Pink rose in Kacey’s cheeks, but she didn’t flinch.
There was a reputation around her now—a great driver but unpredictable. And a mystery. More to what the news had reported about the fight she’d gotten into with Puglisi. More that she wasn’t willing to disclose.
And therefore, she became a secret they wanted to crack.
I knew from experience they’d fuckin’ break you if that was what it took to get inside your head.
“Ye want that tour?” I grunted at the far-too-eager photographer who was now the lesser of two evils; it was only a matter of time before one camera or another caught the way Kacey held my cock’s full attention.
I didn’t stick around for her response, spinning back into the engine room without even waiting for the photographer to follow me.
The echoes of her rushed instructions to Kacey on what to put on and to sit with Jean, for a little hair and makeup trailed after me, followed then by the quick click of her heels to catch up.
“Sorry about that,” she murmured in apology just before I felt her hand on the back of my arm and fought not to flinch it away.
Extending my stride, I moved around the engine block I was working on, putting the hunk of metal between us.
“Why all the pipes?” Her eyes met mine as she placed her hand on the engine block, running her fingers over the ridges as though I was supposed to imagine she was stroking my cock.
Instead, I wondered if Kacey was changing right now, and the knowledge made me cringe.
Since when was I so feckin’ weak?
I folded my arms, stubbornly fighting her even in my thoughts, and looked up to the maze of pipes around the room. “This is the clean room. Constant temperature, humidity, and the pipes are fer the air filtration system, so when I go ta work on the engine, there’s little ta no chance that anything will affect the precision of how the parts are put together.”
“Seems like overkill, but then again, I’ve heard you’re one of the best,” she mused, her eyes dragging down me like dirty oil.
Sometimes, being recognized as the best only comes after the world sees how far you fall.
“Rumor has it you even turned down an offer from Colton Donavan at one point.”
I tensed, forced to recall one more unfortunate event of that fateful year. “I wouldn’t believe everything ye hear.”
Better to let her think it was all false—even the minimal good parts—than to hint there might be any truth.
“I don’t. That’s why I’m here to talk to you,” she replied, coyly, though it sounded like she didn’t really have an opinion about anything aside from that of wanting my clothes off to get the bare truth.
Grunting, I began pointing out the different parts of the race car’s engine, as well as where it bolted to the gearbox in the back and the driver compartment to the front. I glazed over pieces and parts, some that really had no importance to the car but it was all I could do to keep her attention off of me.
And I failed miserably.
As we approached the doorway, I turned and the overeager photographer slid right up and pressed herself flush against me, her palms flattening against my chest.
“Oh, sorry,” she murmured, sultrily. “I didn’t realize you were stopping.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. Hell, I almost did.
Screw this. We didn’t need all this media garbage to win. I didn’t give a shit what Renner thought. I wasn’t going to put up with this for weeks on end just because—
“Oomph!”
Our head snapped to the doorway as Kacey stumbled through.
My angry breath fizzled in my lungs, sparking and popping with renewed desire that had absolutely nothing to do with the woman still pressed against me and everything to do with the redhead clutching the doorframe so she didn’t fall, her long hair falling in loose curls, her fire suit unzipped in the front to just tease at the swells of her tits, and those green eyes highlighted by the subtle layer of makeup haloed around them.
Desire and anger ripped like a double-edged sword through me.
Anger that they dolled her up when she’d have none of this on come race day.
And anger that I craved her. Shockingly. Savagely.
“Ye always this clumsy?” I snapped, releasing some of that frustration.
Her eyes narrowed on me, her trace broken. “You always this rude, G?” she shot back, hanging on the singular letter to make a point—she wasn’t interested in anything more.
Extricating myself from the creature clinging to my chest, I strode past them both, pausing just long enough by Kacey to reply, “Guess it’s a good thing yer job is ta make the car go fast because yer coordination isn’t going to win ye any medals.”
I caught her harsh inhale.
Good, I reminded myself. It was better this way.
“Guess it’s a good thing your job is to take care of inanimate objects,” she quipped without missing a beat. “Because your personality certainly isn’t winning you any friends.”
I smirked. “I don’t care about friends.”
Her chin notched up. “I don’t care about medals.”
And then I felt the soft swish of her hair against my chest as she spun—on her good heel—and stalked toward the car and the bright lights.
Perfect. Be mad. Hate me.
I didn’t give a shit.
I didn’t care about anyone or anything in this world except for the speed—how fast it could get me what I needed from this world and how fast I could get out of it.
Each time the camera clicked felt like a shot to my chest, but instead of creating one more hole to let out the build-up of pressure in my lungs, it only increased the strain.
I didn’t think about whether or not I wanted to watch as they paraded Kacey around the shop, snapping photos of her in various poses around the car.
I didn’t want to see how they’d somehow layered on a fierce femininity over her relentless racer persona.
