Chapter 4: I will figure it out

Cian ruffled his hair just once before letting go, giving a curt order. "Dry off."

Eoin held on to the blanket, set his wet shirt aside, and wiped the water from his body. He watched Cian turn the heating dial, and warm air flooded in, quickly warming the car.

That done, Cian swung the wheel to the right and the Bentley drew a graceful arc through the rain. The LED headlights blazed as they turned onto the main road.

Eoin sat wrapped in the blanket in the passenger seat, silent, now and then sliding a glance at Cian from the corner of his eye and quickly looking away, lost in thought.

Cian said, "Aren’t you going to ask where we’re going?"

Eoin said, "Where are we going?"

Cian said, "We were meant to go racing, but first we need to get you some clothes."

He glanced with distaste at the shirt Eoin had taken off and sneered. "That cheap high street rag would only embarrass me if I brought you out in it."

The system wanted Eoin to feel humiliated. From what Cian could tell, Eoin was a top student, proud, with a lot of self respect. The meticulous way his clothes had been washed until they faded showed that even in poverty he did his best to keep up appearances. He couldn’t bear to have his shortcomings pointed out, so Cian pointed them out bluntly, certain that it would sting.

He couldn’t act out anything physical, so he had to be harsh with his words to stay in character.

Sure enough, Eoin turned to look at him, his expression unreadable, and said nothing.

Cian hadn’t expected an answer. He drove into the underground car park of the shopping centre, stopped the car, pulled out the key, and got out. "You’re too much of a state to come in. Just give me your sizes."

Eoin looked up and slowly recited three numbers.

Cian turned the numbers over on his tongue, stole an awkward glance at Eoin’s waist, and thought, It really is that slim.

He’d seen it on the first day, but Cian prided himself on being a gentleman and had only glanced before looking away. Now, hearing the exact figures, he couldn’t help marvelling. Of course. The hero of a romance novel, and his figure is flawless.

He went upstairs to the brands the original Cian usually bought. The original never looked at prices when he picked out clothes, so Cian didn’t either. He swept through the shop, chose about a dozen decent looking pieces, snapped his fingers, and had the assistant pack them up and send them down to the car park, where they were stacked on the back seat.

He got back into the driver’s seat and nodded at Eoin. "Pick one and change into it."

Eoin reached for the boxes behind him. They were all matching black and gold, velvet lined and wrapped in protective tissue. He drew out a shirt with a pointed collar, straight sleeves, and firm, tight seams, a classic European gentleman’s cut. He could tell from the feel of it that the fabric was of the highest quality.

He looked at Cian. "You’re giving this to me?"

Cian sneered. "Did you think I’d make you buy it? You couldn’t afford it anyway."

He started the car, irritated. "Seatbelt on. We’ll be late."

Eoin buckled up and turned to look at Cian. The young master’s handsome features stood out against the pouring rain, stern and severe. With a click as the belt locked, Cian turned the wheel, and the Bentley surged forward into the rain.

*

The racetrack was out in the countryside of Kildare, about forty minutes’ drive from Trinity, close to a scenic area. Nearby there was also a championship golf course sprawling over hundreds of acres. The wealthy had claimed big stretches of land in this prime spot, clearing the native growth and planting all manner of expensive species, all under the banner of "natural and unspoilt," for leisure and entertainment.

By the time Cian arrived, the rain had eased to a few lingering drops. He parked and saw someone standing at the entrance in the distance.

Rory Doyle, a cigarette in his mouth and an arm around a girl, was laughing. When he saw Cian he waved and pulled another cigarette from his pocket, offering it. "Young Fitzgerald, you’re late. Fancy a smoke?"

Cian pushed it away. "I’ve been feeling a bit off lately, so I gave them up."

The original Cian liked to smoke, but when the system brought him over, this was Cian’s own body, and he’d never had the habit.

Rory looked him up and down. "That’s rare. You look big and strong, not like someone who’s ill."

Cian said, "It’s an internal thing. You can’t see it from the outside." He glanced behind Rory and changed the subject. "Who’s this lovely lady? Aren’t you going to introduce us?"

Rory drew the girl out from behind him. "Oh, this is Sinéad, my girlfriend. She plays the flute at the Royal Irish Academy of Music. Look out for her."

The girl, bright eyed and lightly made up, greeted him shyly.

Cian nodded and said casually, "If she’s Rory’s girlfriend, then of course I’ll look out for her."

Sinéad smiled along, and once the greetings were done she tactfully stepped back, leaving the two men to talk.

Though he called her his girlfriend, she was really only a temporary companion. Rory didn’t discriminate by gender and always had someone on his arm whenever he went out to play. His tastes changed often, too. He’d once been keen on glamorous older women and men from the entertainment world, preferring the ones with bold red lips. Later he’d dated streamers, going for the young and lively. Lately he’d found those too easy and shifted his focus to cultured intellectuals, which was how he’d ended up with this well behaved girl from the music academy.

As for intellectual presence, though, the first name that came to mind wasn’t Sinéad. It was Eoin from Trinity.

Even with Sinéad on his arm, Rory looked past Cian’s shoulder. "Aren’t you going to introduce us, Young Fitzgerald?"

In the book, this Rory was not a decent man, and Cian had no intention of introducing Eoin to him. He brushed it off. "Just someone I brought along. He’s good looking, so I brought him for the fun of it. Why are we standing at the gate? Aren’t we going in?"

Rory sighed. "We’re waiting for Darragh Byrne to show. He’s just got his hands on a limited edition bike and insisted on riding it here."

