When the Devil Drives

by L. J. Hayward

  It all made Jack even more reluctant to go mingle with other people. He grumbled when Ethan ushered him out of the room but, bolstered by the way the afternoon had ended, Jack reached for Ethan’s hand as they walked down the corridor to the lifts. Ethan glanced at him, his strangely blue eyes wide. After a moment, he smiled softly, squeezed Jack’s hand, then let it go just as the lift doors opened. Inside, two other couples clearly on their way to the dinner peered out curiously. Close but not touching, Ethan and Jack stepped in. The doors shut and the lift whizzed upwards.

  One of the other men scowled at Jack and Ethan, clearly not liking their proximity. Maybe it was just the race rivalry, but Jack wouldn’t bet on it. Not the way his date—possibly his wife by the rings on their fingers—shot them apologetic glances.

  That, thankfully, proved to be the worst of the homophobia on display at the dinner. Everyone else was more concerned with Roy Carter’s stunning time trial being knocked down to third by the scandalous latecomer to the race, to which none of them could get more than a modest “We’ll see who crosses the line first tomorrow” from Ethan. Around the fifth repeat of the exact same conversation, Jack excused himself and went for a wander.

  What Jack had thought would be a sit-down dinner was a reef and beef themed buffet of tiny portions perfect for carting around on an equally tiny plate while mingling. The bar, at least, was open and Jack snagged a scotch, sipping the rich, smoky drink as he picked over prawns and rare cuts of filet mignon. With his little plate and drink, he went to see the view.

  The observation deck had floor-to-ceiling windows almost all the way around, showing off the glittering Gold Coast to perfect advantage: the long stretch of curving beaches, phosphorescent waves crashing on the wet sand, tall spires of sparkling lights of all colours, flashing spotlights of a concert at the racetrack, and the dark, winding snakes of seawater canals, their banks glowing with the ambient light of homes backed up to the water. It was truly beautiful and Jack found himself looking for Ethan, wanting to share the view.

  He found Katie first. She stood in a quiet corner, in a slinky emerald dress that kissed the carpet, her red hair piled on top of her head in an artful tumble of curls. She gulped from a champagne flute, two empty glasses sitting on the narrow ledge in front of her as she gazed out a window. Jack guessed she didn’t really see the view.

  “Should you be drinking so much?” he asked gently.

  Katie scowled at him, then with an effort, smoothed it off her face. “It’s non-alcoholic. They’re watching us drivers like hawks.” She glanced around furtively. “Do you think you could . . .?”

  “Afraid not. Roy would clobber me if I got you a real drink.”

  “Vicky would help him, no doubt.” Katie leaned against the window. “Don’t mind me, I always get like this before a race. Nerves. I saw Roy before. He’s as calm as ever, the prick. I hate him.” She scrunched up her face. “Sorry.”

  Jack laughed. “Don’t be. I get it. I wasn’t his biggest fan when we first met, either.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  She seemed keen for a story, or a distraction, maybe, but there was no way Jack could tell her about Valadian’s secret army in the desert, or how within minutes of meeting Jack, Ethan had mowed his way through twenty-odd soldiers with barely a scratch to show for it. Couldn’t tell her how Ethan fucked with his head until he was paranoid and confused, then turned around and showed Jack care and compassion, and a startling vulnerability hidden by the outer assassin.

  He settled for, “A lot of things neither of us really like to remember now.”

  Katie studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “But you’re good now, right? Happy?”

  Jack’s guts clenched at the forthright question.

  “Oh shit,” Katie whispered when he couldn’t answer. “It’s not great, is it? I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s . . We’re . . .” Jack surrendered his pride. “I don’t know what it is, or what we are. This is the first time we’ve been out like this, around other people. Alone, everything is fine. Great, even. But here, now, I don’t know what he expects, or wants. I don’t really understand this whole thing and he’s off in the middle of it all, being someone I’ve never seen before and now I feel like I don’t know him at all.”

