The Blind Date

by Alice Ward

  Locke was wearing a suit, and they had me in a softly feminine flowered dress. Victoria and Adlar had come up with some ridiculous mock-ups of what I was supposed to look like. I’d gone into a meeting only to be face-to-face with life-sized cardboard cutouts of me, made to look like a runway model. For some reason, they wanted me to be this pretty little desert bloom, feminine and girly off the track, a tough, nimble fox on. They said it would help me appeal to both the UnCaged female and male demographics. They had me wearing lots of flowery shit, all in pinks and oranges and colors that evoked an Arizona sunset. Jewelry, too, mostly turquoise and silver. When I first put it all on, I’d told Victoria that, “I look like G.I. Jane meets Barbie.”

  But truthfully, I kind of liked it. I’d never had much reason to get pretty. Guys back home hadn’t really appreciated me for my looks. They either wanted in my pants or liked the fact that I could change a spark plug and a tire in ten seconds flat. And no, I didn’t like getting makeup caked on and wearing false eyelashes… but I liked looking feminine.

  I liked the way that Locke looked at me when I was dressed like that. No one had ever looked at me like that, with obvious desire, with urgent need.

  And I definitely liked the way his hand felt on my bare knee.

  So I hadn’t complained about the dress. Well, not too much at least.

  But it wasn’t really me. Or maybe, like Locke said, it was just a new me, one I hadn’t explored yet. I couldn’t tell. I had to wonder if they’d have wanted the jean-short and flip-flop me, or if that wasn’t good enough. Locke had made it seem that they wanted me, any way they could get me.

  Or at least, he wanted me. Which turned out to be good enough for me.

  In short, he was the only reason I hadn’t thrown down and stomped out of this place.

  He got me.

  Of everyone here, who’d have thought that the pretty-boy ego with the stick up his butt would’ve been my best confidant and friend?

  “You ready?” Locke said to me, tilting the microphone toward his mouth and tapping it a couple times to make sure it was working. His brow wasn’t an oil slick like mine, and his hand on my knee was completely dry. It was clear he’d done this a hundred times.

  I nodded. Start your engines.

  “Then let’s get this show on the road,” he said, taking his hand from my knee and rubbing his palms together. “Welcome, everyone, to the headquarters of UnCaged Fitness here in gorgeous Daytona Beach, Florida. For the past seven years, UnCaged Fitness has been devoted to bringing fitness to people from all walks of life. Devised by me and my sister, partner, and Chief Operating Officer, Laura Cage, UnCaged has grown from a small, garage-run business not fifteen miles away from this spot, to a billion-dollar company with worldwide reach. Our products are sold in over sixty-three countries, and UnCaged is the most recognized fitness brand in the world today.”

  I listened, feeling my palms slicken as he described his company. It was obviously his passion. I’d always known that. But hearing him talk about starting it in a garage only ten years ago, I started to think about Locke as a boy. I’d come to know Locke’s tongue intimately, but I didn’t really know him. What had he been like?

  And why did it matter? I needed to stay away from him so that I didn’t get any more entangled with him than I already was. Obviously, he agreed, because he’d kept his distance too. But that didn’t stop me from fantasizing about that night, to an unhealthy degree.

  “But enough about us,” he said, smiling cordially at the reporters. “Today, you’re here for a very important announcement.”

  He raised a hand toward me and cameras started to flash.

  He looked down at the index cards in front of him. “Once in a very long while do you get to meet a very special athlete that defies expectations, smashes boundaries, and elevates a sport.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Whoa. Was he talking about me?

  Of course, he’s talking about you, dummy.

  “Emma James is a name that few in the racing circuit have heard of, but just you wait.” I started to blush as he began to heap praise on me. He skillfully wove his way around my disastrous performance in Iowa and played up my placing in Kansas, making me sound like I was Dale Earnhardt incarnate. “And the funny thing about it is, she almost didn’t get her chance. She was on the pit crew for her brother, driver Brody James, when he sustained a career-ending injury. Since then, she’s been racing in his place, even having him serve as her pit crew chief. Her boundless love for her brother is what motivates her to race every day.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously as my eyes shifted to the doorway. Brody was standing there. He’d just gotten fitted for his bionic arm last week and was going to start therapy to learn how to use it this week. You’d think that would make him happy. But no, he just stood there, leaning against the door with his hat low over his eyes so I couldn’t see them. All I could see was his deeply etched frown.

  I looked away.

  “For a long time, since UnCaged has been headquartered in what is known as the birthplace of NASCAR, we’ve been wanting to bring on a special athlete who embodies the brand name.”

  Athlete? So did he finally think race car drivers were athletes or was that just him talking a good game for the reporters?

  “Today, we’re announcing that we have partnered with this very talented person in our newest initiative to empower women and break boundaries with our UnCaged products. Presenting the new face of our Drive Like a Girl campaign, Emma James.”

  Polite applause. More flashes going off. I blinked during each one, a plastic smile on my face. After the applause died down, he opened the floor to questions.

