The Blind Date

by Alice Ward

  The problem was, the racing intruded most of the time. It was a huge part of my life in Daytona.

  And then I had to go and fuck Locke on the beach.

  When the initial anger went away, I could see it in Brody’s eyes. Overwhelming disappointment. If he’d been where I now was, he’d have done things differently. He must have thought I didn’t think I was good enough to hold the sponsorship on my own, so I felt like I owed Locke more.

  I didn’t know how I could explain that that wasn’t the case.

  At least, it wasn’t my case. I couldn’t speak for Locke. I was ridiculously attracted to the man, unable to stop myself. But it felt like more than just sex. As different as we were, I felt like Locke was the only one who got me. We were both competitive. We both had siblings we were close to, who often drove us crazy. And better than anyone, he seemed to understand what I was going through, and what I had going on underneath my layers, layers no one else had ever bothered to peel back.

  When the car dropped me off in front of the massive structure, I walked inside, hoping I’d know where to go. Thankfully, Laura was there. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, very dressed down for her since all I’d ever seen her in before were pantsuits and heels.

  “Hey there, Emma!” she said brightly, looking up from her phone. “Glad you’re here on time. We’ve only got two hours here, and I want to make sure you get the most out of it.”

  The woman must have dreamed up schedules in her sleep, she was so pinned to them. I nodded and followed her in.

  My first time here, during my first trip to Daytona, I’d come through the place, marveling at all the décor, the cars, and the sheer vastness of the place. This time, I focused straight ahead of me, afraid I’d lose my nerve if I took a look at all the walls, which were covered with memorabilia from all the great drivers. When I got to the garage, where I saw Jonesy, Tom, and Albert, I relaxed, finally able to take a big breath.

  It only lasted for a second.

  Because my eyes suddenly landed on my car.

  Before, I’d only seen mock-ups, but this was the real thing. It was a black Ford Fusion and so freaking shiny. It had the yellow UnCaged logo on the hood, complete with lightning bolts breaking apart a cage, and a bright yellow 77 on the doors. The car reminded me of a bumblebee. It was damn hot.

  And mine.

  I took in a shaky breath.

  “Like it?” Laura asked, leaning in.

  I nodded. “Oh. Yes.”

  “Go check it out. Get comfortable.” Laura handed me a black helmet and was checking the time on her phone again. “We need to get you out there right now if you’re going to test it.”

  I nodded. Today was all about getting comfortable with my car, making sure all the technical gadgets were working correctly, and everything was the way I liked it, as much as it was about getting comfortable with the track.

  I strapped on my helmet as Brody came strutting up to me. I tensed, but his eyes were on the car. “She’s pretty,” he said, wiping some imaginary dust off the hood. “And she handles real good. You’ll like her.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “You were out in—”

  “A little. Just to get her over here though. I didn’t race the track,” he said, then looked at me for the first time. “Relax, I didn’t hurt her. Can’t race yet anyway. Not until I get a real racing arm.”

  “I wasn’t saying anything,” I said defensively. I was sure it must have been killing him, the thought of racing the Daytona Speedway, a dream he’d had since we were kids in go-karts.

  “Yeah, but I know what you were thinking. She’s mine,” he said, mimicking my voice.

  He almost sounded like he was back to the same old bratty Brody, ribbing me for every little thing. I felt bad for breaking that, but I needed to talk to him about that day. “Hey.” I took a deep breath. “About that day with Locke. I want to talk to you about it.”

  He held up his hands. “Hey, that ain’t any of my business. I’m your pit crew manager, not your psychologist. If you want to play with fire like that, that’s your business.”

  He started to walk away, leaving me feeling like he’d just crapped all over me. He was more than my pit crew manager. He was my brother. And I knew he didn’t want to see me hurt. But what did that mean? That he no longer wanted to be related to me? “But—”

  “Get your ass out there, Em,” he said, frowning at me. “You got one hour and fifty-two minutes left. You’re on the clock. Then we got a lot more to do.”

