Burn

Chapter 33: Violated

LILY

Since we're about two hours from Montreal and because we probably shouldn't be seen arriving at the track together, Max takes a helicopter to the city, while I ride in the back of the SUV. He has far more obligations than I do, a never-ending schedule of autographs, appearances, and training sessions.

I'm merely a figurehead, I've come to realize, someone who approves memos and listens to reports. And, good god, there are reports. Everything from the possible tire strategies of the race to the cost of lug nuts to whether the team needs to hire additional people for the catering at an upcoming race in Italy.

The team principal — in our case, Jack the Australian — handles the leadership, racing and day-to-day decisions.

The team owner does none of that. It's all fine with me because I'm used to the corporate world. Unlike the Formula World teams owned by car manufacturers, Onassis is a relatively small team, with only a few hundred employees. It's much smaller than the gaming company I worked for, and much more manageable, as far as I can tell.

I'm in the car, in Montreal traffic, on my laptop reading a report about the weather for the rest of the week — we contract with a local meteorologist before every race so we can determine which tires to use — when Tanya calls.

I tap on the Bluetooth attached to my ear. "Hey there! How are you?" Goodness, I sound more bubbly than usual.

"Lily? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm better. Steroids are miracle drugs. I assume you saw the hospital photos."

"I did." She pauses, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she's about to say something else.

"And?"

"Have you seen Drive Dirty today?"

That's a website devoted to all things motorsport. "No. I've been reading the weather report. Looks like it's going to rain hard this weekend."

"Yeah, uh, I think you need to check it out."

"Why?" My stomach suddenly feels like it's plummeting to my knees.

"There are some photos. Now, mind you, they're not super clear, so it's difficult to tell if they're authentic, or even if —"

"What photos?" I interrupt.

"They're taken with a long lens, or maybe a decent cell camera but zoomed in, and they're quite fuzzy. I think we should deny everything."

I swear out loud and type the Drive Dirty address into the website bar. "What. Photos. Are. You. Talking. About." I growl.

The website pops up, and I gasp.

Max Becker Takes a Steamy Swim With Team Owner Lily Onassis

There, in full color, is a grainy photo of me and Max, inhaling each other's faces while swimming in the lake. Our faces are obscured and we look like grey blobs, but it's also easy to tell it's Max due to his muscular shoulders and distinct nose. I'm out of focus, but of course, I know it's me.

But will the world know it's me? That's the million-dollar question.

"Gah," I say aloud, then let out a muffled groan.

"So here's the good news," Tanya says.

"There's good news?"

"It's not a clear photo. You can't really tell it's the two of you. I think because your hair is wet, it looks more like two Loch Ness Monsters. Well, if one monster had boobs."

"Do you think this is funny?" I'm furious now. At Tanya and at myself, for being so weak-willed. For needing Max so much that I'd put us — and my father's team — in this position.

"No, I don't. But I don't want you to panic. We're going to say it's not the two of you."

"But it's easy to piece together. Just hours after this photo was taken, Max and I were spotted coming out of a hospital together."

"Well, this is true. I think we need to play up your poison ivy issue. Say that you're extremely allergic."

"How is that going to help anything? No one's going to focus on that because there's actual evidence that Max and I were sucking face in a lake." I'm shrieking now, and look up to see the driver wince into the rear-view mirror.

This day is just getting better and better.

"Look, let's discuss once I get to the track, okay? Come up with a strategy."

"Good deal. Don't worry, Lily. This isn't the worst scandal I've ever managed."

I roll my eyes and end the call. Almost immediately I receive another, this time from Dad. Fear stabs me in the heart, and I don't have the courage to answer it.

I let it go to voicemail and stare out the window all the way to the track, wondering if Max has seen the photo. An idea flashes in my head, and I take out my phone, my thumbs flying across the screen.

Mom, please tell Dad that I'll call him later. I'm super busy this morning.

Mom sends me a thumbs up and, inexplicably, a flip-flop emoji. "What's that supposed to mean?" I mutter aloud.

As I stare at the screen, another text from Mom pops up. It's of a beach umbrella, the sun, and a blue wave. Can you guess where we are today?

I let out an exhale. Mom and Dad at the beach is the perfect place for them. Maybe she's even distracting him from the headlines about me and Max. One can only hope.

My car maneuvers through various checkpoints and security booths on our way into the track, then parks near the team's compound. I thank the driver-slash-bodyguard, a guy who is employed by Max.

When the guy, whose name is Donnie, takes a few steps alongside me on my way inside the team's makeshift office, I turn and stare up at him as we walk. He's like a giant fireplug with legs, he's so muscular and large. That's odd. Why is he sticking close to me?

"I think Max will be in the garage. That's over to the right. I'm headed to the office, that way, so thanks again."

"Max told me to walk in with you," Donnie says.

"He did? Why? I'm only going a few hundred feet into the—" my voice dies when I make eye contact with one reporter a few feet away. He speeds over to me, and as if he's the first of many swarms of insects, is joined by a group of journalists with cameras, notebooks, and video equipment.

Dammit, this entire area is open to anyone with a pit pass or a press badge.

"This was why," Donnie replies gruffly.

He tries to block them from my path, but there are too many. I shake my head, trying not to make eye contact, trying not to listen to any of the individual questions because I know they'll be too upsetting. But it's impossible.

They know. They know about me and Max.

"No questions," Donnie shouts, and I wonder if Max told him to say that. Probably I should be grateful, but all I feel is ashamed.

They don't stop screaming into my face, and by the time we run inside, my nerves are frayed and I feel raw, violated, even. I slip into the little office alone and shut the door, gasping for breath. The echo of the probing questions ring in my brain, and it's as if I can't get the looping sounds to stop.

When did you and Max Becker start sleeping together?

Does your father approve of your sexual relationship with Max, his driver?

Doesn't Max have a potential sexual harassment claim against you because you're his boss?