Page 5 of Full Throttle

Drive Me Away

Six weeks later

Cold silt and river water blew off the Seine, scattering old newspapers along cobblestone bridges. A woman stamped out a cigarette, concealed beneath a striped awning. A man hawking I ♥ Paris hats stopped a pair of tourists, silhouetted against the twisted metal tower that pierced the heavy gray clouds.

Dominic turned down a leafy avenue, passing by indistinguishable white stone buildings. He’d spent his teenage years at a boarding school in England, but he knew the seventh arrondissement well. His mother’s fingerprints were all over it: collecting bread from the bakery, flipping through pamphlets at the art gallery, fingering the stem of a lipstick-marked wineglass…

He climbed the six floors to his father’s penthouse. The door was unlocked, which meant that either Vance had been expecting him or Vance’s latest twentysomething conquest had been careless on her way out. The penthouse smelled of designer perfume and lemon-scented floor polish.

Dominic knocked on the door to his father’s office.

“Come in,” Vance called.

His father sat behind a desk. Dominic didn’t bother to glance around; the office never changed. Leather-bound books lined the walls, accompanied by framed photos from Vance’s racing days. A small silver trophy held expensive-looking pens. His father, too, was unchanged: Vance’s graying hair was combed, and a golden ring glittered on his left hand. Dominic eyed the wedding ring. He’d never understood why his father still wore it, although he could hazard a guess: for the good PR, perhaps, to make Vance look like a family man.

“You wanted to see me?” Dominic asked, in French.

Vance nodded. “Take a seat.”

His father spoke in English: the language of business, as he often said. It was part of the reason Vance had changed his surname from El Hamdaoui to Hastings when he emigrated to England forty years ago. “Nobody can pronounce Hamdaoui,” Vance had told him. “It’s just easier this way.”

Dominic sat. Vance pushed a black velvet box toward him.

“Here.”

Dominic didn’t move. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Warily, Dominic did. A large watch nestled between the velvet folds, and his stomach knotted. This wasn’t an ordinary watch. It was a costs-more-than-most-people’s-yearly-salary watch. He looked up.

“It’s not my birthday.”

Vance waved a hand. “Can’t a man do something nice for his only son?”

“Thank you,” Dominic said.

The lemon polish smelled stronger in the office, somehow; it was irritating his throat. Dominic looked down at the velvet box. His father only ever bought him presents when there was bad news. I’ve had to cancel our fishing trip. I’m away for your birthday. Your mother died. Things like that.

Dominic shut the box. Perhaps they were making Cap the priority driver for next season. That would be a kick in the teeth, but fair enough after Vegas. His father would need to punish him somehow, if only for the sake of appearance.

“Now,” Vance said. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

A lie. Dominic had spent two weeks in a sling, followed by weeks of intense physiotherapy; he’d broken two bones in his left wrist. The injury had healed, but if he never saw another stress ball it would be too soon.

“Good. I’m glad.” His father steepled his hands. “There’s something that I wanted to discuss with you.”

Ah. So the watch had been a bribe. “Okay.”

Vance picked up a pen. Set it down. It was as close, Dominic thought, with rising unease, as he’d ever seen his father come to fidgeting. “Unfortunately, the team has decided not to renew your contract for next season.”

It took a moment for the words to penetrate. A strange ringing began in Dom’s ears. The room felt uncomfortably small, like an itchy wool jumper. This was a joke, right? It had to be a joke. Perhaps this was his father’s real punishment: to frighten him into obedience.

“Because of last season?” Dominic asked.

“That’s part of it,” Vance allowed.