Page 5 of Tipping Point

The curls would never do that. I touch the messy bun tentatively. Blonde curls spill all over the place.

I sigh.

When the server comes, I order a dark beer and a plate of French fries.

I open my laptop and lose myself in our filming schedule.

Tomorrow we’ll film at the track, and the brief is simple. We have to capture the driver’s efforts to get a good placement. Their best lap tomorrow will determine their starting point on Sunday. The better the starting point, the better the chances for a podium finish.

Their placement determines points, points towards every driver, and points towards every team.

I make a group chat and invite the filming crew. It will be easier to coordinate from there. Casey is the first to accept the invite and drops a wave emoji in greeting.

Seconds later, Jay accepts.

JAY: (18:09) Where you at?

CAMILLE: (18:09) I’m at the hotel. I’m working on our call sheet for tomorrow.

Jay sends through a selfie. He’s holding a beer in his free hand and behind him, the rest of the crew all have their drinks raised as well. They’re in a dingy bar somewhere, all smiles.

CAMILLE: (18:11) Have fun! Hotel lobby tomorrow morning at six!

I get a thumbs up emoji and close my laptop as the food arrives.

I spend an enjoyable couple of minutes people watching while I eat. And then I spot him.

Irish.

He’s sitting at the bar, and he is openly staring at me with his black eyes.

It had been untactful of me to ask about this being his last year of racing. I had touched a nerve. I recall how his jaw had clenched, his obvious effort to control his temper.

I raise my beer in salute, but he ignores me. A moment later, he’s joined by a ridiculously sensual woman with black hair tumbling down her back in waves. She’s wearing a backless red dress, and she tosses her hair over one shoulder, leaving her long neck exposed.

Irish swivels his eyes away from me towards her and they get lost in conversation.

I give a sigh of relief.

I’m suddenly feeling very out of sorts. I hate when I feel like this. Like how I look affects my worth, somehow. Amy says I’m beautiful, but I’m not. I’m not plain, but I’m not interesting looking in any way. Most days I feel good, some days I don’t. I try not to worry about it.

I push up off the couch and grab my stuff, making my way towards the elevator banks. I’m not tired but I don’t want to go out either. I can do some research instead.

I step in when the doors open, and I’m surprised a moment later when Irish steps inside after me. He presses the button for a suite on one of the upper levels and takes the other corner comfortably. I avoid looking at him.

I don’t speak to him. I acknowledged him earlier with the beer and he ignored me.

Two can play that game.

Just before the doors close, the woman in the red dress steps in too.

“Finn.” She slides her arm through his, sidling up close. “There you are.”

The doors close and now I can see them plainly in the glossy metal doors.

He’s easy. Leaning casually against the elevator wall as Red Dress languishes against him. She’s so ready to fuck him. It feels like I’m imposing.

My gaze travels up and I lock eyes with him in our reflection. He’s still looking at me openly. Brazenly.

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