Clearing my throat, I hesitated. My shirt was changed, but my pants were still covered with all kinds of grease and fluid from ripping the car apart.
“Christ.” He scoffed. “Just because I have money doesn’t mean I give a fuck about it. A man of your caliber only comes to talk about one thing—a car. And he only comes in the middle of the night because he’s been with that car for the entire day. Sit in the damn chair. I’ll have someone clean it.”
Shaking my head, I sunk into the seat, wondering just how long it had been since I’d sat down today.
“So, what is it? What brings you back here after all this time?”
Her.
“I need an engine.”
The liquid stopped pouring for a split second before he topped off the last glass and corked the bottle.
I nodded my thanks, taking my glass from him and swirling the dark liquid.
“I thought I saw something on the track today…” He sipped his whiskey with a satisfied nod. “And when I ran into your driver, I had a feeling there was an issue.”
“Some rookie messed with my timing ratios in the transmission,” I clipped, taking a swig of the alcohol to wash down the bitter reminder.
“That blows.”
My gaze snapped to his, catching the small smile at his pun.
“I need a new engine, Donavan,” I pressed through tight lips. “I know yer team leases a lot for the season—more than any other. I know ye have one ye can spare.”
His chin dipped; he wasn’t arguing. “So, you want to buy one of my spares?”
I kept my expression blank as I replied calmly, “No. I want ye to give it to me.”
His eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. “Give it to you?” He laughed. “You’re joking. This is some Irish joke, right? Maybe I need to drink some more fucking whiskey to understand it.”
“No joke.” I cleared my throat. “We only leased one. Even if I could replace the parts in time, I think it fucked the whole engine.”
“So, you came to my house in the middle of the night to ask me to give you one of my engines?” He drained the alcohol in his glass and glared at me. “For nothing.”
It was my turn to finish the generous pour, to feel the warmth ignite the fire in my stomach. “Not fer nothin’,” I replied roughly. “Fer me.”
A hand rose to cover his mouth as the great Colton Donavan just stared at me for a long second. Disbelief slowly fading to curiosity while I waited.
“Are you serious right now?” His voice was hoarse.
“Give me an engine and I’ll come work fer ye just like ye wanted.”
He sat back in the chair. “I wanted you to work for me a long time ago, Gallagher. What makes you think I still want you?”
It was my turn to grin smugly. “Fer the same reason drivers still want to race on yer team—because yer the best.”
He nodded slowly, processing what I was saying like it was a strong drink he needed to swish all over his tongue and palate to get the full taste—to explore every detail of what I was offering.
“Three years.” His eyes narrowed. “I want a contract for three years.”
I sat back, gripping my hands around the empty glass.
I knew the price would be steep. Donavan had high standards and a lot had transpired since the last time we’d met, but I knew this wouldn’t be a one-season commitment. Not like this. Not for what I was asking.
“Fine.”
His head cocked. “Fine? You even care what I’m going to pay you?”
“Does it look like I care what the fuck yer goin’ ta pay me?” I chuckled. “Do we have a deal?”
We did. I could see it in the sparks in his dark eyes. Excitement. Anticipation. We both knew the kind of potential we’d have working together.
But his continued silence meant I wasn’t going to get off that easily. He’d give me the engine, but he needed to feel like he got something in return. Apparently, three years of my life wasn’t enough of an ask
“Why now?”
“I told ye. The transmission is shot. We have no other—”
“No.” He waved off my superficial reasoning. “Not that. Not the car. Why this car? Why this race? You owe Voigt for something?”
“No.” My jaw ticked. “And it doesna matter.”
“Matters to me, Gallagher. Matters a whole helluva lot.” I felt his eyes search my face for answers. “I heard about your brother.” I tensed. “I would’ve given more than an engine to get the both of you on my team,” he mused. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank ye,” I replied tightly.
“Does this have to do with him?” he pressed. “Heard his daughter is sick.” He nodded to my shirt, the logo for the children’s hospital shining like a lighthouse against the dark navy cotton.
“His daughter is a fighter, and she’s going ta be fine,” I returned, knowing how promising Claire’s latest lab results were as of yesterday before I left for Indiana; she’d even weaseled out of Gwen a prediction that she’d be able to see the next Indy 500 in person. “Dead set on becoming a racer one day, too.”
He nodded in admiration. “My son, Zander, is going to start racing Indy soon. That’s why I’m taking your offer,” he told me. “I want him to race one of your cars.”
“So, we have a deal?” I tried to funnel the conversation toward the finish line so we could get down to the details.
“So, it’s not the car. Not Voigt. Not your niece.” He hummed, tapping a finger against the armrest of the chair. “It’s her, isn’t it?” He sat forward suddenly as though the thought carried him forward with it. “Your driver. Snyder.”
“Kacey.” Her name mixed with a low growl.
“I heard they call her Ace,” he commented with a small laugh I didn’t quite understand. “Makes sense now.”
“She deserves to race.”
“After Daytona?” He arched an eyebrow and my fist tightened. But it wasn’t my truth to tell. “You don’t have to say anything. Puglisi is a sexist pig. I’m sure whatever he said or did”—he paused and eyed me knowingly—“deserved her punch.”