The wastrels had their own clique. Cian, Rory, and Darragh were all notorious playboys in Dublin, a little band of kindred spirits.

After a while a motorcycle roared in the distance, and a figure in a helmet and black jacket tore down the main road, then pulled off a drift in front of them and stopped the bike.

Cian had ridden motorbikes too, but his was mid range. It wasn’t cheap, but it was nothing next to what the really rich kids had. Darragh’s was a modified flagship MV Agusta, with a retro round headlight and a streamlined body painted deep red, bold and beautiful.

Darragh took off his helmet and swung off the bike. Seeing Cian eyeing it, he grinned. "Only just picked it up. Class, isn’t it?"

Cian said sincerely, "Class. Let me take it for a spin later."

Darragh said, "Sure."

He hadn’t brought anyone along, and he steered Cian and Rory inside.

It was a typical racing venue, with stands on all four sides of the field, divided into sections A, B, C, and D. It was an informal event put on by the rich kids, and there were very few spectators in the stands.

Cian looked around. "Where are we sitting?"

Rory gave him a strange look. "You’re not getting in the car? The race is about to start. Aren’t you going to your car?"

Cian paused.

He said carefully, "I’m going to the car?"

Rory headed straight for the track as if it were obvious. "Of course, to the car. Feeling knackered? Need a break? You can sit in the drivers’ lounge for a bit, but the last race is nearly over, so be quick."

Cian’s face stiffened. "Driver?"

He kept a straight face while inwardly calling frantically for the system. Feck’s sake, system, the original Cian is a racer? I thought I was just here to watch!

The system’s drowsy voice came back. "I did tell you, the original host was a thrill seeking rich kid. Watching races is no fun, so naturally he did it himself."

Cian said nothing.

He nearly lost control of his expression. "Pal, do you know you need a licence to drive a race car? Do you know that to take part in a race you have to pass training with Motorsport Ireland and sit an exam?"

The system said, oddly, "I know. The original host had a licence."

Cian couldn’t help swearing. "The original Cian had a bloody licence, but I don’t!"

Cian’s family hadn’t been well off. His father had indulged in drink, women, and gambling, his wages had been meagre, and he’d only just scraped by raising Cian, whose finances hadn’t improved until he started working. Cian had never even sat in a race car, and he’d only got his full driving licence two years ago. The cars on the track could top two hundred kilometres an hour, faster than any train in the country. If he tried to drive one he’d probably crash and die in no time.

The system hesitated for two seconds.

To the system, a race car was just a car like any other.

Rory had already reached the entrance and turned back. "What’s up, Young Fitzgerald? Come on down."

If he didn’t go down now, his cover would be blown.

Luckily it was an amateur event for rich kids. There weren’t many spectators and it wasn’t very professional. They were in it for the thrill but not enough to risk their lives, so the speeds weren’t too high.

Cian, hands in his pockets and scowling, walked over to the guardrail. Just then the last few cars of the previous round crossed the finish line, whistling past like streaks of light. Their wheels flung up great sprays from the puddles, and jets of water splashed over Cian’s jacket from a distance.

His expression turned grim.

Of the three, Cian and Rory were the racing drivers, while Darragh didn’t race. Now that the other two had gone, Darragh sprawled lazily in the spectator seats, glancing down now and then. When he noticed Cian’s face, he clicked his tongue and gave Eoin a sympathetic look. "You’re in for it."

Eoin sat quietly and didn’t respond, as though Darragh were talking about someone else. Sinéad, though, couldn’t help asking curiously, "Why?"

Darragh pointed downwards. "Why else? Cian’s not in good form. He’s got a temper, and whenever he loses he takes it out on someone. Last time he brought a small time influencer to a race, and that night he beat her so badly she ended up in hospital. He paid half a million to hush it up. Now he’s in a foul mood before the race has even started. My guess is today won’t end well."

Sinéad gasped.

She was somewhat in the loop and knew about these dirty secrets. Among the rich kids, Cian was known for his especially bad temper and heavy hand. Hearing this, she shot Eoin a look of sympathy.

On the track, Cian had already climbed into the race car.

Since they were all amateurs, it wasn’t exactly professional. The cars were parked on a straight lane outside the main track. After two hundred metres straight ahead and a turn, they would merge onto the main circuit.

Rory pulled on his helmet and turned back. "Young Fitzgerald, are you ready? I’m going to leave you in the dust this time."

Cian said nothing.

As he spoke, the starting gun fired.

Rory gripped the wheel and, as the countdown ended, shot off like an arrow, merging quickly onto the main track.

Cian said nothing.

He pressed the accelerator tentatively.

The car coughed twice and lurched forward a couple of metres.

He said nothing.

The system kindly reminded him. "Host, this isn’t working. You’re blowing your cover."

Cian pressed the accelerator again, and the car spluttered on, creeping forward another two metres.

A million euro race car was being driven like a funfair ride.

Darragh frowned at the starting lane. "Why won’t it go?"

Sinéad gasped and couldn’t help turning to Eoin, her eyes filled with even more sympathy.

By now the fastest cars had completed more than a lap, flashing past like streaks of light and leaving afterimages in their wake. Cian remained on the starting lane, the wind howling in his ears and the roar of engines exploding around him. The cars on the main track raced like lightning.

He couldn’t help swearing.

He yanked out the key and climbed out of the car, muttering curses.

The system piped up timidly. "Host, your character."

A vein pulsed on his forehead. "Shut up, I’ll figure it out."

He took off his helmet and tossed the key to the maintenance crew, then made a beeline through the lounge to the spectator stands.

To be precise, he was heading straight for Eoin.