  I nodded and fixed the strap on my helmet. I guessed we could talk about it later. Maybe, if he still considered me his sister.

  I pulled on my gloves as I fixed myself into the roll cage, settling into the custom molded seat built specifically for me. Wrapping my hands around the leather-covered steering wheel, I inhaled the new car smell deeply. I adjusted the head and neck restraint and leaned back. I looked around, admiring the fancy digital dashboard, wondering what all the buttons on the display did.

  Jonesy peeked in the door a second later. “How goes it?”

  “I need to get this little bugger figured out,” I said, tapping the display. Geez, this was all bells and whistles, nothing like my old car. I wasn’t quite sure that “more” meant better in this instance. It was kind of intimidating.

  “We’ll get it taken care of,” he told me. “Your radio working?”

  We tested it until I could hear him being piped into my ear. I gave him the thumbs-up through the window net.

  “Let’s get you out on the oval. Remember, the banking’s a lot different than you’re used to, a lot steeper, so take it easy at first. Don’t go nuts your first turn. Have fun out there, okay?”

  “Right.” Of course, I knew Daytona, but knowing the stats and actually driving it were totally different things. I fastened my six-point harness and adjusted the seat for comfort. Then I pressed lightly on the gas, and the car lurched forward.

  Damn, it had some pickup, even livelier than my baby, Killer, back home. I could get used to that.

  I signaled to Jonesy that I was ready, and he guided me out to the oval.

  When I got out to start, I felt like I had been swallowed up by a gigantic fish. The biggest place I’d ever raced was Arizona, and that was nothing compared to this. This course was two and a half miles, compared to the one-mile track at ISM. And yeah, the banking was definitely steeper and would take some getting used to. I almost felt like I was in danger of tipping over. I’d seen it on television a hundred times, but nothing could adequately have prepared me for what it was like, sitting in a race car, on the starting line of the track. The stands, the oval, everything was huge. Overwhelming.

  And not only that, Dale Earnhardt, Sr. had crashed and died in this very spot.

  This was the Holy Grail of racing, something few drivers ever saw. I had to bite my lower lip hard to keep from crying over the sheer immenseness of it all.

  Then it was Brody’s voice being piped in through my earpiece. “Ready to rock and roll?”

  I sniffled and took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

  “Stop crying, baby, and get your ass in gear.”

  The tears dried up, and I wanted to punch him again. I smiled. Maybe things would be okay between us, after all.

  And then I was clear, and I was off. I floored it as usual, to get to the front of the pack, though the track was clear for me and only me. I hammered on that pedal, and by the first curve, I already knew it.

  Bigger was definitely better.

  More room to breathe, more room to maneuver. The banking was nothing but a thing. I hugged the first curve tight, going a tad slower than usual, trying to get my bearings on the new course. But by the time I came out of that curve, I was flying. “Whoa, girl, looking good,” Jonesy said into my ear.

  “That’s nothing. Watch this,” I said, jamming on the pedal and easing her forward. By the time I came out of the second curve, I already owned this track.

  And I knew without a doubt that I would love raci
ng the qualifier. Even if I came in at the bottom of the pack, which hell, I planned not to do, the journey would be a fucking blast.

  “How’m I looking?” I asked them as I sailed past pit road.

  Truthfully, I knew the answer. Damn good. I just wanted them to tell me.

  “You’re on fire, girl,” Brody said. “Keep digging. Feel it out.”

  He didn’t have to tell me. I was on and having the time of my life. I whooped as I wrapped around my third time, and this time, I pushed it up to one-eighty. “Hell yeah! I love this course!” I shouted.

  I heard them laughing at me as I gripped the wheel tighter. Once I got the feel for things, I started to loosen up so I could explore the dash. I got the hang of all the readings, most of which I never cared to know, and probably wouldn’t need. But whatever. This car was awesome. This track was awesome. I couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear.