  Katie snorted. “You’re not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, in the past, Roy’s been friendly and he’s always happy to talk about the cars or racing, but anything beyond that . . .” She shrugged. “He doesn’t socialise. He doesn’t talk about anything more personal than preferred tyre brands and he’s never mentioned having family or close friends. Then he shows up with you and it’s all different. He actually laughs and talks about you almost as much as he talks about Victoria. He put on a suit that’s not a racing suit. And,” she added pointedly, “he took off his sunglasses. Who even knew he had eyes?”

  Jack chuckled at her part-aghast, part-fascinated tone. He was even amused by her suggestion that he hadn’t yet surpassed Victoria in Ethan’s affections. He was pretty sure he had, though, since Ethan had let him drive the car.

  “Look at it this way,” Katie continued gently. “Maybe he’s feeling a bit out of sorts, too. This is the first time he’s brought someone special to one of these events. Or anyone at all, actually. Maybe you need to get to know each other in this new environment. Or maybe, Nishant, you just need to talk to him about how you’re feeling.”

  Smile dissolving, Jack startled at her use of Nishant. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to hearing it, but more that until right then, he’d never associated it with anything to do with Ethan. When he and Ethan were together, they were Jack and Ethan. Not Nishant and Ethan. Much less Nishant and Roy.

  Shit.

  Jack was such an idiot. The name Roy was a cover, but the man wasn’t. Rampaging Roy, race car driver, was as much a part of Ethan as Ethan Blade, paid killer. Just as Nishant was Jack’s way to smooth over society’s racial expectations. Nishant wasn’t separate from Jack, just another shield he used to protect himself.

  “Oh, God,” he moaned. “I’m such a fucking dickhead.”

  “No, you’re not,” Katie said soothingly. Then, in a drier tone, added, “You’re just an ordinary dickhead. Also, whatever other issues you two might be having, just know how good you are for Roy. You made him more . . . human.”

  That pesky, secondary charge on the grenade went off under his ribs, a warm rush from the mini explosion rolling through him. The pleasantness of the heat quickly turned to shame as Jack recalled how pathetically jealous he’d been earlier.

  “I don’t know how good I’ve been for him today. Seeing Vicky all over him, I kept getting more and more upset. And Brendan . . . Jesus, Brendan. I pretty much promised to hurt him if he touched E—” he caught himself at the last moment “—even one hair on Roy’s head.”

  “First, don’t be worried about Vicky. She’s got her crush, sure, but at least seventy percent of that is for his car. He told her nothing would happen a long time ago. I wondered if it was because he was gay, but you’re the first proof we’ve had of that. As for Brendan, he’s married with two kids.”

  “Doesn’t guarantee he’s not after him.”

  “No, I guess not. And I do know they’ve met up when both of them have been—” She stiffened abruptly, her gaze locking on something over Jack’s shoulder. “Brendan, how long have you been there?”

  Jack spun and found the older man behind him. He looked a little unsteady on his feet, an empty tumbler in one hand.

  “Long ’nough,” Brendan slurred, raising the hand with the glass in it, one finger extended to point at Jack. “Long enough to know you don’t deserve him. You don’t care about the cars. Don’t know anyshing . . . anything about them. It doesn’t matter what you do to me, Nish. It doesn’t matter at all, ’cause in the end, I’m the one who loves what he loves. Who knows him.”

  “Brendan,” Katie hissed, but Brendan spoke over her. />
  “Roy lives for driving. Lives for it, and yet, and yet he hasn’t been around for nearly two years! He missed the Kulnura meet-up, and Bathurst, two years in a row. And when he does show up, it’s with you. A . . . a brut who doesn’t give a fucking shit about any of this. Or him. I saw you with that cop.” He gave Jack a wobblily glare and another jab with the tumbler in his hand.

  Jack caught Brendan’s arm before he made contact and took the glass from him. Reactions delayed by the alcohol, Brendan jerked away, stumbling so hard he had to catch the wall to stay upright.

  “You know, Brendan,” Jack said calmly as he set the tumbler down on the ledge next to Katie’s empties, “if you’d shown up five minutes earlier, you probably would have gotten the fight you’re after.”

  Katie’s eyes went wide and Brendan winced.

