“What story?” I called, sighing with relief as he slowed nearing the car.
“You. Racing Indy.” He pointed to the chassis. “After what happened in Daytona, people will eat that up.”
I bristled. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to race, not defend myself against people—”
“Horseshit.”
I jerked back.
“You’re here to show the world what you can do. And part of that means taking every opportunity to tell your own story otherwise, trust me, they will tell it for you—they will make it up for you.”
I shivered, unable to argue. I’d avoided the press since the incident, yet they’d had no trouble coming up with quite a few engaging articles about what happened between me and Puglisi.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, deciding it was better to get the details before I shot myself in the foot by protesting.
“Nothing crazy. A few photo shoots with the car. An interview or two.” He shrugged. “You’re going to be the only female driving at Indy this year whether you like it or not.”
Frustration flared in my blood. There it was again. Special fascination because I was a woman rather than a driver.
“And I’m trying to not have that be the sole focus—” I broke off as G stepped into the room, our conversation floating through the open doorway and drawing his attention.
“Look, girl, they’re going to talk about it whether you want them to or not. You know you’re a damn good driver. I know you’re a damn good driver. That’s why I’m offering the spot to you. But you’re also a woman and there isn’t a force on God’s green earth that can change that.” He huffed, the exertion of speaking so much taking its toll. “You either take steps forward in your truth or you trip and stumble, avoiding the opinions of others.”
I shuddered, not expecting the resounding veracity of his words to affect me so swiftly and so surely.
He was right.
Just because it shouldn’t matter, didn’t mean it wasn’t the truth.
But more than that, I didn’t have space to argue. Not if I wanted to drive his car.
“Okay,” I said after a few seconds. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Groucho interjected from the background, his eyes darting between Renner and me.
Renner’s head ducked for a second, as though preparing for another battle he wasn’t expecting to have to fight at the moment.
“PR. I want them to know we’re coming. I want everyone to know our team. Sponsors. Spectators. We aren’t like the big guys who have the money to get attention. But now, I think we have a team and a story that can draw in major support,” he replied over his shoulder to the younger man firmly. “And I want you involved, too, G.”
The muscled mechanic winced as though struck. “What are ye talking about?”
“I’m saying that Racer Magazine is sending a photographer next week to grab photos of her and the car and you. They’re going to send someone else out after that to interview you both.”
“No,” G snapped. “Yer the owner. She’s the driver. Ye can be interviewed. I’m not talking to them. The car will speak for itself.”
My mouth opened but nothing came out, my mind too fascinated by his staunch disagreement. This man just wanted to work on the car and go home. He wasn’t interested in the fame. He wasn’t interested in the attention. But he was interested in winning, though he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who cared a whole heck of a lot about money…
G was a puzzle—a pile of parts that belonged to a single engine… if I could just figure out how they fit together.
“G—”
“No, Voigt, this wasn’t part of the deal.” He extended a hand and pointed a finger, tension cracking across his face like hot water poured on ice. “I’m no’ getting involved. Not again. Not now.”
His dissent struck me. The man who brushed me off wasn’t just keeping himself at arm’s length from me. He was keeping himself at a distance from the world.
The realization immediately tumbled into the thought that I was no one special.
And that which should’ve been comforting, instead stung more than I wanted to admit.
“Dammit, Garret!” The older man raised his voice, appearing almost as shocked by his own outburst as I was.
Which was nowhere near as shocked as I was to hear his name.
Garret. The angry Atlas.
I bit my lip, looking at him in a new light. Garret. It fit him.
A name that made me think of old, strong gears, pushing tirelessly forward, all the while begging the question ‘what was he working toward?’
Garret’s nostrils flared.
“It wasn’t a question. Not for you,” Renner continued in a more subdued tone. “You need this more than I do.”
Something unspoken passed between them, but I knew enough of these two men to not waste my time asking what it was; they’d never tell me.
Shifting my weight off my bad ankle, I watched the invisible power struggle rise and then fall as Garret swore under his breath and dragged a grease-ridden hand through his hair, thick locks loosening from where they were held back, dropping like fallen soldiers around the harsh planes of his face.
“Dammit.”
With a low growl, his anger like a belt about to snap, Garret stalked back into the back room, the loud clack and clank of metal dissuading either of us from following him.
“I apologize for him.” Renner cleared his throat. “He can be abrasive.”
I coughed out the urge to laugh, but couldn’t stop from replying, “Yeah, like a bed of broken glass.”
Renner just looked at me strangely for a moment, his head tipped, his eyes perceptive underneath his glasses before a small smile appeared like a blink before it was gone. “He doesn’t like the media, but he’ll come around.”
About as quickly as one was able to pull water from a stone… but I managed to keep that thought to myself.
“I came here to race, Mr. Voigt, not become a publicity stunt—a gimmick.” Even though I’d do what he asked, I needed him to know because that’s what women were reduced to in this world.