“He did.” I couldn’t stop myself from confirming.
“Who knew love was such a damned powerful force?” The question was rhetorical. “Can rip you away from the sport just as easily as it can lure you back.” He stared off and I had a feeling he was reflecting on how racing played a big part in his well-famed relationship with his wife. “It’s like driving those cars. One second, you’re flying toward that brick-covered finish line. The next, car’s got no power because something blew in the engine. Or traction slips and you’re spinning into the wall. Love takes even the most precise-laid plans and turns them on their head.”
“She deserves ta be here,” I repeated, his words simply echoing a truth I hadn’t come here planning to admit.
“I can’t argue with you there. I saw her time. Her speed. Two-thirty-four. Fucking fast. Hell, I don’t even know I’d attempt over two-thirty if I got back in a car today. She’s far better than the drivers I have on my team right now. No doubt about it.” He stood and took my glass from me, setting them back on the bar. “So, that’s why you’re here?”
“Christ, Donavan. I’m here because the damn woman is a feckin’ good driver who deserves a shot at this race after everythin’ she’s gone through.” I rose, my breaths coming heavily. “And I’m here because I treated her like shit and she deserves ta know just how far I’m willin’ ta go ta make her dreams real. How far I’m willin’ ta go ta prove that I love her, and I’ll do anythin’ ta be with her.”
“Then you have a deal.”
“That’s it?” Air rushed out of my mouth as I lost all the steam I’d built. “Yer a feckin’ arrogant bastard. Ye know that?”
“My wife thinks it’s one of my better qualities.” He grinned smugly. “You’ll come to appreciate it, too. Soon.”
“Why?” My gaze narrowed.
“Because I’m going to give you more than an en
gine.”
Kacey
“RENNER, WHAT IS GOING ON?” I had to jog to keep up with the short man’s rapid pace.
“Nothing you need to worry about, girl.” He waved me off.
“Worry about?” I scoffed. “Our car is torn apart. The engine unsalvageable. Where are you going? There is nothing to do except pull my spot from the pole.”
I huffed and pulled my hair up into a ponytail to stop the slight breeze from blowing it into my mouth as I spoke.
After my conversation with Garret yesterday, I’d gone back to my hotel room and cried.
Cried because of the race. Cried because of the engine. Cried because of him.
Even my dad, with all his praise for my record-making speed and all his various suggestions for what could be done to still keep us in the race, I hesitated to hold onto any of the dangling threads of hope.
But when I showed up to the track today, everything seemed business as usual with the crew though they couldn’t tell me much except that we were still in the race.
“Can he fix it?” I looked around, searching for Garret, who was nowhere to be found. “Are we getting someone’s back-up?”
Among the suggestions my dad had mentioned was that sometimes other teams will sell off or find some other mutually beneficial way to let another team use their second car. But whether that car came with an engine was a different story.
“Miss Snyder.” His shiny black shoes squeaked to a halt. He turned to me. “Let’s deal with one fire at a time, girl.”
Pursing my lips, I continued to follow him toward the line of administrative and regulatory tents set up along the edge of the track.
What the…
“Renner Voigt here to see Mr. Branch,” Renner said to one of the assistants, a large badge with the title and her name, Karen, hanging from her neck.
Ken Branch.
The technical director for the race. He was in charge of the fifteen other inspectors who made sure each car, driver, and team was running and racing according to the regulations.
“Renner, what are we—”
“Here we are again, Ace.” That cold shiver ran up my spine hearing Puglisi chuckle behind me. “Once again, always whining and asking for special treatment.”
I spun. “I’m not asking for anything,” I bit out.
I also had no idea what was going on.
“Don’t you have something better to do, James?” Renner huffed. “Like learn how to drive, maybe?”
I couldn’t stop my smile or slight chuckle. I’d never heard Renner insult someone to their face—or really make a joke of any kind.
But here he was, taking a stand for me. Something he didn’t have to do.
Puglisi’s lip curled.
“Right this way, please.” Karen’s announcement drew our attention though she didn’t ask for my name or Puglisi’s before leading the three of us back to the Director’s make-shift office.
“Mr. Branch,” Renner shook the man’s hand.
“Mr. Voigt.” The director nodded respectfully. “It’s an honor.” He looked to me and James. “Miss Snyder. Mr. Puglisi.”
“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Branch. So, I’ll get right down to it.” Renner pushed his glasses up before clasping his hands in front of him. “We’re just simply requesting a change in condition. To be able to use a different engine than the one my driver, Miss Snyder, qualified with.”
Different engine?
A million questions crashed against the wall of my lips. How were we getting a different engine? He’d only leased one.
Still, that thread of hope turned to steel as I grabbed onto it.
We had another engine.
Renner cleared his throat, eyeing Puglisi. “It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill request, and we understand if this will affect our position in the starting grid.”
Puglisi scoffed loudly, quickly silencing himself when Branch looked disapprovingly at him for his rude outburst.
“I assume you’ve got an objection to that, Mr. Puglisi.”
