Something changed.
The excited, celebratory hug turned into more.
His body relaxed, and my arms moved, pulling him tighter, towing his chest right up against mine. Drew’s chin dropped onto my shoulder, and his hand stopped slapping my back. Instead, his fingers dug in.
So this is what it’s like.
This was what it was like to be held by Drew.
To hold him.
Damn.
Drew
A whole new brand of racing.
That was the proposal.
I came here hoping for a sponsorship, a car with a ton of logos slapped all over it, entrance fees paid to a bunch of legit, well-known races.
I didn’t get it.
I got something better: a chance.
Some driver’s would be kicking themselves in the ass right now. They’d be feeling let down, denied, rejected.
Not me.
No. I didn’t get a sponsorship or a deal with a lot of backing. I got something a hell of a lot more risky. Something that might ruin my career before it even got started. I got a dirt path through a heavily wooded forest.
All I needed was a path.
All I needed was a chance.
I liked risks.
Maybe I was reckless.
But with great risk comes great reward.
Or at the very least, one hell of an adrenaline rush.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the meeting with Gamble. About the sharp disappointment I felt when I heard the “but” in his voice before he finished critiquing my driving.
The critique itself was on point, so I couldn’t be mad about it. The bottom line was drivers had to mesh with their main sponsor. Drivers had to be given the freedom to drive the way they wanted. I wasn’t going to ask Gamble to look for something other than he normally did in his drivers. Just as I would never change the way I raced to please a sponsor.
I think it was my “rebel without a cause” attitude that put what happened back there into motion.
“Seriously, though.” Trent scoffed. “This is going to be huge.”
It was midafternoon, and we were on the highway headed back home. Soon as the meeting ended, we grabbed some food and hit the road. Trent was driving. I wasn’t sure he knew, but he was the only person I’d ever let drive my car.
Usually handing anyone the keys gave me anxiety like a dog in a room full of cats. But not with him. Everyone knew how much I loved my car.
But not everyone really understood.
In fact, no one really knew.
But he did.
Since I was literally buzzed from everything that went down I figured it might be best if he drove. I could totally handle it, but kicking back and letting my mind go to all the possibilities seemed like a pretty fucking fine idea right about now.
“Dude.” I agreed. “If we can pull this off…”
He laughed. “Are you kidding? This is like perfect for you.”
It was pretty freaking perfect.
Gamble wanted to create a whole new division of racing. Kind of like pro racing’s bad boy brother. Where institutions like NASCAR and Formula One, etc. were governed by rules and policies and pages of stipulations, this new world—this new generation of racing—wouldn’t be.
We would be dirtier. Grittier. More exciting.
Basically, we’d be just as the indie world was now—but bigger. Better.
The difference?
We’d have money. We’d be given a spotlight.
It would be illegal street racing. Except it would be legal and we’d have a track.
People would flock to it.
Why?
Because there was something inherently exciting about no rules. It was thrilling. It was taboo. It was dangerous.
Most people were too cautious to live like that, but watching someone else do it? From behind the wheel of a sweet-ass car?
Hells yeah.
The idea was to bring underground racing out of the dark. To set up a series of races—all at legitimate tracks—basically for the “non-professional” driver.
Can I just say that really burns my britches? The fact that any driver who devotes so much time and energy to his car and driving, a man who hones his skill and strives to make a name for himself, only to be called unprofessional and somehow lacking compared to a driver with sponsors and logos is a bunch of blazing horse shit.
Horse shit covered in flies.
If anything, the drivers of the indie world are hungrier and more knowledgeable because they have to work and scrape for everything.
We might be less controlled, not as honed to the “rules” of traditional racing, but I’d still put money on one of my own before I would on anyone else.
One of my own.
It’s funny how going to basically interview for a spot on a pro racing team, a place I thought was my end game, only proved to show me where I really belonged.
Exactly where I already was.
Not that it was out of the realm I would end up in the pro racing circuit someday. Hell, I’d never rule it out. Gamble said something about having a foot in both worlds someday.
I might like that. It would make me a better driver, more well-rounded.
But for now, I planned to keep both feet in the indie domain.
So…
An entire season of races would be set up. Preliminaries to determine the best of the best in my class. Then those driver’s would move on.
Races would be held.
Winners would be crowned.
And at the end of the season, a final race, to be held right there at Gamble Speedway, a championship race to determine the underground king.
Fans hadn’t had a “new” sport to sink their teeth into in a long time. And everyone loved to root for the underdog.
Well, this entire institution was being built on them.
Pick your underdog. Watch them fight for a title.
And the only rule?
There are no rules.
Side note: of course there would have to be some rules. Some kind of standards at which everyone would be held. But these standards wouldn’t be as rigid and stifling as the pros. There would be leeway. There would be honor.
There would be no guarantees.
That was the best part.
