Page 7 of Double Apex

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Klausispretty hot,” I taunt. “I saw you giving him the eye.”

“Who?”

I grin. “Quit with the act. You looked like you either wanted to murder or devour him—I can’t figure out which.” I inspect her face. “Have you guys already met? You’re blushing.”

She stops just shy of the lounge entrance and plants one hand on her hip. “Yes, I’ve met him. Months ago in Abu Dhabi. And he was very rude.”

I give a skeptical squint. “Klaus Franke? Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy? He’s totally Captain Suave—I can’t picture him being rude to you. What happened?”

“He’s just…” She presses her lips together, frowning. “Egotistical.”

“Psh!Girl, you’ll have to get used to big egos in this sport. As for Klaus, he owns forty percent of Emerald and could afford to buy his own planet if he wanted to, so the guy might have a little attitude, sure.”

“Whatever.” Nat sweeps her dark hair over one shoulder with a careless gesture and proceeds into the lounge. “There’s your ‘randy rookie,’” she says, pointing at Cosmin.

“He’s hardlymine,” I mutter.

As we walk up, he’s doing the “turning water into whiskey” trick—transferring the different-density liquids between two shot glasses—for a woman who apparently flunked high school physics and thinks he’s a sorcerer.

The woman’s pixieish face is framed by a hairdo that should’ve been left in 2012 along with Mayan doomsdaycalendars and fingerstache tattoos. Her rapt smile wilts as we walk up. If this is a competition, she knows she can’t beat Natalia, who’s disgustingly beautiful.

“Ladies, welcome,” Cosmin greets us. “This is Abby.” He gestures at 2012 Girl, who gives a grudging wave. Swiveling on the barstool, he nods in Nat’s direction, telling Abby, “This is Miss Evans. And the woman in white”—he seems to emphasize the color, though it could be my imagination—“is the team owner’s daughter, Miss Morgan.”

My jaw clenches with the insult.

Really, dickhead? Not your race engineer—just Mo’s kid? And exactly why are we being introduced as if we don’t have first names, like Depression-era schoolmarms?

Cosmin’s eyes linger briefly on Natalia, who’s poured into a velvet dress so short that if she dropped her purse, she’d have to kick it home. She looks like a million bucks. And contrary to Nat’s assertion that I’m all kinds of edgy in this ensemble, I’m pretty sure I look like a teenager who shoplifted everything from the waist up.

He eyes my shirt, his expression bordering on smug.He remembers, damn him.

“Nat made me wear it,” I blurt in a tone not unlike the Ally Sheedy goth inThe Breakfast Club, passing the buck with “Claire did it!” after her makeover.

There’s not enough scotch in this lounge to drown the humiliation.

As his gaze drops to my black Converse, I question the wisdom of having insisted on them. But after Nat screeched “Youlook like a Wookie!” to bully me into submitting to eyebrow tweezing, the shoes were the hill I was ready to die on.

I give Abby a tight smile and motion to the bartender, ordering a double Glenmorangie on Emerald’s tab. Cosmin’s focus returns to Abby. He places his hands—long-fingered and strong—over the stacked shot glasses, then glides them apart. He’s really working it. Which is absurd, because he doesn’thaveto—his angel face alone would get him anything he wants. But he seems to take pure pleasure in Abby’s delight at the “magic” trick.

The bartender brings my drink and I sip it, enjoying the singe on my tongue.

Natalia—seated between Cosmin and me—has her phone out and is studying a message. Her lips compress in her thinking way. She darkens the phone and turns it over, then snatches it back up anxiously and rereads the message, like a kid summoning the courage to peek under the bed for monsters one more time.

I crane my neck in an attempt to spy the short text—which appears to be from an unnamed number—and she stuffs the phone into her purse with a growl.

Beside Cosmin, Abby emits a yelp of surprise, giggling as she slips off her barstool and stumbles. He puts a hand beneath her elbow to steady her, then leans to talk with her quietly.

I take another swallow of scotch and eye Natalia, who’s digging her phone out as it buzzes with a second message.

“Who’s texting?”

“No one,” she insists. “Wrong number.”

Her tone is too innocent.I’ve got her.

“Oho! I knew it.” I make finger guns at her. “It’s a guy, right?”

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