“Of course I do,” he sneered. “The change in condition request happens after qualifying. Obviously, today is the second day of qualifying, so she needs to finish before requesting a change.”
If his personal vendetta against me wasn’t already clear, the way he pointed to me as the instigator for everything drove it home.
“Mr. Branch,” Renner broke in firmly. “If we could, I would have her run the laps for a time before requesting this. However, after her qualifying laps yesterday, we ran into engine issues that make it impossible for the car to be run today. So, I’m requesting the change so we can get the new engine in and ready for next Sunday.”
“Look, Voigt, I’m sorry you’re having car trouble, but that’s the name of this game. You can’t get out on the track in time or in the fastest time, you forfeit your entrance. And if Miss Snyder doesn’t have a car to finish qualifying with, then she should be bumped off the list to make room for a viable car on the pole.”
My stomach turned.
He wasn’t wrong—or right.
I qualified in pole position—the first spot in the top nine—yesterday before the transmission failed, but technically, that time was wiped today for the second round of qualifying where I would’ve run the car again against the other eight top times to determine the final first nine positions.
Mr. Branch drew a deep breath, his head bobbing—not in agreement but in thought.
“I have to say that I can’t recall a time where there’s been an issue with a car between qualifying rounds,” he admitted. “Issues before, yes. Issues during qualifying, absolutely. And of course, issues…requests for change afterward…sometimes.” He crossed his arms. “But I’ve never had a car qualify in the top nine—at the top of the top nine—but run into problems before day two.”
“I hear what Mr. Puglisi is saying,” Renner said respectfully, though I knew him long enough to hear just how much he thought the complaint was a load of horseshit. “However, this isn’t a case where we didn’t get the car out in time, or where we ran into engine trouble on day one and now we’re trying to make it back onto the pole today. She qualified yesterday.” Renner sent the bitter asshole the closest thing to a smirk he was capable of. “In fact, she qualified with the best damn time this track has seen since I was here in ninety-six.”
“I know that, Mr. Voigt—”
“I beg your pardon,” Renner interrupted him to continue. “But I’m not asking for her time to even carry over into today. You want to automatically bump her to the ninth position because our car isn’t ready, fine. Hell, you want to bump her to nine for that and then give her a grid penalty for the swap. Fine. Put her all the way in the back. But it’s completely asinine to take her off the board just because we had a mechanical issue between—”
“Mr. Voigt.” The director raised his hands, trying to gently calm the older man, and I could feel the rising agitation of Puglisi next to me.
“I think the rules are clear here, Director—”
“Mr. Puglisi,” Mr. Branch snapped. “There is one thing very clear here, and that is your lack of faith in your own abilities, so much that you feel you have to resort to grasping at straws to knock your competition out of the race.”
Oh damn.
I pulled both my lips between my teeth, desperately trying not to laugh as Puglisi got a verbal reprimand that he couldn’t do anything about.
“Miss Snyder completed her qualifying round yesterday with a legitimate and admirable time,” he went on, and I felt my chest swell with pride. “She earned her spot in this race and, let me be very clear, there is no question about me taking that from her.”
His gaze shifted to Renner. “As long as you have another engine going in the car,” he finished. “I can’t condone letting her keep a spot—and keep it from someone else—if you have no replacement lined up. Even if it’s a dud. Even if something happens in practice this week that prevents the car from racing, that’s fine. I
just need to know you have a replacement on the way and, in good faith, have every intention of running this race.”
Renner nodded with a certainty I wish I understood but wouldn’t question right now. “We do.”
Branch’s eyes narrowed. He was obviously hoping for more elaboration on said engine.
“Do you happen to have any proof?” he pressed.
Renner shifted his weight. “Not with me at the—”
“I do.”
Puglisi’s chuckle was cut off, the attention of the room drawn to the newest inhabitant who stepped in with a presence as imposing as his harsh accent was ear-catching.
Garret.
His gaze quickly found mine before he stepped to the other side of Renner and handed a folded slip of paper to the director who scanned the information.
A moment later, he nodded and confirmed, “Okay then. Since you have a replacement for the engine, your position in the top nine stands, Miss Snyder.”
The breath that rushed out felt as though it had been building in my chest from the moment we’d stepped inside the white-walled space.
“Director—”
“However,” Mr. Branch continued, glaring at Puglisi for his continued interruption. “Since you are unable to proceed with the second round of qualifications today to determine your grid position—which, regardless of your phenomenal time and speed yesterday, always starts with a clean slate for the top nine—I will have to automatically place you at the final ninth position and leave the other eight drivers to battle out the rest of the starting spots.”
I nodded, uncaring if I started in thirty-third as long as I was on that track.
“In spite of your suggestion, and in accordance with the new regulations implemented for the rest of the IndyCar Series, I will not be enforcing a grid penalty.” I swore I actually heard Puglisi whine next to me. “I do not make special exceptions nor do I make special consequences, Mr. Puglisi. The engine change request is allowed with no penalty at Indianapolis, however, Miss Snyder, per those same rules, if you participate in the next race of the series, the grid penalty for the request will carry over to it.”
Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World) Page 32
