Page 58 of Plunge

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Fletcher

EMILY HAS TOLD me more than once to calm down. I know I’m being a tyrant, but the crew is also making too many stupid mistakes. It’s obvious I’ve been away from the drivers seat of Fleet Productions for way too long.

“We’re a week out from race day and my commentators haven’t even learned the names of each team’s driver? This is unacceptable,” I roar at the meeting. I catch sight of Emily frowning at me and I massage my temples. I take a deep breath. I try again. “Look,” I say. “I don’t mean to be a jerk.” There are a few nervous titters of laughter around the room. “I have high standards because this industry is cut throat. If we put together a shitty program and people channel surf over to Real Housewives, none of us will have a job next month. So let’s all get out of here, do our research, and come to me tomorrow prepared, ok?”

They nod, mumble, look sheepish. Emily winks at me and I collapse across the table as they all file out of the conference room. We’ve taken over a hotel near the race course, and I haven’t left it since I got here. I feel like shit and I’m acting like a shitty person, and I don’t know how to stop.

“Fletcher, I mean this in the nicest possible way,” Emily says, approaching me.

I hold up a hand. “I know. I’m being a dick.”

“Your words, bud.” She sighs. “Why don’t you come with me over to the track. You can observe the b-roll shoots with the drivers and mechanics and stuff.”

“Is that today?”

“Um, yes, boss. Today, tomorrow…all week. Remember how we booked all those extra inspirational spots for the network? To build up excitement around the event and—“

“Ok, ok, ok. Give me ten minutes and I’ll ride with you.”

I mope in the car over to the track while Emily plays chess with the camera crew and PR people for each of the teams. Not literal chess, but it might as well be, the way she’s consulting her checklist and running things through her headset. Hell, she could be offensive coordinator for a pro football team. I make a mental note to never suggest that to her, since I’m sure they would pay her better than I can afford to.

We get to the stadium and start with one of the big name teams. I’m less interested in these guys because, really, it’s not great television when you’re talking to a well funded team with a proven track record. We all know they’re going to do great.

I’m more interested in the tiny newcomers. I’ve been listening to Em talk about a new German team. Schilling. The name sounds familiar to me and I can’t remember from where, but I’m eager to get in there and talk with their driver.

As we walk toward their auto bay, their team is intensely busy. I tell my camera guy to get footage of the flurry of activity in there before we interrupt them for the scheduled interviews. I lean over to look at the monitor as he’s filming and I gasp, because I think I see Thistle.

My team turns around to look at me and I shake my head. “Sorry. I thought I saw something. This is great foot—“

It fucking is Thistle. She’s standing over there with that fucking old guy she is working for. My eyes flare and my blood lights on fire. I feel panic and rage and shame and terror all in one flaming cocktail of adrenaline. I ignore my team’s questions and I stalk over to the auto bay where Thistle finally looks up to see me. And fucking smiles.

“What the fuck?” I hiss.

“Oh good, you’re here.” She seems totally unflustered. None of this surprises her and I add that to the list of things I hate right now. “Come with me,” she says.

I have no idea why, but I do. I ignore the stares from Emily and my crew. I leave them in the auto bay with the Germans and I let Thistle McMurray drag me down the hall by the hand. She pulls me into an office and shuts the door, then pushes on my shoulders so I sink into a chair.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, you wouldn’t answer my calls,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning back against the door. “I want to talk with you.”

“You weren’t fucking answering my calls,” I growl. “You skipped out on my brother. You skipped out on me and then you turned your damn phone off so you wouldn’t have to deal with my reaction to you leading me on.”

“Fletcher,” she starts.

“No. I’m done. I’m so done with being kept in the dark, with people trying to spare me. Is your heart really this cold and dead? I thought the other night fucking meant something, Thistle!”

“Fletcher, Jesus. Listen to yourself.” She reminds me that Archer is super unreliable when he hasn’t had any rest. She yells at me to stop accusing her of withholding information when I in fact relied on an outside source for information.

“Fuck,” I groan. I have to cede her that point.

Thistle kneels in front of me and grabs my hands in hers. “Fletcher, I went to New York to sell my condo. I’m working from Oak Creek on my contract with Sebastian, although sometimes he’s going to want me to travel to events. Like this one. Where you’ll be.”

My heart races as I listen to her map out her plan to stay in Oak Creek for six months while she figures out what she wants to do with herself. “And I was thinking I could figure out what’s going on with us,” she says. “Are we an us? I can’t be an us with someone who freaks out and runs away.”

I can feel my pulse in my neck. It’s like my ears are on fire. I have no experience with this and I don’t know what to say to her.

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