Gimmicks.
Another G-word that haunted me.
His head dropped, his feet shuffling on the concrete.
“You know what makes a race car run, Miss Snyder?” he asked with a steady tone.
My brow furrowed, confused at the change in subject. “The engine?” I offered the most obvious answer.
The subtle shake of his shoulders, I would bet, was as close as Renner Voigt ever came to laughter. Always too serious—too focused to understand the importance of humorous relief.
“Sponsors.” One word. A million implications. “Without sponsors, there is no race car. There is no racing.”
Point taken.
And I wasn’t in any position to argue. I didn’t have another choice. If I wanted to race, this was it—my only shot.
And I didn’t want to race. I needed to.
“I understand,” I told him with a subservient nod. “But I won’t answer any questions about what happened at Daytona.”
I was willing to compromise. If it meant being able to race, if it meant crafting my own name, I was willing to compromise and embrace a little more of what made me stand out rather than the skill I’d tried to rely on to blend in.
But there were certain things I wouldn’t share. Certain things I refused to be known for. And I could stomach being accused of not being a good driver. I could stomach people thinking I didn’t belong because I was a woman.
But I wouldn’t stomach being accused of using sexual assault in order to advance my career, and I knew, in this industry—the last bastion of male-dominated sports—it would be the first thing to fly from ignorant mouths.
“We have a unique opportunity here,” he repeated gruffly. “The girl no one thinks should race in the car no one thinks will win.”
My chin dipped. I couldn’t deny the allure of the situation.
“They never thought I belonged,” I told him calmly. “That’s why I’m as good as I am. I’m meant to be on that track… behind that wheel… and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove them wrong.”
There it was again, his piercing stare for just a second before it snapped away like he’d touched a hot stove, pulling off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt.
“There are certain things you can’t change about history, girl. Just like you can’t get on that track and try to make a right turn in a race that runs in lefts.” He settled the frames back on his face.
My arms tightened, the contract crunching against my chest. Renner wasn’t wrong.
Maybe I couldn’t control this sport like I thought I could, but I could control my role in it.
“So, I guess that means I’m going to have to stick around town then?”
His chin dipped. “For a few weeks. Then we’ll meet up again in Indianapolis.”
“Okay.” I swallowed, mentally noting to call my parents and have them keep an eye on my apartment for the foreseeable future.
“So, what do you think, girl? You ready for this?” Eyes that always fought to be shielded or elsewhere dug into mine.
I should’ve thought about it.
I should’ve taken the contract and looked it over again.
But none of it mattered. Not the money. Not the details. Nothing mattered except it was my ticket to the track—my ticket to freedom.
I lifted my chin up a notch, searching for any emotion contained in the steely gray glint of his gaze and coming up empty.
“Do you have a pen?” I needed to do this.
“Of course.” He flinched at a loud clank coming from the engine room, Garret still working off his frustration on the metal. “This way.” He motioned me back toward his office. “I’ll go over a few of my ideas with you, there are a few sponsors I have my eyes on.”
I glanced one last time at the back room, seeing no trace of the stony, seething mechanic inside.
“Is he going to be okay with it?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “He seems pretty stubborn.”
It was the same urge I felt inside the car—the need for speed. The need to push the limit. And with Garret, it was the need to know more.
I didn’t look at Renner, afraid my expression would reveal just how badly I wanted to know.
My breath released in a steady stream when he replied, “He’ll be fine. What I have in mind will be centered on the future, not on the past.”
I hummed, chewing on my lip to hold back a question about his past.
“Plus, his contract doesn’t give him much leeway when it comes to going against what I want. And unfortunately for him, he can’t fight two battles at once, and the one he’s currently fighting means he can’t engage in one with me.”
So focused on what he was saying—on what battles the surly mechanic was hiding underneath the smudged dirt and abrasive attitude—I forgot about my ankle and put too much weight on it for a second which sent me stumbling forward with a small cry.
Renner’s hand gripped my arm, steadying me. “What happened to your ankle?”
My face flushed and as my eyes lifted to him, I saw Garret standing in the doorway once again, drawn out by my slight cry.
“Sorry, I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I just twisted it. This will be off next week.”
Releasing me, Renner nodded and continued walking, easily accepting my answer in an effort to avoid any unnecessary conversation. With each averted gaze and every to-the-point conversation, I realized that the older gentleman sat somewhere on the autistic spectrum—somewhere between his solitary nature and genius intelligence.
And I wondered if the advice he gave on taking control of my story before someone took it for me was more personal experience than theoretical advice.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He moved around me, listing off the things he wanted accomplished, but I stayed rooted in place, the steel of my spine welding to the spot under the heat of Garret’s stare.
This wasn’t just going to be a few track days and a race spent in his company. It was now weeks.
