Banging Wheels

by Natalie Banks

  It was a long time since he’d had a girlfriend. A real, actual, proper girlfriend. He knew he was good looking, and with his charisma, looks, and penchant for risk-taking, he could get pretty much any girl he wanted. But boy, did it leave him empty. What was it that made him run off like that? He liked to tell himself he was living the life of a playboy racing driver, but deep down he knew the truth was something else.

  He sipped at a scotch on the rocks in a plastic cup, and pondered on those times. He was so different now. All these things had made him stronger, more driven. He’d started lifting weights, taken his childhood obsession of karting more seriously. He pulled back his sleeve to reveal a tattoo, written in fanciful script — crescit sub pondere virtus — in adversity we thrive. He had grit — he wouldn’t have gotten so far without it.

  But he also knew he’d lost something along the way. He’d had sex with plenty of women, but since his ex — the ex — he’d never allowed himself to get close. It was always take them home, get laid, bail before there were messy consequences; before anyone could get too attached.

  Still, his ex was one of the things that drove him on. Her and his supposed ‘best friend’ — the one that she had cheated on him with her when. Not to mention all the other pricks that had wronged him earlier in life. The thought of them all watching while he crossed the line to victory on the big screen was one of the things that truly drove him on, that made him get out of bed on cold winter mornings to hit the racetrack while it was still empty and practice, practice, practice. He’d show them all. The thought of him failing on that big screen was the thing that meant he could never back down, never give way. The further he progressed, the bigger the stakes were.

  There was no way he could let Callie beat him. Was she faster than him? It was hard to say. But he knew for sure which one of them was more ruthless. That had been one of the prime factors in him getting this far. Lots of folk could drive quickly, but how far were they prepared to go? He’d take it further than anybody, and it paid dividends.

  And yet whenever he looked at Callie, he felt a longing. Something stirred inside him. He recognized the feeling — it was the one he’d felt for his ex all those years back. Maybe this was a woman he could love. He could drive a car at breakneck speeds in treacherous conditions, but that feeling of falling for someone was what left him in cold sweats. And the thing he had to avoid at all costs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Callie sat, adjusting her gloves, squirming about in the bucket seat, trying to get comfortable but itching to get out there onto the smooth, flowing curves. She could drive on anything, but this would play into Drake’s hands. Still, there was one thing in her favor.

  Out, through the slit in her visor, the sky was dark — black almost — and everyone in the pit lane was under an umbrella. It was her favorite weather. Not just for driving, either — she loved going out in the rain and just getting soaked to the skin. People looked at her, but so what? Life’s too short to take cover all the time. Elements are there to be felt, to be enjoyed.

  She thought back to Drake on the podium. “Don’t kiss me,” ha! That was hilarious. She’d have let Drake kiss her. In another universe. One where they weren’t battling for the title. And one where he wasn’t such an asshole.

  There had been a couple of races since then, though, and things were getting tight in the championship. In the first, on an oval, Drake had broken his front suspension when he brushed the wall, leaving her with an easy win, and in the second he made a badly timed pit-stop and finished way down, while she had taken second. Daniels had placed well in both races, too, leaving him looming ominously behind them in the race to be champion. It was all heating up.

  As the rain drummed on the umbrellas, her fingers tapped on the wheel.

  Drake sat in his own car, next to hers in the garage, looking like a picture of concentration. What a jerk. Those points she’d gotten on him in the last few races could prove invaluable come the end of the season. He was a formidable opponent. An outrageous cheat, too, of course. Damn it. Why couldn’t she fancy someone half-decent like Sam fricking Daniels?

  Ozzie came over to the cockpit and leaned in.

  “Race is delayed for an hour. They’re hoping it will ease up.”

  She pushed herself up out of the cocoon and took her helmet off. There was nothing to do but pace about. Drake was sitting on a stool, tapping at a tablet displaying his performance data. He looked up and they accidentally caught eyes before she quickly looked away again. Asshole. There was always something more for him to do. He was like the class nerd. Maybe he was deciding where it would be best to shove her off the circuit. Double asshole. She couldn’t quite believe she’d allowed him inside her. What had she been thinking?

  Outside, in the rain, officials walked around, talking, discussing, looking up at the sky, looking at their watches, hiding under their umbrellas. Sure, they had special tires for the wet weather, with big grooves cut into them, but even they had their limits.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Ozzie came back in with some news.

  “Rain’s here to stay, so we have to go.”

  She wriggled back into her own vehicle to the sound of Drake’s car being fired up next to her, before it settled down into a low, menacing rumble. It was show time. The revs changed and he pulled away, the flashing red taillight — obligatory in wet weather — beating like a pulse as he left the safety of the garage and went out into the storm.

