8 China

8

CHINA

MID-APRIL

COSMIN

Santorini was a terrible idea, and I’m irrationally angry with Klaus. The kiss was a terrible idea, and I’m (rationally) angry with myself. I can’t stop thinking about Phaedra, even when unconscious.

I’m a light sleeper—the need to remain vigilant was terrorized into me as a boy. Uncle Andrei was creative in his training, and fond of saying A man must be prepared to respond with ingenuity and vigor at all times .

Since Santorini, every time I surface to consciousness from sleep, Phaedra is there—some disintegrating dream image, anywhere from the pedestrian to the powerfully erotic.

Which is why I fuck everything up days after the trip to Greece.

Upon our return, I’m gracious and appreciative with Klaus, praising the beauty of Santorini, the charm of the cottage, the cooking of Elena. I make a point of being scrupulously professional with Phaedra in front of the team. Gone are my little taunts and libidinous jokes. But inside me is a monsoon of confusion.

Being near her after the kiss is torment. The strategic brain I usually apply to racing is consumed with looking for ways to have Phaedra Morgan, now that it’s clear my desire is reciprocated.

There must be a way to make this work without impairing our driver/race engineer rapport.

It’s not until the night we arrive in Shanghai that I force myself to acknowledge the irresponsibility of flouting the rules. Could I in good conscience risk a job that supplies Vlasia House with its most reliable income? I wrestle with this question while standing outside the door of her hotel room, which is diagonal from mine.

My knuckles feel the undelivered knock in the same physically prescient way I feel the car. Music is playing inside, and I try to picture where in the room she is sitting, what she is wearing, the expression on her face. Those eyes, which can be stormy and serious and lively. The way she pushes those plump lips out and wrinkles her nose when she’s annoyed, or presses the tip of her tongue against the center of her upper lip while concentrating. The sound of her voice—crisp and smooth, like elderflower soda.

I have every symptom of adolescent lovesickness.

The elevator at the end of the hall dings.

Someone from the team could see me standing here. I pivot and walk to my own room and lie on the bed, holding a lens to the microscopic fault line of panic I feel. It’s rare for me, but unmistakable, twisting in my gut like the animal fear of fire—its power and unpredictability.

She is the fire. If I have her, it burns everything else in my life.

Those months of juvenile provocation, knowing how much it made her dislike me… how did I not recognize that an intuitive part of me was doing it out of self-preservation?

It’s safer to let her despise me.

This is in the back of my head the next morning when I turn Phaedra Morgan’s fire into ice—slower, but equally destructive.

I’ve left the television on, so when I hear a noise as I’m getting out of the shower, I assume the morning news is the source.

I sling a towel around my waist and walk out of the bathroom to find a petite housekeeper standing near my bed with her back to me. She twirls around in alarm, clutching the open water bottle that was on my bedside table. She drops it, and water splashes out in a small arc.

She’s young and pretty—hair an inky bob, pink lips, skin the golden color of milky tea, eyes like varnished ebony—and blushing furiously.

She drops to her knees, scrambling to retrieve the water bottle, and in her coltish awkwardness loses her balance. One arm flies out and she grasps the bedcovers. Glancing at her own hand on the tangled sheets as if it doesn’t belong to her, she snatches it back, seemingly mortified at having touched something so personal.

“Good m-morning,” she says in a tentative near whisper, rising and setting aside the bottle. Eyes roaming over my bare chest, she adds, “You need more towels?”

Amused, I ask, “It’s a bit early for cleaning the room, isn’t it? Seven o’clock?”

She wrings the hem of her apron. Her soft brows draw together, and as she meets my gaze, a glossy sheen washes over her dark eyes. Her confession spills out in a tumble of words.

“I knew you would be gone later. You are my favorite driver, and I wanted… to meet you.” She sags onto the foot of the bed, covering her face. “Will you have me fired?”

“Of course not.” I turn the television off and sit beside her. “It will remain our secret.”

She sniffles, and a tear slips down her cheek. “You won’t report me?”

I stretch across the bed to get a tissue, then hand it to her. “No. But you must make a promise: don’t try this sort of thing with anyone else, should you wish to meet a guest of the hotel. You could be hurt, gambling on the mercy of a stranger behind closed doors.”

She peeks at my bare leg where the towel has parted. I stand and go to the closet to choose an outfit, then step around the corner into the bathroom to put on my trousers, leaving the door open. “What is your name?” I call to her.

“Mei.”

“Do you have tickets to the race, Mei?”

There’s a long pause. “I… cannot afford to go.”

I lean out to look at her as I button my shirt. “Not a problem. I’ll get you a pass. Hold on one moment.”

She stands nervously in the doorway alcove while I gather things and put them in my twill messenger bag. I tap my notes on my phone and open the door for her to precede me. “Now, your full name, please.”

“Zhang Mei,” she tells me, stepping into the hallway.

There’s no cleaning cart visible outside, and I gently tease her, “You could not have given me a new towel anyway, could you?”

She shakes her head with an embarrassed smile.

I follow her out and close the door, staring at the screen as I type with my thumb. “There. We’re all set now—your pass will be at the front desk.”

Standing on tiptoe, she quickly kisses my cheek. “Thank you! It was a pleasure to meet you.” The words come out in a rush. She ducks her head, hustling down the hallway toward the elevator.

Behind me, a door clicks shut and I hear a harsh chuckle. I turn to see Phaedra, dressed for a workout, draping headphones around her neck. Her hair is twisted on top of her head with small tendrils hanging, and I want to hold her face and kiss the bitterness off her naked lips.

But then, maybe this is a good thing—as long as she dislikes me again, there’s no danger the spark of our feelings could grow.

I adjust the strap of my bag and saunter over. “Why the sour look, drag??”

“Very classy, Formula Fuckboy,” she deadpans, eyeing the lipstick on my face. “You had to ask her name afterwards ? Nice of you to give the cleaning staff a complimentary dicking down. Personally, I just leave twenty bucks on the dresser.”

“There’s enough of me to go around.”

She flips her hand at me. “Whatever—you’re not my problem until you’re in the car. Have a swell day.” She starts toward the elevators, then pauses. “I’m sure you think I’m jealous, but that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“No?”

“Nope. It’s the fact that I saw shame on that woman’s face. It doesn’t speak well of you. Implies you used your playboy patter and ‘seduced’ her. You’ve heard of consent, right?”

I lift my hands, conceding. “You will choose to believe what you wish. But maybe you’re also a little jealous. Because of Santorini.”

There’s a flash of wounded anger before she replies. “The kiss meant nothing. Not to me, because you’re not my type. And not to you , because that shit is just your nature—might as well ask a dog not to piss on a fire hydrant.”

She walks away, but before she reaches the elevator, I call out.

“You’re forgetting something, drag?.”

She turns but continues walking backward, arms folded.

I grin. “You kissed me first.”