Weeks with his brooding. Weeks with his secrets.
And weeks with a fire burning low in my stomach that had no hope of being quenched.
Garret
THE SHOP HAD TURNED INTO a forest.
Light stands grew out of the floor like trees, sprouting branches of bright light out into the gray-epoxied space, extension cords slithered like vines, crisscrossing the floor and endangering anyone who sought to traverse through the magical media wonderland.
Cameras clicked and ticked, shutters flapping open and closed like small birds of prey, capturing their shots and devouring them through the lens.
I remained where I stood in the shadows, with my shoulder propped against the doorframe to the clean room, ready to disappear in an instant.
If that were possible.
Racer Magazine’s media crew came like an infestation, drawn in by the tempting sweetness of the woman driver kicked out of NASCAR and the mechanic missing from the industry for almost a decade.
So many secrets. So little time.
Too bad for them neither of us were willing to talk about what they wanted most. It might be the only thing the damned enticing driver and I could agree on.
“Garret.”
My glare shifted to the man responsible for this—the one I trusted to avoid the public eye as much as possible who’d turned around and invited this mess into my space.
Technically, it wasn’t my space. It was Renner’s.
But the garage was all I had. Technically homeless—dozing off between here, my truck, and Janet’s couch.
I didn’t need more. I didn’t deserve more.
I went where the jobs took me.
I went where the money was.
And I came back to Claire when I was done.
“You think you should help?” He motioned to the floor where the photographers scurried about like rats building their nest of noteworthy shots.
“No.” I had no plans to do anything until it was absolutely necessary.
Truthfully, I was hoping once they had what they needed of the car and Kacey, they would forget about me and leave.
“Look, G, I know you aren’t keen on this, but just think of what it can do for us—for the car.” He paused. “For winning.”
My eyes slid over to the shorter man as he rubbed a hand over the flat of his head sparsely covered with grays.
He wasn’t looking at me. He never looked at anyone if he could avoid it. He wasn’t even looking at the tall, blonde photographer as she directed her two young male assistants around the room. He was looking at the car, and that was how I knew there was no chance of dissuading him.
Renner was a genius—but a genius with a singular obsession: his race car. Not necessarily to win, though of course that goal was always drifting not far behind, but to create something that withstood time. Something that left an imprint on the sport beyond a single trophy for a single year.
Like John DeLorean. A man whose innovative car company went bankrupt. Who was arrested and jailed by the FBI for cocaine trafficking.
Facts that faded against the obstructive accomplishment of creating a vehicle that held its own place in history. Something innovative. Futuristic. Something that almost existed outside of time and the way it faded the memory of most things.
That was what Renner was after.
That was what he hired me to build.
That was why he hired her to drive.
“Mr. Voigt.” I blinked and saw the photographer had joined our small conversation. Dressed in all black, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders with her red lips jarring a smile that looked like it would glow in the dark.
“I have just a few more photos of the car I’d like, and then I was wondering…” She trailed off as her gaze slid to me. Like burning rubber, the sight and smell of lust that radiated off of her was bo
th unmistakable and nauseating. “I was wondering if you might be able to give me a tour of the shop.” Her smile widened. “In case there are any other shots I’d like to take.”
She looked at me like the only shot she wanted to take was at my dick.
Grunting, I shifted back.
I didn’t want anything to do with this woman.
My attention jolted to the door to the garage as it opened, revealing the missing piece in this problematic puzzle. My gaze locked on her like a gear engaging in the transmission, yanking me forward with renewed power and speed.
Temptation topped with a fiery red warning sign.
I couldn’t want anything to do with any woman.
Especially that one—that driver.
Especially Kacey.
Today, she wore skin-tight black yoga pants and a pale-yellow tank that drifted low on her tits, the swells pushing against the boundary of the fabric with subtle determination.
Her familiar, fierce eyes widened and her lips parted as she measured the mess that transformed the garage which was clean and bare last week. Adjusting her duffel bag on her shoulder, she smiled and nodded in greeting to one of the photographer’s assistants who gave her a slow once-over.
Fucker. My hand tightened, grateful it wasn’t holding a wrench that might’ve unintentionally slipped from my grasp in the direction of his head.
Focus, G.
Kacey Snyder wasn’t my responsibility.
She was just the driver. One more part to the car needed to make it go faster.
That was it.
And then her eyes found us… found mine… and the way her sharp inhale made her chest cinch sent a bolt of lust straight down to my cock—a part of me I thought I’d managed to disconnect years ago.
“Kacey.” Renner was the first to greet her.
“Good morning.” She nodded to the group, her attention lingering on me.
“Miss Snyder,” the photographer broke in. She looked like she didn’t want anyone else eyeing me as though she’d already staked her claim. “I’m Ms. James, the photographer for Racer Magazine. It’s a… pleasure… to meet you.”
Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World) Page 5