  Drake had set the second fastest time in the dry qualifying run, while she was only fourth. She’d never raced on this particular circuit before, so she’d had to learn all the lines and braking points. You don’t just think, “Oh, I’ll brake now”; you find the optimal braking point and then use a reference point as a reminder of where it is. It could be the marker board telling you how many yards it is until the corner, or something less obvious like an advertising hoarding or a particular tree. You always find something. But it changes subtly as your fuel load lightens through the race and your tires get worn. And it changes drastically with the rain. At least that was something of a leveler — they’d all be guessing somewhat on that first lap or two.

  Now it was her turn to head out. The familiar low level braraaaaarp of the engine resonated through the garage as her engineer started the car and she blipped the throttle. It was time to go. She exited the antiseptic fluorescent lighting of the garage and headed out into the gloom.

  The sky was an evil shade overhead. She loved driving in the rain, but there was something ominous about this. She felt a shiver as she headed down pit road. Soon they were circulating, ready for the off, the treaded tires spitting water about at a low level, but as they came onto the straightaway and hit full speed, all that changed. Suddenly, the tires were ejecting water in huge arcing plume, creating a wall of spray behind each car. The cars in front vanished behind an opaque screen of water.

  They were away.

  The rain pelted her overalls and coursed back from the front of her visor in jagged rivulets. At these speeds, rain doesn’t appear to fall — it just hangs in the air waiting for you to collect it.

  She slithered around the first corner, adjusting to the grip levels, matching up fuel weight with cold tires and water levels. She was checking ahead and checking her mirrors, but in all directions it was just a watery void. Most normal people put in this situation would be grateful to make it around a circuit like this intact. But racing drivers are a special breed. It’s not enough to survive — you’re looking to compete, to excel, to win.

  At only the third corner, she met with an incident — as she made a smooth turn to the left, her instincts told her to straighten up, which she did. Suddenly a car out of nowhere came sliding past her on the inside, completely out of control, brakes fully locked, exiting the track in a half-spin. Adrenaline fully flowing now, she eased back onto the line — sudden movements get punished in this weather, as whoever that was had just proved.

  Ahead of her was only spray —
the water thrown into the air by Sam Daniels’ car. She knew that because she spotted a flash of yellow from his car in the slower corners, but otherwise it could have been anyone. Behind her... who knew? Her mirrors were just full of her own spray. Anything could be going on. Each time she came into the slow, hairpin bend, she took a moment to look across and get a feel for the spread.

  Now it was time to attack. This was a winnable race for her, and she needed to take every chance she could. Drake wouldn’t be letting up — that was for sure — and these were the conditions that favored her. She had to make the most of them.

  In these conditions, you don’t drive by looking forward so much as sideways, using your knowledge of track-side buildings, trees and marshal posts. She settled into a rhythm, and then began closing in on Daniels, the spray pelting her as she got nearer. She was driving blind, by instinct almost, hoping to heck that he wouldn’t lose his nerve and brake too soon. It was almost impossible to overtake in conditions such as this, but she’d never let that stop her trying. This was what had got her so far in the first place.

  The spray ahead lightened suddenly as she approached a turn. Sam Daniels had missed his braking point and was tiptoeing around the outside of the corner, trying desperately not to slide off the track. Callie took her chance to pass, squeezing the throttle as much as she dared, the back-end of the car threatening to step out and throw her into oblivion at every moment. They exited the corner neck and neck, meaning it was a drag race down to the next corner, but she had the inside line. Sam fought for as long as was sensible, then gracefully gave way. He was a bit of a soft touch, that Daniels character, but you could trust him not to screw things up for the both of you.

  So much of motor racing is about trust. Trust in the other person’s ability, sure, but trust in the other person’s intentions, too. When you make the pass, and it’s obvious you’ve got the upper hand, the other driver has two options: they can let you pass or they can screw it up for both of you. Daniels was the former. Unfortunately, someone much closer to home was the latter.

  For the first time in the race, Callie had clear visibility. A plume of water some way down the road was the next target, but she had to catch him first. Was it Drake, or was it Sergio? Hard to tell at this range. Neither of them were easy customers. Sergio was a tough son-of-a-bitch to pass; she knew that from watching the rerun of the previous race. But it was Drake who would be the real problem.

  She got in her flow and started putting in clean laps, and slowly began to reel in the car ahead. It would be a strange thing to do for anyone but a racing driver. You’re safe and comfortable and doing fine, and yet you go out hunting for the danger and the peril, because you’re a driven person. And driven she was. Third place wasn’t good enough for Callie. Nor was second. It was first every time. She found it hard to explain to her friends, but she wanted to win, dammit. She wasn’t a good loser.

  Finally, she reached the spray of the car ahead, and started having to look sideways again, driving way out of her comfort zone. As they turned the corner she got a flash of the livery — it was Drake — but this just confirmed what she’d already worked out. He had this smooth, flowing style that she could tell from a mile away. He never braked too hard, never threw the car about, never veered — well, except when she was trying to pass him. She thought about his hands running down the curves of her body, about him kissing his way back up the middle. She thought about that glint in those gorgeous eyes of his that betrayed his humanity. It was like there were two different Drakes. Or one of them was a damn big facade.

