Page 11 of Double Apex

“The grant we secured last year, though large, didn’t go as far as I’d hoped.” Her tone is oddly clipped when she adds, “Next week I am approaching a potentially generous new donor.”

“Would you like for me to be there?”

“I prefer to manage it myself.” Before I can request further detail, she asks, “When do you visit next?”

“Before Baku. But you seem to be changing the subject.”

Her scoff tells me my intuition is correct.

“It’s something about this donor, isn’t it?”

Her nostrils flare in annoyance. “I have it under control, Cosminel,” she replies flatly, using the diminutive to put me in my place.

I can’t resist goading her a little by pretending to hide an indulgent smile at her sternness. “As you wish.”

Her phone rings, and she looks down at it.

I must take this, she says, gliding back into Romanian.Good luck this weekend.

I will do my best. Good night, Rica.

I drop my phone on the bed and walk to the window, admiring the bay, the lights of the city on the other side reflected along the edge like neon teeth. My own reflection is faint, as if underwater. Viorica isn’t the only one who looks tired.

I change into workout clothes, then grab water, a towel, my phone and wireless headphones, and a pouch of sponsor-supplied energy gel before going down to the fitness center.

I already had a workout earlier with Guillaume, my physio. But when my mind is restless, troubled, I need something less structured. If no one’s waiting for a machine, I’ll run on the treadmill for an hour, escaping into music.

I incline-run through a Cage the Elephant album—a band my best friend Owen’s American girlfriend told me about—thinking of home and Vlasia House, and whether I should take a few days to fly to Bucharest before the Chinese Grand Prix. I’d like to be with Rica for the meeting, to see what is troubling her that she thinks she must hide.

I’m walking back to the elevators when I spot Phaedra coming down the hallway from the women’s fitness center. Her hair—a reddish brown that reminds me of the cover of an antique book—is pinned up with damp wisps flying free. Her cheeks are pink from exertion, and the disheveled hair and flush of her face makes me wonder if she looks like this after sex.

She’s wearing a long, baggy unzipped hoodie that hangs past her hips like a dressing gown. I wonder if it belongs to a boyfriend. Is she dating? The woman is such an enigma—I know nothing about her, other than the small clues I’ve hoarded like magpie treasures.

She’s staring at her phone, rubbing her neck with a towel. I wait in front of the elevator door. Her shoes bark against the floor as she startles to a stop inches from me.

Standing this close, I notice how short she is—maybe 160 centimeters, five foot three. Her personality makes her seem taller. At this proximity, I see how easy it would be to lift her. Her clean-sweat smell reminds me of hot metal. I want to feel how perfectly my face would fit against her neck. I imagine her salt on my lips, her arms clasping me, slender hands moving up my shirt, fingers aligning in the valley of my spine.

“Good evening, draga. Nice to see you. What are you listening to?”

She darkens the screen, expressionless. “A podcast.”

I could see she’s listening to David Bowie’sDiamond Dogs. My question was merely an opening, a courtesy. Is her overt lie a dare? It’s a shame, because I want to ask which is her favorite song on the album.

The nostrils of her freckled nose twitch. “Why do you stink like cough syrup?”

“The energy gel. Not a good flavor—it’s meant to be cherry. You want to taste?” I tip my head as if angling for a kiss.

Her look is icy. “You can keep your lips—and your opinions about the flavor of our sponsor’s product—to yourself, thanks. You’ll pretend it’s ambrosia even if it tastes like Satan’s asshole. God help us if someone posts a pic of you sucking on anything else.”

The elevator arrives, and I open a hand for her to precede me. I push the button for Emerald’s floor. The doors shut. I plant my feet, clasping my hands behind myself as if standing for a publicity photo.

A thought rises in my mind: already I’m so used to posing, I’ve almost forgotten how to be at ease in my body. This might be what every day is like for a woman.

I glance at Phaedra, and her eyes shift away.

“You must be relieved,” I say, “that there’s a separate gym for women downstairs.”

“No. I think it’s stupid and backwards.”

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