Page 10 of Plunge

CHAPTER EIGHT

Fletcher

WE WRAP UP our post event work without any more excitement, and my contact at the network phones to congratulate us. Apparently a record number of fans tuned in for the race on Thanksgiving. Emily gives me a high five. It would appear auto racing is slowly catching up to American Football in popularity for turkey day viewing.

This is excellent news for me and I decide to spend a few days celebrating in Greece before I head back to the grind. Winter into spring is our busiest season, and I’ve got a lot of logistics to review for upcoming international races. Most of the staff stays behind, hoping to get ahead of the production schedule so they can disappear early for Christmas. Fine by me.

I land in Athens and head immediately for my favorite resort a few towns away, where I run for miles every morning and then float in the pool until I wrinkle. I miss a few calls from my brother Archer and each time I reach for the phone to call back, I either notice the time difference or build up more feelings about him casually mentioning my ex-girlfriend.

I was not prepared for the memories that washed over me when Anya tried to dance with me. It was like her phrase immediately transported me back to my teenage years. Not just a memory, but a full-on sensual immersion in my past.

Thistle McMurray was the most exciting thing to happen to me as a teenager growing up in a house full of overachievers.

Not that Thistle wasn’t a go-getter. It was more that she just got me on a deeper level than my family. We were both competitive and driven, just not academic researchers.

We shared the same goal: we were going to get the heck out of Oak Creek and see the damn world. We were going to fly away and do something thrilling, something exotic. To live somewhere people didn’t know our business.

I never met anyone like her before. She liked fast cars. She liked running fast. She craved exhilaration just like me. At home, my siblings only cared about plants and numbers. My parents spouted off about psychology and science and made us all observe the world around us when all I wanted to do was crash through it to feel the wind on my legs.

I ponder all of this as I sweat out the liquor from the night before and instead of picking up the phone to call my brother, I lace on my running shoes and take off down the beach. I warm up slowly for a mile trying to silence old memories, but when they won’t be quiet, I crank up the pace. I feel my heart beating faster and faster, my lungs expanding in the heat of the morning sun and I tear down the beach like I’m on fire.

After three or four miles, I feel my phone buzzing like mad in my shorts pocket. I pull back and slow down, catching my breath as I look at the screen. “Emily? It’s the weekend…”

“Fletcher, you’ve got problems.” Her voice sounds flat. I start walking back toward my hotel, wishing I had some water.

“That’s why I hired you.”

“Look, I need you to get to the embassy in Athens.”

“What are you even talking about?”

I bend over and take big gulps of air as Emily explains that my visa has been revoked, and I can’t return to Abu Dhabi. Some sort of paperwork error, evidently. We hang up and I start a slow jog back to the hotel, trying to figure out how to approach this. Like, is this a suit and tie situation? I don’t have any of that along with me.

Emily usually handles all the paperwork for my international travel, and when I meet diplomats, it’s usually at the race course where they are canoodling with rich people. My role is mostly to be in charge and talk with the network executives who are going to air the programs we produce. Auto and motorcycle racing is big fucking business.

I don’t want to toot my own horn too loudly, but I travel enough that I know the names of half the airport security officers who barely glance at my bags on the x-ray belt. Visa problems?

Emily texts me the address where I need to go and tells me to be polite, which probably means a button down shirt and my nicest pants. I snag some fruit from the lobby as I walk back into the hotel and before long, I’m showered, shaved, and waiting my turn to see a diplomat.

“Mr. Crawford,” he says, pumping my hand. “Winston Snodgrass. Your assistant called ahead. Would you please come with me into my office?”

I follow Snodgrass down the hall, slipping my aviators into my shirt pocket and wondering what the hell this is about. He settles into his desk chair, which creaks in protest, and I balance on the edge of the folding chair opposite his dusty desk.

He starts to clack on the keys of his ancient computer and I can’t help but notice how underfunded this place is. It makes me feel uneasy.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, clacking some more. I fold my hands on the edge of the desk, trying not to get dust on my shirt cuffs. “Welp, Crawford, can I be frank with you?”

I nod, my eyebrows shooting up into my too-long hair. “Please do,” I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. What the hell is going on here?

“You’re fucked, pal.”

“Pardon?”

“Seems like you pissed off the wrong diplomat. Want to tell me what you know about Anya from our office in Abu Dhabi?”

What the hell?

“You can’t possibly have access to that kind of information,” I blurt out, not believing my luck right now. “And I didn’t do a thing to Anya. I was polite. Mostly.” I lean back on the folding chair and it wobbles a bit under my weight.

“Hmm,” Snodgrass says again. He squints and clacks his finger a few times, evidently scrolling through notes. “Look, I used to be you. Or anyway, in my younger days I was a lot like you. Foreign countries. People throwing money at me. Pretty girls dropping their panties for my American accent.”

My eyes widen. “What does that have to do with anything at all? I’m here about my work visa, not my sex life.”

Snodgrass leans back, the desk chair protesting. “My read on this is that Anya is pissed as hell and taking it out on you by banning you from coming anywhere near her. Or, at least from going there for business.”

I tilt my head to the side and tug on my ear lobe, thinking maybe I got salt water in my ear during my ocean swim the other day. “You’re telling me, with no context whatsoever, that my work visa for my next gig is denied because I did not fuck a diplomat at a hotel party?”

Snodgrass nods and opens his drawer, popping an antacid in his mouth and offering me the jar. I stare at him until he rattles it a few times. As the realization settles, the understanding that I cannot be present while my own company produces a global televised sporting event, I hold out my palm. Winston Snodgrass shakes two chalky white tablets into my palm and laughs at me.

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