  After my tenth lap, I started to get a little lonely out there. It was fun, riding with the track to myself, but that wasn’t how things would be during the race.

  “Hey, bro,” I said into my mic. “Anyone want to give me a hand out here? Help me test my reaction time?”

  “Yep,” Jonesy replied. “We’ve got someone suiting up right now for you.”

  “Thank you!” I said, stretching my fingers on the wheel. This would be fun.

  To think, I’d been contemplating giving all this up. To think, I’d been wondering whether this was Brody’s game and not mine. Oh, hell no. This was all me. And surprise on top of surprise, wearing lipstick and dresses was me too. I loved this life, racing hot cars and then getting dressed up and making people like Locke Cage lose their marbles by showing a little skin.

  I felt better than amazing. I felt invincible.

  “Coming out now,” Jonesy said to me as I sailed past pit road.

  I saw a white, nondescript practice car in my rearview and slowed to get it in line with me. It sailed up right behind me, sitting right in my draft, a typical Brody move.

  Was it Brody?

  I knew that wasn’t possible. I needed to win a race to get him that expensive racing arm. But the way he drove, right on my ass, mirrored him. Typical pussy move. I wanted to pound on my brake, just to unnerve him.

  Instead, I pushed forward. Then, without warning, the car swerved around me, tapping my right side slightly. Visions of Brody’s accident swirled in my head. Oh, hell no. Was this jerk suicidal? Did he really want to test me like that on a practice run?

  I straightened in my seat and swerved ever so slightly, shaking him off, then I lurched ahead, taking the lead.

  The driver whirled around me on the curve, cutting me off so that I nearly went against the wall. Cursing him, I sped up, but he matched me.

  Then he got behind me, and I knew I was destined for a push. I jammed on the accelerator, not giving him the satisfaction.

  Okay, so this definitely wasn’t Brody. Brody wouldn’t have the guts to do that. In fact, I didn’t know a single driver with the guts to pull that move. “Who is this fucker?” I said under my breath.

  Jonesy and Brody didn’t hear me because they didn’t answer. But I wanted to know because he was really starting to get on my nerves.

  I pushed on, managing to skirt around him on a straightaway, but he got the upper hand again, sailing around me on a curve. This was good. I’d been holding back, I realized. I was in a very expensive car and a little afraid of messing it up. But now…

  “All right, boy. No pussyfooting,” I said. “This is war.”

  Putting on my big girl panties, I floored it, sailed around him, tapping his left back side. He started to fishtail, then lost control and spun out. I pumped my fist, but the next thing I knew, he’d righted himself and was coming after me again.

  “Time’s up, girl,” Jonesy said as I was still grappling with my opponent. Sad that playtime was over, I loosened the strap on my helmet. I realized my forehead was dripping with sweat — I needed to get the vents figured out too — as I wheeled onto pit road.

  I pulled in and opened the door as the white car came up alongside me. When the door opened, a grinning Locke stepped out.

  I just stood there, mouth open.

  “I thought—”

  “I may have been practicing a little more in the simulator,” he said to me. “And I may or may not have done a little racing in the past. I don’t like the actual race, but I love the racing classes.”

  I recalled some of the more suicidal moves he’d made. Simulator nothing — how had he managed to get past the steep banking? What was he, a lunatic? “Are you fucking kidding me? You almost killed both of us!”

  “Not too bad for a pretty boy, huh?” he said with a smirk.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Hmph.”

  He motioned me toward him. “Come on. Tell me how awesome I was.”

  I gave him a superior glare. Even though all I really wanted to do was jump into his arms and kiss him. Brody was watching, along with the rest of the pit crew, so I settled on holding out my fist.

  We bumped.

  “You like your car?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I’m not used to working in such terrible conditions,” I said with a shrug. “But I’ll make do.”

