5 Bahrain

5

BAHRAIN

PHAEDRA

This isn’t a good morning for Ardelean’s bullshit. I was already half wrecked when I arrived at the track for Saturday qualifying.

My dad is currently getting a CT scan of his brain because the headaches are worse. When he admitted he was having nausea and balance problems, I flipped out and insisted he go to the doctor.

He grew up a Carolina country boy and thinks the way to deal with illness is to ignore it. He’s also worried about rumors reaching the team’s sponsors. It practically took a cattle prod to get him on a flight to Switzerland yesterday, but I did it.

Only Klaus and I know why Mo isn’t here, and the tension is breaking me.

I flip down the mic on my headset. “What the actual fuck is Cos doing?” I rest one hand over my mouth, watching the monitors, brow furrowed.

Yeah, Cosmin appears to be letting Owen Byrne in the Team Easton car slipstream him.

I bend the mic back up.

“Cosmin,” I say. My tone should be enough, but he doesn’t reply.

I glance at Lars. His expression is apprehensive, as if he’s more worried about the tense interaction between Cosmin and me than our driver’s maverick behavior.

“Cosmin,” I repeat, stronger. “ Don’t give Byrne a tow.”

“Copy.”

I wait as they navigate through a chicane and surge back onto the straight, but Cosmin doesn’t shake Byrne. Is he offering his struggling buddy an advantage or just doing this to annoy me?

My jaw hard, I shoot a wide-eyed look over at Klaus, both wanting and not wanting him to step in and speak to Cosmin over the radio himself. He tends to stay off the comms unless there’s a very serious reason. His face is impassive, but I suspect this is a test. And I’m failing.

“Are you seeing this?” I snarl defensively, now mad at both Cosmin and myself for looking like I can’t manage him. “If the guy offered a bigger invitation to get fucked, I’d suggest Byrne buy him dinner first! He. Has. To. Listen. ” I chop one hand against the opposite palm.

Klaus moves to my side to drop an arm around me, then eases off my headset.

“Eyes are on you, Schatzi,” he says near my ear, giving my shoulders a squeeze as he leads me away from the pit wall.

It’s loud next to the track, so we can’t really talk, but there’s a visual language we easily convey, knowing each other so well.

Sorry , I mouth.

He taps his wrist, jerks a thumb over his shoulder, points between the two of us: We’ll talk about it later. I nod, then lift my palms in further apology. He replies with a familiar gesture: taps his chest, levels a flat hand and raises it like an elevator, then taps his forehead.

Your brain is above your heart.

He knows my quick temper, and for years has given me this reminder that I must stay on top of my emotions trackside.

And so my brain plants one boot on my heart and one farther south, where warning earthquakes rumbled last night after I woke up dreaming about Cosmin.

“And in addition to his insubordination,” I complain to Klaus over dinner, “Ardelean is one big swaggering mixed message in a personal sense. He should have the integrity to be a consistent piece of shit—if I could unilaterally hate him, it might actually make our communication problem easier. I’d know what to expect!”

My pasta primavera is untouched, I’m talking so much. In the eight years we’ve worked together, Klaus has listened to me bitch about work, family, men, sexism. Tonight he makes his way through his usual meal of fish and steamed vegetables—knife and fork moving with surgical precision—as I unload, first about my worry over Dad, and now Cosmin.

“One minute,” I continue, “he’s acting like a gross horndog, or being a stubborn dick who won’t listen to his race engineer , and then he’ll turn around and pull some saintly crap like the thing with the drunk girl or helping that lost kid in Melbourne.”

“Cosmin has not had an easy life. He himself is likely confused as to who he is.”

I snort. “Sure, tough childhood, pampered by some rich uncle. I’m sure Li’l Cos must’ve been limping around Bucharest with one shoe.”

Klaus’s fork stalls in transit. “Was money the reason for your happy childhood? No. Your father is very loving. Cosmin’s parents are dead. I’ve been watching his progress since a dozen years ago when Cosmin was in KF1. Andrei Ardelean had a reputation for cruelty. There were ugly rumors.”

I fork up a bit of my now-tepid pasta. “What kind?”

“Things a woman should not have to hear.”

My fork drops to the bowl with a clatter. “Now you , with the patronizing bullshit?”

He takes a careful bite of fish, watching me as if deciding. “It was said that he auctioned the virginity of Cosmin’s sister to a group of… associates … when she was fifteen.” He presses a white linen napkin to his lips, then clears his throat. “And that he personally ‘trained’ her.”