  “You’re right, though. I don’t really care about the cars or the racing, but I do care about Roy. I want him to be happy and at peace here, doing what he loves, so I’m not going to argue with you or fight with you. I’m here for him and that’s all that matters.”

  Jack felt the truth of the words as he said them. He might have been swept away by the sight of an enraptured Ethan when he agreed to come to the Gold Coast, and he may have been seriously doubting his place here for most of the day, but right then, he knew this was where he needed to be—with Ethan. Or Roy Carter. Or even Ethan Blade.

  Wish you were here?

  The words echoed through his head, but this time, they came not just with a pang of dread and pain, but a promise of contentment as well.

  “My apologies for being rude to you today,” Jack said to Brendan. “I hope we can get past this for Roy’s sake.”

  Brendan squinted, as if suddenly not recognising him. Katie, too, looked at Jack like he’d been replaced by a pod-person.

  “Katie, I’m going to find Roy. Do you want to come?” Jack hoped she would take the chance to escape Brendan.

  “No. You go.” Katie gave the drunken man a sad look. “I’ll help Brendan back to his room.”

  Hesitating, Jack only left when Katie shooed him off. As he went, he heard her mutter, “You really blew it, Brendan. You’re not going to race now. Come on, let’s go.” A moment later there was a startled yelp and a gasp, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

  Jack turned, half expecting to find Brendan faceplanted, but it was Katie who was down. Brendan leaned against the wall, head in his hands, saying “sorry” on repeat. People came from all directions but Jack reached Katie first, crouching beside her. She lay on her side, curled around her stomach, gasping in pain.

  “Katie? What’s wrong?” Jack checked for blood and exposed bones, finding neither. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she moaned, unfurling a little. Tears cut across her face. “It was an accident. He stood on my dress and I fell.” Gingerly, she held her left arm to her chest as Jack helped her sit up. “Landed on my wrist. I think . . .” She looked like she might puke. “I think it’s broken.”

  “Katie!” Vicky crashed down on her other side. “Oh my God! What happened? Are you okay?” She went to hug her friend, but Jack held her back before she could crush Katie’s injured arm.

  Then Ethan was there as well, quickly followed by several of the race officials. It all turned into a big production, with Katie and Vicky bundled into a taxi to the hospital while Brendan was discovered vomiting into an ice bucket. After Brendan was disqualified for drinking, he loudly declared it was all Nishant’s fault before slinking away, miserable and alone. Amidst speculation about Brendan’s accusation and Katie’s ability to drive the following day, Jack decided he was over it and told Ethan he was going back to the room. Oddly blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses then Ethan agreed and went with him.

  Once alone, Ethan demanded an explanation and Jack told him an edited version of events, leaving out his own personal revelations and focusing on Brendan’s slurred admissions. He shouldn’t have bothered because he could almost hear the cogs turning in Ethan’s nimble brain.

  “And so you decided that I’ve been sleeping with Brendan,” Ethan summarised coolly. “I told you, I don’t have sex—”

  “Outside of jobs,” Jack finished for him, also finishing his third helping of minibar scotch. “So you said, but what happened today, and last night, if not sex outside of a job?” His restless pacing took him past Ethan.

  Ethan leaned against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed. “That’s different, Jack.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is. Besides, he’s married.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “I think it means—”

  “You know what I mean.” Jack scowled and went for another drink. Where was the acceptance he’d found earlier? Before Brendan went and fucked things up all over again.

  “What’s wrong, Jack?”

  “Nothing.” He unscrewed the cap of another tiny bottle. The scotch was gone and he was on to the vodka.

  “Don’t, Jack.” The British accent was back and brooking no argument.

  Whether the “don’t” was about the denial or the drink, Jack wasn’t sure, so he put the little bottle down and sighed. It was like he’d swallowed razorblades and now they had to come out again. “I was jealous, okay? I saw you with him, being all happy and car-gasming and it bugged me that I wasn’t a part of it. That he understood that part of you and I don’t. And let’s not even mention Vicky.”