Gamble wanted to make me the face of the new revolution of racing. The guy who would give a name to it all. He wanted to sponsor me in the races, make sure my car had the best parts and I had the opportunities to step through the doors he was opening.
I’d take all he was offering.
But in the end, the only way I’d make it through to the championship, to truly own the world of underground racing, was to drive there.
Money would only get me so far. Talent and skill was what would take me across the finish line.
“Your life is about to get hella busy,” Trent said. I wasn’t sure, but there might have been a little hesitation in his voice.
“You up for it?” I asked, realizing I’d been so damn pumped I never really asked him what he thought about it all.
He seemed to be all about it during the meeting. He’d thrown in ideas and suggestions as we all talked. But now we weren’t sitting in a meeting. Now we were in familiar territory, alone. He had time to think.
“Me?” His voice was dubious. “Why would I need to be up for it?”
“You know I can’t do this without you.”
He made a sound. “Dude, you know damn well I won’t be able to do all the work this car’s going to need for these upcoming races.”
I waved away his words. “I’m not talking about a mechanic, asshole. Hopper and Gamble seemed to think you’d make a good manager. What’d you say to them anyway?”
He was sipping on his soda and choked. His arm flung out, and I took the soda before it could spill as he hacked and coughed.
Oh, this would be good.
I waited until he was done and looked at him expectantly.
“Ahh
.” He hedged and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He always did that when he was nervous. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at me, sheepish. “I might have called them dicks.”
I blinked.
My head went back with the force of my laugh. “You called the richest man in the state of Maryland a dick?”
“Rich people are assholes, too.” He defended.
“True dat.” I guffawed.
“I thought you were gonna be pissed,” he admitted ruefully. Then he frowned. “For a minute there, I thought I cost you a deal.”
“If you giving them a hard time about something you didn’t like was enough to make then not want to work with me, then I don’t want to be associated with them anyway.”
He seemed surprised. “How do you know they did something I didn’t like?”
I felt my lips turn up. “It was the second driver, right?”
His face darkened. “No fucking warning.”
Yeah. That’s what I thought. Trent was a little protective. He’d been like that since the first time he’d seen me drive. I didn’t even have to see it to know anymore. It was just something I felt. Something I inherently knew.
It used to piss me off. Make me feel like he thought I was some damn sissy that couldn’t take care of himself.
But I could.
It didn’t piss me off anymore. I kinda liked it now.
“Anyway,” I said, clearing my throat. “What do you think? Want to be my manager?”
“You’re serious?”
“No, moron. I’m fucking playing you.”
“I don’t know anything about that either.” His voice was regretful.
He wants to do it.
My stomach fluttered a little.
“You know me. You know how I drive and what kind of person I am. You can figure out everything else as we go.”
“It’s a world where there are no rules…” He was thoughtful.
“Unless, of course, it would be too much. I know my schedule is about to go insane, but yours is already pretty full. With the frat, finishing college…”
“I want to do it.” He cut in.
“Might be some traveling involved when I start doing interviews and shit.” I warned.
He nodded once. “I’m in.”
Thank God. The thought of leaving town for any amount of time and leaving him behind sort of made me feel sick inside.
I pushed away that thought.
“Sweet. It will probably be a while for stuff to really get moving anyway. Gamble has a lot of calls to make and a lot of doors to get open.”
Trent nodded. “It’s not going to be easy, getting all the money involved that’s needed to basically start up a new division of racing.”
He was right. Gamble was rich, but he couldn’t finance the entire thing on his own. Well, maybe he could. Hell, I had no idea how rich the guy was. But even so, it would look bad if he paid for everything and then I won.
People would say he bought me a title.
No way in hell.
Plus, for something as big as this to get all the exposure it needed, there had to be a lot of heavy players involved. Networks and car dealerships, corporations and companies. All that was on Gamble and his people.
He was going to start immediately. Until then, I was supposed to do what I was already doing: focusing on driving.
Oh, and one other thing.
My shadow.
Trent seemed to follow my line of thought. Or maybe it was the gloomy look suddenly in my eyes. “When’s your babysitter due to arrive?” he cracked.
I gave him the finger. “He ain’t a babysitter.”
“Sorry,” Trent corrected sarcastically. “I mean the professional driver that’s showing up in town to sit in the car with you while you drive to give you some ‘pro’ tips and train you.”
“I don’t need a trainer,” I growled.
“Okay then, to help give you an edge over all the other indie drivers that will likely be fighting for the championship.”
God.
Part of the deal with Gamble was I would drive with someone of his choosing to help hone my skills. He didn’t want me to be too “green.”
I didn’t mind the help, and I wasn’t so arrogant I thought I didn’t need improving. What bothered me was I had to “learn” from someone I’d never met. I had no idea what kind of driver this guy was going to be.
But I was stuck with him.
At least for a little while anyway.