My stomach flops. “Holy shit.”

“It may simply be a disgusting tale.”

“I doubt a thing like that is cut from whole cloth though.”

“He was quick with a fist as well. A young man serving at a banquet attended by Andrei Ardelean lost an eye to a backhand slap—Ardelean’s ring. A friend of mine was there.”

“Fuck.” I move the pasta around my plate.

“Schatzi,” Klaus says softly. “You’re not going to like everything I’m about to say, but I want you to listen and trust me.”

My hand tightens on the fork.

“You’re one of the best race engineers in the business, and Emerald is lucky to have you.”

“I’m not hating this yet,” I joke, forking up a bit of broccoli and eating it.

“But your lack of rapport with Cosmin will cost Emerald championship points this year if you can’t improve your communication. I’m disappointed in your disinclination to behave like the professional I know you to be.”

Even though I was expecting it, his words hit like a cold, slow-motion sucker punch. I stare down at my plate, dragging a noodle back and forth with my fork as I try to decide whether to be apologetic or come out swinging. The sucky thing is, I know Klaus is right.

Before I can cobble together a reply, he continues.

“Of the one hundred two points distributed per race,” he says with his quiet intensity, “at least twenty should consistently belong to Emerald. Do we agree on that?”

“Yes,” I manage just above a whisper, too nervous to look at him.

He reaches across the table for my hand. “Good. And do you know of the company retreats some workplaces hold? With activities for, hm, ‘bonding’?”

A ripple of dread goes through me, and I meet his eyes. “Uh, yeah. They’re touchy-feely horseshit. Please don’t get all ‘holistic racing team’ and make everybody do that.”

“I don’t plan to make everybody do this. Only you and Cosmin.”

I withdraw my hand and fight down a sip of water, shooting eye poison at Klaus like one of those spooky toads. “Very funny. Not doing it.”

“You are . A small trip after the GP—two nights next week in Santorini, Greece. You’ll stay in my cottage.”

I almost open my mouth to protest again but catch his somber expression. The cottage in Santorini was where he and his wife used to vacation. He rarely goes now, and it’s an honor that he’s sending me.

I adore Klaus—I can’t hurt him by saying no.

“Thank you.” I offer a smile that most likely doesn’t reach my eyes. “That’s… generous . There’s more than one bedroom, right?”

“It’s cottage style, but large. Four bedrooms, in addition to Elena’s—she is my housekeeper and an excellent cook.”

Klaus sips his wine, studying me. I push my plate away, appetite gone.

“This animosity between you and Cosmin,” he says gently, “is corroding the critical bond between driver and race engineer. A racing team is like a family, Schatzi. You know this.”

“We were like a family back when Augusto and Arvo were driving,” I grumble.

“Things change. You are so agile and responsive with new data, yet you cannot let go of this rigid view of Cosmin. He is equally bewildered by you.”

“Did he say that?” There’s a twitch in my chest, imagining Cosmin talking about me.

“He doesn’t have to. I observe.” Klaus swirls his wineglass. “This will be good for you both. I want you to do things together. Walk, talk, have meals, go shopping, enjoy the sights. See each other as people . Cultivate the sense of trust that is missing.”

“He’s gonna do something gross, like suggest we bond over strip poker.”

“I’ve already instructed him to refrain from directing such energy at you. And I’m confident he will be no temptation to you—I’ve not seen you fancy a blonde.”

“You talked to him first? What the fuck?”

Klaus holds up a hand. “Only because there was a convenient opportunity.”

“What did he say?”

“He was reluctant, but I won him over.”

Klaus holds out a hand again, and I allow him to clasp mine. He gives it a squeeze.

“You have made a lot of sacrifices for your work. Few could be more devoted to Emerald’s success than you. Please—make one more small sacrifice.”

I squeeze his hand back. “Fine. But if Ardelean tries to put the moves on me, I’m sacrificing him —by throwing him into a volcano.”

I expect Cosmin to be a pain-in-the-ass seatmate during the flight to Santorini—hogging the armrest or making stupid jokes about the Mile High Club—but he’s unusually subdued. I suspect the disappointment of Sunday’s final-lap disaster has him in a state.

