Page 10 of A Loser by Christmas
He’ll love to see that.
“You can definitely pass for me as long as you keep your distance.”
“From your father? Got it.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. Once Dad is on the sales warpath, nothing gets him off it.” Although tonight, I can’t help remembering him looking at me with pride. “Try to make a sale for him, yeah?”
Harry makes another confession after we sneak out and reach the jetty lined with Dad’s real babies. “Always wanted to get my hands on a Juno.” He lifts the mirrored visor of my helmet, and it doesn’t matter that it’s dark down here by the water. I see how much he means this. “I’ll take good care of them.” His promise is easily as warm as his eyes were back in the sales tent where he made Lito seem all too human. “See you back here later for another switcheroo?”
I shout, “Yes,” over my shoulder, already darting away. I clutch the sole speedboat key that I kept. “I won’t be long.” Who knows if he hears me over the roar of the engine I fire up. Dad didn’t build this beast of a boat to tempt any bankers. He handcrafted it for Reece’s rescue foundation—part of a year-long loan that helped to save lives for twelve months solid. Now it might just save my contest chances.
I steer it towards the shadows wherelaSylvieis moored in almost complete darkness, but I pull up to zero sign of life aboard her.
Shit. He left already.
I had hoped Calum would still be on egg-watch duty, and for once, I do get a wish answered—when I stand up from the pilot’s seat, I see him on the jetty, walking away.
It turns out mon père isn’t the only Juno who can bellow.
“Hey, loser!”
London sparkles brightly, water in the marina shining. So does the moon, which finds a gap between clouds to show someone who has reason to hate me. Calum wheels around, the moon also highlighting how he’s everything Dad said a gate-crasher wasn’t.
His suit fits perfectly, all that hockey-player bulk transformed to big-cat sleek. He also looks fierce, while my brain inserts a tender image of him crouched over an egg to tell it a bedtime story. His glare does wicked things to my stomach. And to places lower down my body, which is a little disturbing considering his rep for violence.
I forget that he has reason to rain pain down on me like he does to other players. And I forget too what an old photo of a crowded bed suggested about his real type. He’s mine from the tips of hair I know is dark gold in daylight to eyes the moon floods with liquid silver. Yes, I want to hear his story, but I also want to unwrap him like I used to peel the layers from my first present each year at my grand-mère’s.
I aim for casual. “Need a ride?”
Calum Trelawney quits glaring at me.
He laughs, and that sounds a lot like Christmas coming early.
4
I didn’t haveracing along the Thames with a violent hockey player on my wish list, but that’s what Father Christmas gifts me. Santa also stuffs my stocking with Calum Trelawney giving me directions before laughing again, which is unexpected. It rings out as I weave us between party boats holding Christmas revellers. Calum doesn’t overbalance. He’s rock steady as I open the throttle to slice through the beating heart of London.
He leans into each sharp curve nice and easy, no sign of the injury issues I read about online. We passHMS Belfastand then shoot under London Bridge, and he’s still grinning when we leave Southwark, Waterloo, and Westminster Bridges behind. My shout is almost drowned out by Big Ben chiming.
“You should strap in.”
“Why? I’m not scared.”
“I am,” I yell. “You’re worth a fucking fortune. You fall overboard and I’ll be in trouble. For all you know, I could have a track record for crashing.”
“You don’t. I’ve watched you in action enough to know it. You’re a pro helmsman.”
I’m surprised into unprofessionally swerving. “You think so?” Hearing that from him is almost as unexpected as discovering Lito subscribes to my channel. I can’t see Calum being as desperate for nighttime company on his laptop, so I snort. “You haven’t watched me in action.”
He snorts right back. “Believe me, I didn’t want to. But thanks to Jack, the whole last week has been a crash course in Valentin Juno.” He leans down, mouth to my ear as if to make sure I hear this. “So I know you can go even faster.”
Of course, he’s a danger merchant. But so am I, and I can’t lie, it’s good to go flat out to test the limits of a vessel Dad once lent out, and to do that high-speed testing with someone who whoops each time she leaves the water. Something inside me takes flight too, then lands with a bump at how fast we reach his destination. Both Lambeth and Vauxhall Bridges rush up before Chelsea, where I finally reduce power and let us drift a little.
He asks, “Why have you stopped out here?”
“Because I need to know what this is really about.”
“This?” He takes the seat beside me. “That’s easy.” He points a finger at himself. “I need to look like a loser.” He jabs that finger at me. “You’re the dick who does that to other people. End of story.”