  He was still grinning like an idiot as we peeled off our fire suits. “I feel good,” he said. “Does racing always make you feel that good?”

  I nodded, smiling at what a fucking dork he was. That goofy grin. It was adorable, but also totally goofy.

  He clenched his fists in front of him, like a ball of energy. His eyes were gleaming. “It’s an endorphin overload. I just want to, I don’t know—”

  “Let me guess. Lift weights. Run ten miles?”

  He stared at me. “Is that all you think I am?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Basically. Tell me you were thinking something else.”

  “Okay, no, I was actually thinking of going for a run,” he admitted, his grin going sheepish. He studied his sleek black CageFree and tapped it. “That burned a hell of a lot of calories.”

  I crossed my arms. “You’re a dork.” My CageFree was blinking with my calories burned, eight-hundred-twenty. Okay, that was impressive. “All right. Well, I was going to go for a run on the beach. Figured I’d end up at the training center. Do you want to go with me?”

  He nodded, held out his hand for another fist bump. “You’re on.”

  I stared at him. “This is not a race,” I warned.

  “Of course not,” he said, giving me an innocent look. But when we handed over our gear and started to leave, I caught him mutter just under his breath, “Not yet.”

  We skipped out onto the street, then made our way to the beach. And of course, he made it a race. But even though I wasn’t a runner, I matched him stride for stride. As we ran, he talked easily about racing and how if he’d known it was that great, maybe he’d have gone in a different direction with his career choice. I didn’t speak as much because I didn’t want him seeing how out of breath I was getting.

  When we reached the training center, he said, “So you want to increase your reaction time?”

  I was still breathing hard, bent over, trying to get air into my lungs. “You don’t stop, do you, Energizer Bunny?”

  He shrugged. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  He grabbed a bag from inside the training center, and headed back outside, staying on the concrete. Frankly, his brand of fun was scaring me. But I went along with it because I really wanted to make him suffer like I had at that parkour course. He clearly lived to exercise and didn’t want anyone besting him, the psychopath. And I loved the challenge.

  He dropped the bag and pulled out a small box of ping-pong balls. “Okay, you stand there, hands on your waist. I’m just going to drop these, one at a time, and you have to reach out and grab them. Okay?”

  I nodded and did so. It wasn’t hard. I got nine out of ten, the tenth one a narrow miss, bouncing off my fingertips. “Easy.”

  He reached i
nto the bag and pulled out a pair of fancy sunglasses. “Try these.”

  I fixed them over my head. I realized that something inside them kept blinking, cutting off part of my vision. I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t like them at all.

  It made things harder. The next time, I only got five out of the ten balls. It frustrated me. “Can we do something else?” I asked, ripping off the glasses.

  He leaned forward, a gleam in his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I grew my reaction time at home with kickboxing,” I said. “Usually my brother.”

  He stared at me, astonished. “Kickboxing?”

  “Yeah. So give me your best shot.” I motioned him forward and led him down to the beach.

  “My best—”

  “Yeah. Punch me.”

  “I—”

  “Trust me.”

  He brought his hands up in fighting position. When his jab came, I easily anticipated it. It was slow and way softer than I knew he could do. “You punch like a girl,” I told him. “You could probably be the star of your next advertising campaign. Bring it, Cage.”

  The next one was harder, but still child’s play. “Come on, show me what you’re made of!” I taunted, then ducked his next punch and drove a hard one right under his ribs.

  He staggered back, the breath knocked out of him for a moment. “What—” he started. “How did you learn to hit like that?”

  I shrugged. “Brody. So stop pussyfooting and fight me!”

  “Pussyfooting?” he repeated, circling me, fists raised. “I bet you wouldn’t be on such a high horse if you were distracted. Why don’t I show you some pussy-tonguing instead?”

  The suggestion and resulting mental image made me shiver. I faltered, but only for a second. I whirled and elbowed him in the side. “Nice try.”