“Because when I explained to them that I didn’t want to fake date their race car driving problem child, my excuse was that I was looking for full-time work and this would be a stop-gap solution that would be beneficial monetarily but that it wasn’t even something I could put on my resume,” I reply and my brain fills with memories of being in that boardroom in Paris. How Mr. Allard and the others really seemed to be understanding my rationale. “And that’s when they said they’d pay me double for the time I was working with Gabriel and give me a title at Mayflower. Public Relations consultant. And said I would be given a full-time position in Allard Couture immediately after completion of this job.”
“Wow. Doing what?”
“Director of Public Relations for their entire United Kingdom division,” I reply. It’s a dream position and not one someone like me can walk into easily, even with my previous experience. So it’s truly not something I can give up. I don’t tell Billy this but I’m sure he gets it. He knows I’m not one to put myself in uncomfortable or risky situations without a valid reason. And fake dating anyone, especially Gabriel, is all of that.
“Well, selfishly, I’m looking forward to having you around, Axe,” Billy says. “And I’m more than a little intrigued at how this will play out.”
“That reminds me, I need to make you sign an NDA,” I mutter and pull my phone out of my pocket to add it to the digital to-do list I keep.
Billy laughs. “I’ll sign anything but you know you can trust me.”
"I know. It's just… due diligence," I reply and tuck my phone back into my back pocket. I do trust Billy. But I trusted Eric too. Of course, Billy is very different from Eric. Billy has been my best friend since I was a kid, and he's never been anythingmorethan a friend. He’s as straight as an arrow and always has been and I have never been attracted to him anyway, despite his classic good looks.
We both sip our whiskey in silence and then Billy says, with a seriousness to his voice that is often lacking, “You don’t get what a bitch of a job you just signed up for.”
“I’ve done PR for half a decade. I know what I’m doing.”
“Now you’re in the F1 world, Axe. The days are never-ending. The time off seems lengthy on paper, with two or three weeks between a couple of races, but jet lag eats that up. And when there aren’t races there are promotional shoots, interviews, sponsorship obligations. You’ll be lucky to sleep in your own bed once a month for the next eight.” Billy looks tired just talking about it. But I know he loves it. It’s in his blood. His dad was a driver too. Although his career, and life, ended in a crash. I thank the stars every time a season ends and Billy is still with us.
A very attractive drag queen saunters onto the stage and the crowd erupts in cheers and hoots. After a few jokes and kicking off the night with the first song—“I Will Survive”—Mademoiselle L’Amour reaches into a big jar of names and pulls out the first singer of the evening.
“Mr. Cole Trickle will sing ‘Dirty Laundry’ by Don Henley!”
Everyone claps and there’s movement from a table near the front. Billy makes a face. “Cole Trickle? That’s the name of Tom Cruise’s character inDays of Thunder.”
“Days of what?” I ask, leaning into him because it’s hard to hear with the clapping and hooting.
“It’s a movie about racing. NASCAR,” Billy shouts back over the noise.
“Ah the lesser sport,” I reply and wink because Billy has been drilling the difference between NASCAR and F1 into my head since we met. He grins at me and shoves my shoulder before his eyes move to the stage and his expression goes completely blank.
“What?”
“I should have known…” Billy laughs and points with his whiskey glass. “Your assignment is about to sing.”
My eyes fly to the front of the room and I couldn’t be more shocked if a kangaroo reared up and box kicked me in the chest. Gabriel Allard is standing in the middle of the stage, his strong, handsome profile gleaming in the lights as he watches Mademoiselle L’Amour sashay off stage.
He turns forward and grabs the microphone. The full weight of his good looks washes over me. Nothing has changed since the first time I saw him five years ago. He’s still tall, for an F1 driver. His hair is still shaggy sandy brown. The kind of shag that is purposeful and looks both unkempt and strategically placed at the same time. His shoulders are still broad, his neck still a goddamn tree trunk. His eyes are still a deep obscenely pretty blue… although they're currently a little unfocused and glassy.
“He’s drunk.”
“We’re in a bar, Axe. Not an uncommon characteristic,” Billy reminds me.
“Why is he here, though?” I ask. “He should be laying low. A groping accusation is serious.”
“He probably needs some stress relief.” Billy shrugs and scratches the back of his blond head. “Probably also wants to do what you won’t. Get laid.”
"He needs a one-night stand less than I do," I reply with a tired sigh. "Have they not informed him of the PR plan?"
“This song is for all the fucking haters. I’d list them but we would be here all night,” Gabriel says into the microphone and then the music starts.
I thought my first official day of work was tomorrow. But it starts right now because I'm going to have to make sure that this stupid rock star moment is the only stupid thing Gabriel Allard does tonight. I hiss out a couple swear words under my breath, which seems to amuse Billy because he grins as he finishes his whiskey.
“Not a bad voice,” Billy says, leaning into me.
I shake my head. Yeah, Gabriel sounds great, but I’m more concerned about his song choice. “Dirty Laundry” is a lesser-known eighties song written by the guy from the Eagles about how slimy journalism has become. The absolute worst choice for a guy who needs to get the press on his side.
My work brain kicks in and I scan the crowd for people who might be recording this. I don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Fuck. Thankfully he gets bored and wanders off stage before the song ends. Right into the arms of a guy who hugs him a little too hard and a little too long. They sit beside each other and the dude wraps his arm around the back of Gabriel’s chair. If Billy’s right and Gabriel is also here to get laid, he’s got someone willing to volunteer as tribute, obviously.