Page 89 of Burn
“I guess you didn’t hear me when I said it felt like my legs were dipped into lava,” I snark.
“Don’t sass me, missy.” Papa hasn’t used this tone of voice with me since I was sixteen and threatened to leave boarding school to follow the Dave Matthews Band around the country.
Mum’s face comes into view. “I saw the photo, Lily. Your mouth looks weird and slack, like you’re drooling. Poor baby. If I wasn’t taking care of your father, I’d fly to see you. Well, and you know how much I love Quebec. You should put some apple cider vinegar on your skin.”
“Mum,” I warn through gritted teeth, “I’m at a vacation cabin. I don’t carry around apple cider vinegar.”
“Where is Max now? Is he with you in the cabin?” Papa’s voice is a low growl. He’s not a stupid man. He knows something’s up. “Maybe I should call him.”
“This really isn’t a good time to talk. I need to get to Montreal, and my cell reception is terrible here in the cabin. Can we chat later? I’ll call you once I check into the hotel, and I need to call the doctor and let him know my legs are doing better. They were so lovely at the hospital.” I babble on for a few seconds about the excellent health care.
My father’s nostrils flare. “Fine. But I’m begging you to not embarrass me or the team this weekend. I should be back in a race or two.”
“I won’t, Papa, I promise. And please don’t rush back on my account. I’ve been trying to hold it together for you.”
“I know, and from what Jack told me, you’re doing a good job. But we don’t need any scandals.”
The subtext: a team owner sleeping with the star driver would be the scandal of the century in this sport.
“Okay, gotta run, love you both!”
I blow my parents kisses good-bye, feeling deeply guilty that I’ve already broken my promise.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LILY
Since we’re about two hours from Montreal and because we probably shouldn’t be seen arriving at the track together, Max takes a helicopter to the city, while I ride in the back of the SUV. He has far more obligations than I do, a never-ending schedule of autographs, appearances, and training sessions.
I’m merely a figurehead, I’ve come to realize; someone who approves memos and listens to reports. And, good god, there are reports. Everything from the possible tire strategies of the race to the cost of lug nuts to whether the team needs to hire additional people for the catering at an upcoming race in Italy.
The team principal—in our case, Jack—handles the leadership, racing, and day-to-day decisions.
The team owner does none of that. It’s all fine with me because I’m used to the corporate world. Unlike the Formula World teams owned by car manufacturers, Onassis is a relatively small team, with only a few hundred employees. It’s much smaller than the gaming company I worked for, and much more manageable, as far as I can tell.
I’m in the car, in Montreal traffic, on my laptop reading a report about the weather for the rest of the week—we contract with a local meteorologist before every race so we can determine which tires to use—when Tanya calls.
I tap on the Bluetooth headset attached to my ear. “Hey, there! How are you?” Goodness, I sound more bubbly than usual.
“Lily? You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m better. Steroids are miracle drugs. I assume you saw the hospital photos.”
“I did.” She pauses, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she’s about to say something else.
“And?”
“Have you seenDrive Dirtytoday?”
“No. I’ve been reading the weather report. Looks like it’s going to rain hard this weekend.”
“Yeah, uh, I think you need to check it out.”
“Why?” My stomach suddenly feels like it’s plummeting to my knees.
“There are some photos. Now, mind you, they’re not superclear, so it’s difficult to tell if they’re authentic, or even if—”
“What photos?” I interrupt.