I didn’t want to see how a fucking fire suit of all things could pull and cling to curves that should be shielded inside the vehicle. Protected from the world.
Protected from me.
“What about both of them?” Renner broke in.
My spine snapped straight, though he didn’t catch my glare.
The photographer’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course.”
She motioned me into the frame, using the opportunity to let her camera drop to her side and reach for me.
I caught Kacey’s eye roll as friendly hands roamed my body, pushing and angling me in the right direction. With a coy smile and a small pat on my chest, Ms. James murmured, “Perfect.”
Her innuendo was as obvious as a misfire.
Kacey snorted, quickly covering her reaction with a cough as she looked away—a cough that was quickly stifled when, without the photographer’s presence, she realized how close we stood.
“Okay, Ms. Snyder,” the woman’s voice instructed. “If you could put one hand on your hip like we did before and we’ll get you your helmet to prop underneath it, and then rest your other hand on G’s shoulder.”
Kacey’s shudder sent a shockwave through my body. Cause and effect.
As though we both know what her touching me might do—send that spark farther down the line that only led to an explosion.
Gingerly, Kacey did as instructed. Once again, her checkered racing gloves the only saving grace that stopped her skin from being only a t-shirt’s distance from mine.
There was utter silence in the shop save for the click of the camera. Shot after shot. Second after second.
Meanwhile, what I felt was akin to the strain of an engine being out of gear, revving into the red but not moving an inch.
The build-up of power. The tension and eagerness to launch into what was made to happen. And the promise of release.
And she felt it, too.
“Good.”
Like the drop of the flag, Kacey yanked her hand away as soon as the ph
otographer gave her clearance.
“Now, both of you half turn toward the car and we’ll do a series of three. First, looking at the car. Then, looking at each other. Last, looking at me.”
Christ, was this for a magazine or an engagement?
My mouth firmed with annoyance and pent-up lust for the woman entirely within my grasp and completely out of reach.
“Don’t trip,” I growled as she moved.
“A difficult task when your attitude is always in my way.”
My nostrils flared, and I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t respond.
Or maybe so I wouldn’t threaten that my tongue was about to be in the way of her speech in a second if she wasn’t careful.
Positioned with the nose of the car pointing between us, the first few photos flew by and then we were glaring at each other. A competition to see who could burn through the other first with the fiery dislike aggravated by unwanted attraction that brewed between us.
Though we weren’t touching, the next few minutes passed with the fragility of a bomb. Silent. Solid. And ready to detonate.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher.”
It was my turn to flinch. “G. Please.”
Ms. James looked pleased, my demand interpreted as something far different than my intention.
I wasn’t Garret Gallagher anymore.
I wasn’t the master mechanic making his way up the rungs of the racing industry alongside my brother. The man who had enough clout to respectfully decline a position with Colton Donavan’s team out of loyalty to the man we’d been working for. The man who’d betrayed us.
I was just a man with one mission. One purpose. And one letter for a name I’d rather forget.
I snapped a nod and stepped out of the frame, but before I could get any farther from this farce, Voigt pulled me aside with questions I’d rather not answer reflecting in his glasses.
“What do you think?”
I grunted. For a man who had social anxiety, he certainly like to ask a lot of questions at the most inopportune times.
“I think she’s what you’re looking for.”
“And what’s that?” he asked with a mild curiosity, watching as the photographer continued to have Kacey pose in and around the car.
“I think she’ll get you the attention you want. She certainly enjoys it,” I growled.
It was why she’d fought with Puglisi.
I didn’t keep up with NASCAR, except for the little facts that Claire picked up on TV. Too much of a bitter taste left in my mouth even after all these years. But when Renner contacted me with a proposition involving a driver Claire mentioned a few times, I couldn’t help but wonder about the girl and why he’d picked her.
I knew why Claire liked her; she was the only girl on the track. For her sake, I wanted to like her. But when I finally took a minute to look up the woman I’d be working with, the video footage of her attacking Puglisi was the first thing that came up.
And without knowing her, I felt the rushing rage of disappointment. I knew it was because Claire admired her—because the one good thing that would come from returning to this world was that I could tell her it was to work with her favorite racer.
But Kacey had ruined it. She’d ruined whatever admiration I could have by fighting with a man simply because he was a dick and edged her car into the wall.
My fist tightened.
Of course, Puglisi deserved it, but that wasn’t the fucking point.
The point was that I expected better of her. I’d hoped for better from her.
And she’d crushed it with one angry, attention-grabbing swing.
And in that moment, I’d made up my mind; I wasn’t a fan of Kacey Snyder. She was just one more spoiled attention-seeking driver. And I’d dealt with enough of those to know the cost they carried—a price I’d already paid.
Maybe that was what was so frustrating now. Because after meeting her, spoiled and attention-seeking were the very last impressions I got.
Christ, the damn woman had shown up with a broken ankle to the track without a word of explanation or complaint.
