches for me and I do a wussy two-handed punch to push him away, but he ignores my flailing and pulls me to my feet, wrapping me in his arms. My body sags into him.

“You’re a coward!” I accuse, voice muffled against his jacket. “You weren’t there for me or for Mo, probably because you were afraid to see Natalia after treating her like shit.” I pull back, glaring. “And you said the thing with you and Nat ‘wasn’t about me’? Well guess what, dipshit? My dad’s burial wasn’t about you ! Maybe you could’ve—”

My words strangle off and I hide my face again, rubbing my cheek against Klaus’s suit and not giving a shit that I’m staining it with mascara.

“You’re not wrong—it was cowardly.” His arms tighten. “I’ll never forgive myself for failing you. I knew I would cry, and I was afraid for you and Talia to see me like that.”

Suddenly Cosmin is beside us, and the balm of his voice, that accent, is something I’ve been longing to hear, though he sounds angry.

“Why is she upset?” he demands of Klaus. “What did you say?”

I pull back and meet Cosmin’s eye. I know I look disgusting—my makeup’s ruined—but according to his expression, I might as well be a desert oasis spring spewing out Dom Pérignon and Bitcoin. Jesus Christ, if he really wanted to see me this badly, why has he been ignoring me all evening while he flirts with some fake-titted penguin?

“I’m just having a rough night,” I tell him. Sniffling, I survey him up and down. My gaze settles on his green pocket square. “Nice outfit. You look like a leprechaun’s pallbearer.”

Welp, I’m nothing if not consistent. Backhanded compliments: just add booze!

One corner of his scrumptious lips tugs upward. “Mul?umesc,” he says to me, and I’m sort of pleased with myself that I understand his “thank you,” simple as it is.

I grind a knuckle into one eye, and it comes away smudged black. “I need to sleep. I’m turning into a pumpkin on so many levels.”

Cosmin steps close, whipping out the pocket square and cradling the back of my head as he swipes under my eye. “No, the dress is quite flattering,” he assures me.

Oh God. He doesn’t get the pumpkin reference and thinks I’m saying I’m fat, and everything about this moment makes me simultaneously want to throw myself into his embrace and scuttle away like he’s plutonium.

Cosmin—damn him, why does he have to be so adorable?

I push his hands away, slow, like we’re underwater. “I’m gonna get a cab.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he insists.

I slide a look over at Klaus. “See you tomorrow.” I tilt a tired-but-sassy smirk at him. “Unless I fire you first. Asshole. ”

He mirrors my smile and does the gesture I’ve been waiting for— your head is above your heart —before giving a pleasingly deferential little bow and excusing himself.

When Cosmin walks me out to wait for a car, we don’t even talk. His arm is loosely around my shoulders, and the smell of him is driving me crazy. There’s a pulse between my legs making me want to climb him like a Wichita lineman shimmying up a telephone pole.

We reach the edge of the curb and stand quietly. Cosmin adjusts the white faux-fur jacket Natalia lent me, popping the collar to keep my neck warm, though it’s not really cold. The thrill of his fingers grazing my neck makes me almost whimper.

Please don’t kiss me good night, please don’t kiss me good night.

Oh fuck almighty—please kiss me good night.

The venue door behind us opens and closes, and as it does, a ripple of laughter leaks out, and I remember the blonde who was ogling Cosmin earlier. I sidestep away from him. A dark sedan turns into the drive and coasts around the curve—I’m pretty sure it’s my ride.

“Okey dokey,” I tell Cosmin, planting a hand on his chest and giving him a hearty pat. “See you at the paddock.”

He tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “It’s a pleasure to have you back.”

We stare at each other for too long, and the car glides up and stops at the curb. I deliver another pat, just as an excuse to touch him—I’ll admit it.

“Have a good rest of your evening. There’s a busty blonde in there clamoring to talk with you. A room full of women, really. You’ve got your pick.”

He shakes his head and places both hands on my cheeks, and holy shit he’s going to kiss me, and I might be even more excited than the first time it happened in Santorini.

But nope. He tilts my head down and grazes his lips against my forehead. Ugh, a pity kiss. Is anything worse?

He says with a melancholy smile, “When you’re not in the room, it may as well be empty, draga mea.” He looks down at my left hand, holding the green pocket square, and closes my fingers around it. “Keep that, please.”

In the dark of the car on the way back to the hotel, very discreetly, I reach under my dress and tuck the handkerchief into my panties, and a shiver tears through me.