  Ethan’s lips twitched like he did want to mention Vicky, but all he did was uncross his arms and grip the counter behind him. Gripped it until his knuckles went white. “How do you think I felt seeing you with Aaron? I know I’m not the only person you see, Jack, and it’s fine. I understand. I was simply . . . surprised that you would . . . look for someone here.”

  Jack opened his mouth to explain there hadn’t been anyone else for months and that there wasn’t going to be anyone else again, but nothing came out. His throat felt too torn up from confessing his jealousy. Nothing with potentially sharp edges was going to come up until it healed. So he sidled closer to Ethan, cautiously, in case he was way off base and got a fist in the throat. Ethan went still. Jack froze, too, wondering if four drinks would slow his reflexes enough for Ethan to pin him without any trouble.

  “I wasn’t looking—” It was the truth, but it had some potentially dangerous angles, so Jack went with a slightly less hurtful but no less true line. “I’m with you. I’m here for you. Aaron was . . . he was just someone I could talk to. I mean, you have Brendan and the women, and I was . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Being childish?” Ethan cast him a wary side-eye.

  “No. Yes.” Jack’s cheeks heated. “I was lonely. I’m not used to—” sharing you, but that was deadly too. “To seeing you like this. I’m sorry.”

  After a long, terrifying silence, Ethan shifted enough to touch his shoulder to Jack’s. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have acted as I did this afternoon. I jumped to the wrong conclusions as well.”

  Jack let out a shaky breath, then nudged Ethan gently. “You know I wouldn’t have hurt Brendan, right? I just needed him to not be near you.”

  “I know.” Pushing away from the counter, Ethan stretched and headed for the bathroom.

  “And?” Jack prompted.

  “And what, Jack?”

  “And you wouldn’t have hurt Aaron, right?”

  Ethan kept walking and just before he stepped into the bathroom, gave a little shrug.

  Oh, shit.

  Then Ethan’s evil chuckle cut through Jack’s sudden worry. Biting back a curse, Jack muttered, “Crazy bastard,” and went to get changed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Race day was overcast but the endless weather checks kept saying there was very little chance of rain. Which meant the pre-race entertainment went ahead. There was a Mini Cooper race, the tiny cars driven around the track by local celebrities, followed by a performance from a band Jack hadn’t heard from for at least
ten years. The famous, gold-bikini-clad Surfers Paradise Meter Maids made an appearance, putting coins into mock parking meters set up beside the race cars lined up in pit lane.

  The turnout for the actual race was spectacular, every seat filled and crowds of people standing five or more thick at the barricades. Thankfully, there was a platinum grandstand reserved for the drivers and their teams. Brendan was absent, as were Vicky and Katie—who wouldn’t be driving any time soon with her broken wrist—so Jack found himself rather aimless as Ethan retreated to do a final check on Victoria. Jack spent a while following Todd Calhoun around, just for the fun of it, grimacing as the man schmoozed on anyone who looked like they had spare cash to drop on a new car for him while Calhoun’s very capable companion was nowhere to be seen. Just before the main race, Jack went down to pit lane to check on Ethan.

  “How’s she looking?” Jack asked as Ethan ran a sheepskin glove over the already gleaming paintwork.

  “Good. No one tampered with her overnight.”

  Jack knew better than to ask if Ethan was serious. He hadn’t lasted sixteen years as a notorious assassin without developing a few paranoias.

  “And you? How are you doing?”

  Ethan held up a hand. It was steady enough to rest a brimming champagne flute on.

  Satisfied, Jack hung around while Ethan made his final preparations. When it was time for the cars to get on the track, Jack solemnly accepted Ethan’s sunglasses in exchange for his helmet.

  “You’ll stay for the race?” Ethan asked from behind the visor.

  Jack startled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You haven’t ogled any surfers yet.”

  Pretending to adjust the helmet, Jack leaned in and said just loud enough for Ethan to hear, “Too busy ogling Aston Martin drivers.”

  For a moment, Ethan’s gloved hands touched Jack’s chest, then they pushed him back playfully and he got into Victoria. Jack closed the door and thumped the roof of the car twice, stepping back when Ethan started her up.