“Supposed to be here day after tomorrow,” I grumbled.
Trent laughed.
“Guess that means when he gets here, you’ll be regulated to the backseat.”
He stopped laughing. An irritated look crossed his face.
It made me feel satisfied, almost like I hoped it made him jealous.
Now why on earth would I want Trent to feel jealous?
My mind instantly went to the hug.
The hug.
Of course I’d hugged people before. Lots of people. Even guys.
But never like that.
Deep down, I knew what it meant. I just wasn’t ready to confront it.
Trent
It was pancake Sunday.
Pancake Sunday = a tradition started by Rimmel (Romeo’s girl) where the entire family got together every Sunday morning to eat breakfast.
At first, I’d kind of been included by default, having been friends with Romeo and Braeden for a while. When Drew showed up, it seemed my place in the family became a little more solid, and I was expected at all family dinners, meetings, etc.
I didn’t have any brothers or sisters by birth, so having them now sort of filled a void in my life I hadn’t realized was there.
Basically, I loved them.
Last night, I managed to slip into the Omega house unnoticed. That almost never happened in a house full of college guys. Someone was always around, and being alone wasn’t something I ever expected unless I was in my room with the door locked.
Hell yes, I kept my door locked.
These guys were assholes.
(I mean that in the nicest way possible.)
If I didn’t lock my door, I’d wake up in the morning with a mustache drawn on my face, or worse yet, a dick.
Tom Barris would never live that shit down. The pics of him with a dick on his face (drawn in Sharpie) would haunt him forever.
Being the president didn’t exempt me from shit like that. It made me more of a target. That’s why I invested in a good lock.
It was late when we got back to town last night, since we stopped about an hour out of the way at some big car parts store we didn’t have around here. The Fastback needed some new shit after Drew pushed the engine so hard at Gamble Speedway.
Then we stopped for dinner at an Applebee’s nearby.
I wasn’t in a hurry to get back anyway. My spur of the moment support of Jack as president caused some waves. I wasn’t anxious to swim in them.
Shit, I was tired. It was nice to get away. Just Drew and the open road. We went somewhere no one knew us. I didn’t realize it would affect the way we interacted, but it had.
We were more relaxed with each other… more open. Which in turn led to moments of awkwardness.
So we were relaxed and awkward with each other almost all at once.
When I walked into the house to an empty foyer and living room, I considered it my lucky day and shot up to my room, where I stayed the rest of the night.
It gave me hope I’d get out of the house again this morning without notice.
No such luck.
Before I was even out of bed, knocking on my door made me groan. I thought about pretending I wasn’t in here but nixed the thought almost immediately. I wasn’t the kind of guy who hid from stuff.
Yes, you are, a voice taunted in the back of my mind. It made me grouchy.
I flung off the covers and unlocked the door and stuck my head out. “What?”
It was Jack, and he was fully dre
ssed, looking awfully awake for such an early hour on a Sunday. He glanced around as if he didn’t want to be seen outside my door.
What the fuck?
“You should come downstairs,” he said low.
“Why?” I asked, making sure my tone matched his.
He shook his head. “Con called a house meeting. Doesn’t want you to know about it.”
That got my attention. “Excuse me?” I growled.
Jack took a step back and glanced at the stairs. “Hurry,” he mouthed and rushed off.
I shut the door, much quieter than I felt like, and rushed around (as much as one could rush in a tiny-ass room with barely any floor space), pulling out a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I deliberately chose the one with the Omega symbol on the front and the word PRESIDENT in bold across the back.
Something told me I was going to need a little help reminding people who was in charge around this place.
I knew Conner was pissed, but to call a house meeting? Behind my back? What the fuck was he thinking? And, dude. Did he really think I wouldn’t get wind of it?
As I thought, my phone went off simultaneously. It was two texts from two different members of Omega. Both texts were variations of, Get your ass downstairs!
It was nice to see Jack wasn’t the only one who thought this was bullshit.
I didn’t bother combing my hair or brushing my teeth before jogging down the stairs. I considered my rumpled appearance and dragon breath part of the punishment for those who thought they could betray me behind my back.
Clearly, that’s what this was.
Why else would Con hold a meeting he didn’t want me to know about?
The voices coming from the dining room made my back teeth gnash together. I leave for one freaking day…
“This isn’t right. Trent should be here,” someone said.
“I agree. What kind of bullshit is this?” another guy chimed in.
“If he was doing what’s right for the house, he would be here. This meeting wouldn’t even be necessary,” Con replied, as if he were the voice of reason amongst the men.
My fists clenched at my sides, and I told myself to relax. Going in there ready to smash heads was stupid. I needed to know what was going on before I could figure out how best to deal with this.
I did know one thing for certain, though. It was a good fucking thing I didn’t back Con for president. That guy was a tool.
#Junkie (GearShark #1) Page 10