He’d fought his way from eighth place to third and had just rounded the final corner. The team was losing its collective mind over a podium finish. Aaaaaaand something went wrong with the energy recovery system, which would have given Cosmin the power boost he needed. They’re pulling it apart now, determining what went wrong, as we sit in first class with mimosas.

Troubleshooting analysis is a huge part of Formula 1. F1 cars have distinct designs, team by team, built from the ground up. The diversity in design and the upgrades implemented throughout the season mean there’s a lot more that can go wrong… and things are certain to do exactly that. The dance floor is always moving under us.

Cosmin’s been reading about the car’s computer system on his iPad since we took off an hour ago, making notes, cross-referencing. I guess that’s one way we’re alike—he wants solutions rather than comfort when things go pear shaped. He took one sip of the complimentary in-flight cocktail and hasn’t touched it since, he’s so focused.

I hijack his glass after mine’s empty. “Cheers,” I tease, lifting it.

He offers a neutral grunt, swiping the screen to turn a page.

“Leave that to the IT wizards,” I say with a sigh. “You’re not gonna find something they don’t.”

He doesn’t look up. “Perhaps not.”

“The car’s fuckup may not be software related.”

“It is.”

I sip the cocktail and study his profile. That wavy golden-caramel hair is flopping over his forehead, and he holds one hand on his mouth, glowering at the screen, head thrust forward at an angle.

His skin is naturally sun-kissed, weathered enough to be mature, but looks like he’s never had a pimple in his life. Annoying. His nose is long and straight, with perfectly curved nostrils that make him appear perpetually alert. Even his stupid ears are handsome.

“How do you know it’s the software?” I ask.

“Were it purely mechanical, I’d have felt it. But I can’t feel ones and zeros.”

I lean my chair back a few inches. “Hm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

After the second mimosa I’m loose and happy. I didn’t think I wanted a vacation—however brief—when there’s so much to be done at the beginning of the nine-month grand prix season. And I even less want to be stuck in an Ammoudi Bay cottage with this prick. But the champagne is telling me it might be entertaining; at the very least, Cosmin will say or do stupid shit that’ll make great stories to tell Nat.

I link to the Wi-Fi to text her.

I still haven’t mentioned to her that I know who her mystery caller was in Melbourne. I’ve left opportunities wide open, hoping she’ll confide in me, but so far she’s said nothing. I’d be lying if I claimed her withheld trust didn’t hurt my feelings. I’m in an awkward position with both Nat and Klaus now, owing to what Cosmin told me in the lounge that night.

Klaus is a dead end for Natalia—that much is certain. Not only does he avoid relationships, but he has a special distaste for journalists. I guess if she manages to crack his reserve, at least he won’t be another married shitbag, lying his ass off about a forthcoming divorce—Nat’s had too many rides at the Cheatin’ Hearts rodeo already.

She means well. She’s not an Evil Other Woman, just an optimist too quick to believe the same tired lines.

I tap out a message:

Hey, girlfriend. You’ll never guess what I’m up to. Jetting to Greece with F1 Dracula.

Three dots appear immediately.

Nat: OMG I KNEW YOU HAD A THING FOR HIM

Me: Wtf? No. I was pulling your leg. Sort of. I am in fact flying to Santorini with him, but not for amorous purposes. It’s a work thing.

Nat: Oh boo. How many people are going?

Me: Just us. Klaus is making us “bond” because my palpable loathing is fucking our radio communication. We’re gonna do trust-falls and talk about our feelings, haha

Nat: Maybe build a shelter out of sticks like on Naked & Afraid.

Me: Ew gross nope

Nat: That guy’s hot as hell. You’re totally gonna do it.

Me: You know the ruby earrings I inherited from my Gramma Dorothy? The ones you say I should give you because they’d look amazing with your hair? If Ardelean gets between my thighs, the earrings are yours.

Nat: I feel sorry for you potentially losing a family heirloom, so I’ll give you a way out: if you don’t have sex with him before Silverstone, you keep the earrings. You’ve got three months. YOU WON’T MAKE IT.

Me: You’re on, bitch. I’m going to nap a little before Santorini. Love ya.

As I click my phone dark and drop it in the seat pocket, I hear a chuckle.

Fuck.

He was reading the text exchange over my shoulder. My face goes five-alarm hot.

And there’s his familiar smirk.

“It’s okay, drag?,” he says, his voice smooth and dark. “When you lose those earrings, I’ll buy you a new pair.” He leans back and closes his eyes. “And a matching necklace. You’d look lovely in pearls.”