Page 77 of Double Apex

Aislinn shrugs. “Mama just said, ‘Was she havin’ relations with that boy?’ and Daddy said he didn’t wanna talk about it.”

I giggle. “You do a perfect imitation of Mama’s voice. You have her drawl a little anyway.”

“I do not!”

“Do so. Like how you sorta say ‘tah-rd’ instead of ‘tie-urd.’ I’d probably sound like that too if I’d spent more time at home with you guys as a kid.”

“Idon’thave a Georgia drawl,” Aislinn insists.

“Just a hint. But it’s cute.” I reach to prod her on the shoulder. “I’ll bet Winchester thinks it’s dreamy.”

“Remington, you a-hole,” she says, laughing and throwing a punch at my boob, which I block.

Her smile wilts, and I realize I’m being a self-absorbed dick. I came in here because she was crying, and I ended up grilling her for information that pertains tome.

“Hey, Linny,” I say with an earnestness that I suspect catches both of us off guard. “Ol’ Smith & Wesson doesn’t fucking deserve you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, and most importantly you’re a nice human being. Twenty thousand times nicer than me.”

She flaps a hand, and I grab it and hold it.

“Seriously, Linn. I’m a shitty sister, I know. But I’m going to do better.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m gonna, um, take care of you. I mean, if you need.”

She twists a skeptical half smile. “Why? Daddy told you to? ’Cause I’m a fragile hothouse flower?”

Everything about her in this moment—her posture, her tone of voice—crashes into my memory banks, and the exact feeling of my childhood spills out. My heart wrenches and I yank her closer, flinging my arms around her neck.

“No. Because I fucking love you, you stinky little spider monkey.”

23

HUNGARY

EARLY AUGUST

COSMIN

The fact that I was outside the points at Hockenheim last week created tension. Not to disparage Lars, who is a good race engineer, but after working hard to cultivate an almost faultless rapport with Phaedra over the first ten GPs of the season, adjusting to Lars’s communication style is jarring. Add that to my emotional malaise, and it was a recipe for failure, resulting in my worst full-race finish for Emerald thus far.

Klaus came to my motorhome Sunday evening after the race in Germany.

“I have no patience with childlike sulking,” he said. “Mistakes happen, but yours today were so uncharacteristic and numerous, I must conclude you’re acting out.”

I lifted my hands. “Everyone has an off race.”

“No. Your petty temper hurt not just the few with whomyou are angry; you let down a team of nearly a thousand people.” He pointed at me. “Don’t be shit.”

Apparently, despite nursing a sore heart and wounded pride,Don’t be shitwas the kick in the arse I needed, because this week I gaze down from the podium in second place.

Klaus surely assumes I’ve taken to Lars as my race engineer, but unbeknownst to them both, Phaedra is still the secret to my success. Many times during the race today, the phantom of her words and the memory of her skill visited me, and I responded as if she were there.

It’s still true—perhaps now more than ever—what I said to her the week of Silverstone:You live in my head on track and in my heart everywhere.

I am unaccountably aware of my face when the national anthems are played during the trophy ceremony. Race winner Drew Powell fidgets with his hat as usual, raking his fingers through the regrettably thinning hair that matches his goatee. On the other side of Drew, Anders Olsson stands like a marble statue.

My gaze combs the crowd. Viorica is here somewhere—she told me there is a matter she wishes to discuss after the race.

The music over the loudspeaker dies off, and I’m relieved to throw myself into the distracting revelry of champagne spray. The person I want here more than anyone is five thousand miles away, and this long-anticipated moment feels anticlimactic.

The car is like an exoskeleton these days. It’s the only thing holding me together.

---