  The first question came from a woman in the front row. She was the sole woman in the room and one of the only people smiling. She identified herself as Luanna Raines from Empowering Women Quarterly. “Congratulations, Miss James. This must be so exciting for you, and I as a woman, am proud as heck to see women getting their due as professional race car drivers.” I relaxed substantially. She was a friend. “I was looking at the press kit, and your next race is only weeks away. The Daytona qualifier too. Go big or go home, huh? How are you feeling? Nervous?”

  I leaned into the microphone. “No, ma’am. I’m more nervous being up here in front of all you folks than I ever get behind the wheel.”

  A bit of laughter rose up across the room.

  “And you feel like you’re ready?” she followed up.

  I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure. I’d stuck to the regimen Locke had given me, and Rinaldo, my new trainer, had added in even more. It wasn’t as exhausting as it used to be, which meant I was getting stronger. I could see it on my physique — in only two weeks, my body was already changing, growing tighter. And yes, I’d managed to get up to four hundred on the simulator. But I wouldn’t be sure if I was ready for a five hundred until I was out there on race day. If I even managed to qualify for the Daytona 500. “Yes, ma’am.”

  A larger man with a beard raised his hand. “Has your time in the gym been more intense since you’ve partnered with UnCaged?”

  I’d say. Yes, the workouts were hard for sure, but nothing could match the intensity of what happened that night with Locke. I forced away the image of his hands molding to my naked breasts, working the nipples into stiff points.

  “Yes, it’s been intense,” I said, sneaking a glance at Locke. “Different.”

  He must have been thinking the same thing I was thinking because the second I said that, his hand was on my knee again. Goose bumps sprang out on my body, and I instantly became aroused.

  I felt a heat in my chest and knew I was flushing there as someone asked, “Miss James, your brother sustained a terrible injury in his final race. Aren’t you the least bit worried that will happen to you?”

  I tensed and looked over the heads of the crowd, trying to meet the eyes of my brother. I doubted the reporters even realized that he was in the room.

  Locke’s hand stopped movi
ng and just stayed there, steady, being the calming force again. “Of course, there’s always that danger. But I don’t let it get to me. You got to keep moving forward. Like my daddy says, if you give up every time you take a wrong turn, you’re gonna find yourself at the tail end of nowhere. I’m more worried that I won’t do well, and I’ll disappoint people.”

  “So you’re racing to honor your brother?” someone asked. “Will you give him your cup if you win?”

  I glanced at my brother. His teeth were gritted so tight I could see the muscle popping in his jaw. I tried to think of something to say that would make him happy. Yes, I would have loved to honor him somehow, but he didn’t want the honor. He wanted to race. He wouldn’t want a trophy I’d won. He wanted to win it himself. “Well, I—”

  “How much pressure do you feel to perform well now that you’ve taken his place?”

  “A lot,” I said before I could be cut off again. “I mean, my brother was a great driver, no doubt about it. If his dreams hadn’t been cut short, he’d be out here. So yeah, I want to do him proud.”

  I glanced toward him again. Now he was pacing toward the window, a flush mingling with the dark stubble on his cheeks.

  I knew that look. He was a volcano about to blow. Why? What had I said?

  A small, wiry man in the front row with a lanyard from the local ABC affiliate said, “So, is there some sibling rivalry perhaps? Jealousy?”

  “Hell yes. Always has been. Don’t get me wrong. He’s proud of me, I think,” I murmured as I watched him, then focused back on my audience and realized what I’d said. “I mean, I know he is. But I know he wants to be out here himself instead of acting as my pit crew chief.”

  “You look like a woman who has a life off the track, and isn’t all about having dirt under her fingernails,” a man with a crew cut asked. “Were you a tomboy growing up?”

  “I am one,” I insisted. “Don’t let this dress fool you.”

  “What are you wearing?” a man in the back row asked.

  “Um.” I looked down. “Clothes?”

  The reporter laughed. I frowned. “But who is the designer? Dolce?”

  “Um. Target?” I shrugged, saying the first brand that came to mind. “I don’t really know.”

  More laughter. This time it filled the room. I looked over at Locke, who was smiling too. Suddenly, I felt like the butt of someone’s joke, and I didn’t like it. I shifted in my seat, pushing his hand away from my knee.

  “So, what happens if you have to pee during the race?” the man in the front row asked.

  “Um, well,” I started. Did men have to answer these questions? “You just do it. Right in your uniform. I mean, I never have. It feels kind of weird and unnatural, so I just hold it until the end of the race. But I guess I would if I absolutely had to. I can’t really stop off at the lav when I’m on my three-hundredth lap and surrounded by a bunch of other cars.”

  “But what if it’s your time of the month?” a man in the back row called.

  My jaw dropped. Now, I was sure Dale Earnhardt had never had to answer that. I turned to Locke. Hadn’t this gone far enough? But he was just sitting there, waiting for my response, as if nothing was wrong.

  “I’m not going to answer that,” I snapped. “Not on your life.”

  Another man wearing glasses raised his hand to ask a question. “These races are far more intense than anything you’ve competed in thus far. Your first race is the Can Am, the Daytona qualifier, a shorter race. But the Daytona 500 is grueling. What makes you think that as a woman, you’ll be able to handle the hours of intense concentration necessary to qualify?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think that as a man, you’d be able to handle the task of asking questions without being completely sexist?”

