Page 4 of Green Flag
Her shoulders sank with a sigh. “Not with the inquiry dropping tomorrow, Cris. It’s going to be manic.”
“See?” Abbé said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Livie’s job is media. We’re down a grid girl. We’ve replaced one English girl, Clara, with another.”
Abbé didn’t mean it to sound belittling, but Livie — or Livia — closed her eyes in frustration. She was the only woman, apart from one mechanic, in the garage.
“And knowing I’m in charge of media, Abbé,” Livie said with a roll of her eyes, “it would have been beneficial for me to know about a new grid girl. Seeing as they are part of our media strategy.”
My lips twitched. I doubted many people spoke to Abbé like that. He’d been a MotoBike champion a decade ago — a different championship from StormSprint — until an injury ended his racing career. Then he’d become a sports analyst.
Abbé dramatically glanced one way and then the other.
“Livie Quinn,” she said with a smile, offering her hand to me. “I’m the new media manager for Ciclati’s StormSprint team.”
“Everly Bacque,” I told her, taking her gesture. I was much more into hugs than the formality, but despite this woman’soutfit, she screamed ‘proper’ with her blonde, curled hair, make-up and painted nails.
“My daughter,” Dad added, as if that was the same standard of qualification as her job title.
Livie acted like he hadn’t spoken. “I know who you are,” she said with a smile. “You sang and produced ‘Lost On Me, ’ didn’t you?”
Now I fully grinned. “The one and only.”
“When it trended, I used it on all of our social media,” she said. “Andnotbecause you’re my boss’s daughter. It’s so catchy.”
“Thank you,” I said with a proud smile. My country song ‘Lost On Me’ had gone viral out of nowhere, some algorithm or other forcing it in everyone’s ear for a few weeks, even hanging out in the charts.
It had made people proud of me. Briefly.
But above all else, it had made me realise, all those years ago… that I had a chance of making it until my dad took that away.
“This isn’t happening,” Dad snapped, shaking his head. “Livia, you’ll go on the grid tomorrow.”
“Dad,” I said with a sigh, but I twisted Mum’s ring around my finger — a nervous habit that was better than scratching the itch on my palm. “One of your most admirable and frustrating traits is your love for these bikes. I’ve been on the track since I could walk. I need no training when it comes to the tours, the press conferences, the grid. Despite never doing the job, I know exactly what to do as a grid girl.”
I tried to keep my voice level. Calm, unbothered. Like I was doing him a favour.
When really I wanted a front-row seat to my dad’s demise.
Livie pursed her lips, brows high with amusement as she side-glanced my father.
“I’m contacting your university,” Dad said, turning to the iPad he’d put down when seeing me. “You can have the role until your term starts in September. After that, you’re staying on English soil. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for me to argue. “Livia, can you find a replacement?”
My stomach dropped, and my skin heated, calling out to be itched.
But, no, fuck him. He wouldn’t take this from me.
She told him that was the recruiter’s job, not hers. When he huffed, she gestured for me to follow her into the tunnel running parallel to the track.
But I stopped and touched his shoulder.
I had to see if it was worth being here.
Now or never.
I said in French,“It’s been three months, have you heard from—”
“Non,”my father snapped, leaning in,“Do not go there. Don’t even mention that man’s name in this pit box.”
His voice shook with rage, but the tight line of his lips and the flicker of fear in his eyes told me everything—I was right, and I’d get what I came for.