  This was going to be trouble, but she had to go for it. Go for the pass or go home. The one benefit she had was that of the element of surprise — Drake’s mirrors would be as full of spray as her own were. Finally, as they came into the hairpin bend, he glanced over and clocked her presence. It changed little — all the momentum was with Callie. Right in his spray, she pressed and pressed, trying to force him into an error. The margins were so tight, and there was no room for mistakes. Drake changed his driving style to be more defensive in nature, meaning he went slower, but was harder to pass. Callie knew she’d have to try something different. She noticed that every time they went into the last corner, he took it deliberately slowly to force her to back off. So instead she pre-empted him. She backed right off first, then accelerated through.

  “Got you now!”

  As she exited the corner, she eased out from out of the wall of spray and pulled alongside. The two cars screamed down the straight, firing water up behind them, like the tails of two magnificent birds.

  Come on! Come on!

  Callie willed her car to go that tiny bit faster. But it was no use — they were neck and neck. Inseparable. There were mere inches between the spraying tires, the wet bodywork almost begging to come into contact, yet determined to stay apart.

  The next corner was rapidly approaching — a fast left-hander with only one clean line through it. There was no room for two. One of them would have to back out, and it wouldn’t be her. She’d had enough of his bullshit — it was time to get down and dirty with him and show him who was boss.

  As they got closer and closer, he flashed her look and she flashed him one back. This was a game of chicken if ever there was one. One of them had to yield or it would all end in disaster.

  Give it up, you madman!

  This turn was like a bravery detector — flat out and hold on for dear life. There were no half measures here — you had to go in hard and fast, completely committed.

  The corner arrived.

  Neither of them lifted.

  Contact.

  Suddenly the road was no longer ahead of her.

  Water... paintwork... flailing tires... tarmac... flying gravel... sky... ground... sky... ground... sky... ground...

  And then nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Darkness.

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  Drake tried to open his eyes. Were they stuck shut, or were his commands not getting through? Finally, light seeped in through the gaps, cold and hard.

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  He blinked, and blinked again. His eyelids clearing the mucous, the world becoming progressively less blurred, a blink at a time. He was lying down, semi-propped up, in some kind of scratchy cotton.

  His eyes cleared some more. Hospital. He was in a hospital. Why? He felt pain breathing in — was that related? Then his memory started to warm up. What was he doing last? He got a memory of being on a plane. Was it a plane crash? No, he remembered landing — must be after that. He searched around in his memory, for something more recent. Putting on his overalls in an RV, rain drumming on the roof. Okay, a wet race. Did he drive in the race? Yes, that was it. He remembered the mist, the looking sideways. That was it — he was racing. Did he win? He searched for a memory of the podium and found nothing.

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  Wait — he collided with someone. He got an image of trying to pass someone, a memory bound together with the emotion of utter determination.

  Whose was the other car, though? He played it back again in his mind, fishing for the clues amid his brain’s piecemeal offerings. It was a blue car. What were the blue cars? Oh yeah — his own team. Shit. That wasn’t good. Then the rest of it came back in a flurry — a woman with her helmet off in a pit garage, shaking her hair out. Oh yeah. Her. The beautiful enemy.

  But if he was in the hospital, what had happened to her?

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  He sat up quickly. Too quickly — a stab in the chest area arrested him. He felt his chest with his hand — heavy bruising, or maybe broken. He was having to take shallow breaths in order to breathe at all.

  He tried again, slower this time. Grimacing and holding his breath, he eased up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He was in a pristine room with a single bed. With another surge of pain, he pushed himself to a standing position, the floor cold and h
ard to his bare feet.

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  Sensing he was still tethered, he pulled the heart rate clip off his finger and gingerly began walking, his head banging. It felt like he was drunk. He emerged into a corridor of sorts, where he could hear activity but see none. He continued walking on, and took a gamble on the next door.

  It was a linen cupboard. She probably wasn’t in there.

  He pressed on, slowly but decisively, and tried the next one, opening it slowly. And there she was, the shock of blond hair unmistakable from the back. Flat out and dead to the world.

  Jesus.

  He drifted silently into the room.

  ...beep... beep... beep... beep...

  She was alive, thank God. She looked a serene mess, beautiful but whacked out cold. Was this his fault? He watched her chest rise and fall. Here she was in front of him. This enemy and erstwhile lover. She was just another human being. She looked so, so vulnerable.

  He brushed some errant strands away from her face, feeling powerless to help her. She murmured, and he pulled away, not wanting to wake her.

  You stupid idiot. You could have killed her.

  He padded back through the corridor to his own bed. He needed rest, but he couldn’t get it — his mind was too active. He replayed the accident again and again. He tried arguing against it, but in reality, he knew the truth. Dammit, why couldn’t he back out? Why was it all or nothing? Hey — maybe this was why he was a racing driver, and other people weren’t. But then other drivers wouldn’t have had the same accident. No — this was something specific to him.