Page 14 of Double Apex

“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 aconsistentpiece 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 whowon’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. “Nowyou, 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 ata 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.

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