  Locke started to speak, suddenly aware of the dangerous direction the press conference had swerved into. I waved him away.

  “Really, sir, would you ask a male driver that question? Or in your world, is it automatically assumed that men have the powers of concentration that women lack?”

  Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. And the man was smiling wryly, like oh, look at you, aren’t you cute?

  “Your focus is so laser-like that you can’t even tear yourself away from the fact that I have boobs,” I snapped, pointing to my face as the rest of the reporters continued to buzz around us, pouncing on the uncomfortable exchange. But who cared? This guy was a total jerk. “They’re fucking glands. Get over them. My eyes are up here.”

  I pointed at my temple as the man broke into a laugh and looked around at his fellow reporters, who were also kind of chuckling nervously.

  “And,” I rose from my seat slightly and said to the rest of the group, not ready to concede my soapbox. Now I wasn’t nervous anymore, I was just plain mad. Locke tried to drag my butt back to my seat, but I shook him off. “I’m honestly ashamed of the lot of you. You call yourselves reporters? For your information, it doesn’t matter what the hell I’m wearing, or what my anatomy is. What matters is that I’m going to wipe the track with the asses of every one of my opponents. And you can quote me on that.”

  They all stared at me, most with widening eyes. The asshole who’d asked me about my period wrote something in his notebook and said, “Maybe it’s your time of the month right now?”

  The reporters broke out in hysterical laughter, all except for the one woman in the front row, who was shaking her head, just as dumbstruck as I was about the sexist swing to this conference.

  That was it. Rage bubbling up, I jumped to my feet. Locke tried to hold me back, but I was done. I hadn’t been in many fistfights in the last few years, but I was ready to lunge across that table. I started to go that way when I heard Locke’s voice.

  “Calm,” he said under his breath. “Calm.” I nodded and slumped into my seat as he said, “I’ll remind you all to please stay on topic.”

  I frowned at him. Well, thanks, Locke, that really helps a lot.

  The asshole reporter was on his feet. “The purpose of this conference was to get to know Emma James better. The press kit says that. I believe everything we’ve said has been on that topic.” Then he grinned at me. “And to that end, we’ve learned one thing. Emma James can’t take a joke.”

  I fought back the rage that was threatening to spill over again. Locke had his hand on my knee again, but it was clamped there now, most likely to keep me from rushing away. I could feel the tension in him. He wanted to sponsor a woman potential UnCaged users would look up to and want to emulate.

  Not a loose cannon who shot her mouth off like a jackass every chance she got.

  I was failing him.

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t win.

  I hadn’t known me being a woman was going to be such a big deal. Many other female drivers had paved the way for me, but maybe they had something I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this. I’d always been confident. I’d never cared what the fuck I said to people. But now, I knew I had to watch myself so I didn’t step in it. Brody was born to be behind the wheel, but maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was just born to be under the hood, or in the pit crew.

  I answered the rest of the questions as best as I could, reminding myself over and over to remain calm. Mercifully, the press conference ended a few moments later. As the reporters filed out, Locke turned to me to help guide me out of the room. But I stood up and skulked out, stewing in my own self-doubt, before he could say a word.

  I went out to the parking lot just to get some air. As I did, I looked down at my dress. Stupid dress. No wonder I had no control over myself. I didn’t even feel like myself in this getup. I turned to go back inside, to change into the comfortable jean shorts and t-shirt I’d come in.

  Brody was standing there, shaking his head at me. I nearly groaned and walked in the other direction. I knew from his face that however bad I felt, I was about to be made to feel a lot worse. “What?” I snapped.

  “Something tells me you need to get your ass
back to Wintersburg and get yourself a healthy dose of perspective.” He lifted the tie on the waist of my dress and let it fall. “I think I liked the old Emma better.”

  “My image consultant wants me to appeal to a certain demographic,” I explained sheepishly.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your image consultant? Are you serious?”

  “Well, weren’t you the one who told me I needed to play nice and enjoy everything they give me because I won’t get this chance again? So I’m playing the game.”

  “That doesn’t mean selling out. Geez, Ems, you look and sound like a spoiled bitch, not a race car driver.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t, bro. I don’t need this right now. As if I didn’t already get myself reamed out enough in there.”

  “Right. Where Saint Emma told the world she was racing to honor her poor, disabled brother whose dreams were cut short?” He scowled at me. “Who is this Emma? Who are you trying to fool? You may have gotten the big sponsorship deal using me as your springboard, but—”

  “I did not!”

  “Yeah, you did. Don’t tell me they’d have come after you if it wasn’t for my accident. Everyone pitied you, and that’s how you got this shot. And yet you turn around and become this fancy-pants bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else but doesn’t have a single win yet to show for it.”

  I stared at him, seething.

  “How’d they get you dressing like this,” he said, waving his hand over me. “Heck, you think any of the big guys in the business have image consultants? No, they just wear what the fuck they want and that’s good enough. Why don’t you tell that Cage asshole to shove it?”