Page 92 of Tipping Point

I can’t let her see my face.

She slams the door behind her.

16

Chapter 16

CAMILLE

“The Austin circuit has been challenging for you in the past. How do you plan to tackle it this year?”

It’s Edwin Morrow. He’s calling it out to Finn as he makes his way to the pits. Like everyone else, I dislike Morrow. He’s a gossip columnist and disliked by most of the drivers. But he has a large audience. Young girls, intent on following the comings and goings of the drivers.

I don’t look at Finn. I can’t. I’m here because I don’t know what else to do, and doing my job has always been my anchor. When we arrived, minutes apart, I lingered around the van, letting him walk out ahead as me and the crew followed in his wake.

My fingers still tremble with fury.

The push and pull of him. It’s exhausting. How he could bait me, and then draw me in after, like a moth to a flame?

I’ve had enough.

He’s right. I never intended to stay. It’s time to move on, put this behind me.

The thought of it tears at my heart, ripping my breath away.

Jay has already shouldered his camera, taking footage of drivers going up the walk, signing autographs, posing for selfies with fans behind the barricades.

I’m in a daze. Since I walked into Finn’s suite yesterday, I could tell something was off. The way he looked at me when I stepped through the door. Lost and desperate.

When he kissed me, nipped at my lip, I could feel him trembling with pent-up frustration.

It made my blood sing. How desperate he was for me. When he ripped off my clothes and spun me around and filled me, I almost cried out in ecstasy.

It was heady. I have never been wanted, needed like that.

But I could see he needed release. He needed to rid himself of the fury inside him and then he would make love to me again, make it up to me, and he did, last night, when his hands cupped my breast, and he poured himself into me slowly and intentionally.

For a moment, I could swear he loved me.

I’m jarred back to reality when Bruce hands me my noise cancelling earphones and we hit the pits, filming crews scrambling around their cars, making last-minute adjustments, warming tyres under thick heated blankets.

Time passes as slowly as treacle. Jay and Evan film the crowds while I stand empty beside them, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, the noise amalgamating into a singular heavy sound, reverberating through me toneless.

I hold out as long as I can before we make our way to the lineup.

Drivers are getting into the cars, and we weave through them, camera’s low, sweeping from side to side to capture the urgency and anticipation as everyone does last checks before the race.

Rheese stands with one leg up against his car. He watches us as we make our way to the front of the line, where we intend to swivel, capture the group as a whole and then walk the shot backwards.

We pass Finn.

He is standing next to his car with the burly guy, Jack, the mechanic. Their heads are together. Jack nods at me when we pass, but Finn ignores me.

Rheese narrows his eyes.

“Holy shit!” he calls out. Most of the drivers turn towards him curiously as he strains to make himself heard above the din of the engines revving.

Rheese looks from me to Finn with a wide, cruel smile.

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