I shook my head.
It didn’t matter. This sport was fickle. It turned friends into foes. It rewarded loyalty with loss. And I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
I was going to focus on the car—my job. I wasn’t here to rectify my opinions about the redheaded driver. They wouldn’t matter in a couple of months anyway. I’d have the money I needed—the funds Claire needed—and I could go back to being a small-town mechanic who had no interest in left turns and checkered flags.
“Why don’t you like her?” I felt his eyes flick to me for a second before looking away. “I think she’s a nice girl. More importantly a damn good driver, but still a nice girl.”
My jaw tensed. “I don’t like anyone,” I clipped. “Especially people in this sport. Especially people here fer attention.”
He hummed. “I don’t think that’s why she’s here.”
“And that’s why you hired her, not me.” Renner was either a genius or a damned fool—and the line between the two was pretty damn thin and covered with murky water at the moment.
“How’s Claire?” The abrupt change in conversation rattled me. Renner had no sense of social context. He asked what he wanted to know when he wanted to know it. There was no propriety. There were no boundaries.
And now, his focus was on Claire—a subject I could handle better than the race car driver in front of me who was a mystery I shouldn’t—couldn’t want to solve. I shifted my weight as my eye lingered over Kacey again, wondering how she could look so fucking sexy in an outfit that was solely crafted for protection.
“Her spirits are good.” My stomach tightened, knowing that was about the only good thing I could say.
Claire was ever the optimist—a task that was much easier at seven years old—but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I could handle this if she wasn’t the bright sparkle of morning sunshine every time I saw her.
“But I don’t think I’m going to be able to leave here until it’s time for Indy,” I said through tight lips. I was going to confirm with her doctor tonight, but when I last spoke to him, it had been clear enough that her condition warranted constant supervision in the hospital.
“I see,” he replied and I could see his mind processing the new fact.
It didn’t really matter. One circle of pavement was just as good as the next, and Charlotte’s raceway was one of the best in the country. Still, I knew he’d only rented this space for the last month for me to get the car ready for Kacey to test out, and his preference was to move our operation up to Indianapolis as soon as possible.
“This was my condition,” I said with a low voice.
I’d agreed to everything in his damn contract—including this media fiasco—under the singular condition that everything up until race day would take place wherever Claire needed to be.
“And I’m not arguing it,” he chided, and I swallowed my reply. His eyebrows rose, struck with a thought. “Maybe she’d want to meet Kacey.”
I tensed, knowing that she would. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” He waved in Kacey’s direction drawing her attention, making it more than obvious we were talking about her. “Might do her good to meet someone fighting against the odds like she is.”
I scoffed. “The only thing Kacey is fighting against are the people who don’t baby her.”
“For someone who fabricates powerful things for a living, you’re a pretty weak liar, G.”
The heavy punishment of my pulse agreed, still I insisted, “You’ve seen the video.”
“And I think there was more to that fight than what happened on the track.”
I grunted, unwilling to agree. And unable to disagree.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m only here for what happens on Indy’s track and then I’m done.”
Renner nodded, knowing all along my motive for b
eing here and my intentions to leave. “A shame since you’re the best.”
“Was,” I corrected.
He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“Am I done here?” I glanced over at the clock on the wall. “I’ll come back later to finish up.”
It was a little early yet, but I needed to beat the afternoon traffic back into Charlotte if I was going to see Claire tonight. Usually I went first thing in the morning, since that was when she was feeling best, but because of this damned propaganda event, I’d had to be here early.
“Tell Claire I said hello.”
Kacey
GROWING UP, I’D NEVER REALLY had a dislike for anyone.
Even when I started racing in college, I never had a problem with anyone, and I’d never encountered anyone who had a problem with me.
Until I was asked to drive for Hoyt.
Then, I experienced firsthand what it was like to be hated for no reason. To be mocked and ridiculed. To be asked demeaning questions that, if I were a man, would never have been considered.
And like the experience of being rained on underneath a sunny sky, the negativity without reason… without cause… made no sense to me.
I just wanted to race cars.
Cars that didn’t care about the gender of the person piloting them, only how fast you could make them go, how well you kept them away from the wall, and how close you brought them to the top of the podium.
But the rash encounters with G followed by his stony silence over the last two days as I came and went from the shop, working with Renner on everything from logistics to marketing, left me no choice but to believe the surly mechanic had taken exception to working with a female driver.
It was the only explanation.
Because seeing him pressed up against that photographer made it clear he didn’t take exception to women in general.
No, the only person who took exception to that situation was me…with an unfortunate burst of jealousy. Apparently, the desires to both curse and kiss the irritating Irishman weren’t mutually exclusive.
“You’re doing real good, girl,” Renner rasped, his eyes buzzing over paper after paper as he laid them into piles I had yet to figure out the classification for. “Take a look at these and pick which one you want me to use.”
Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World) Page 6
