Declare (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #4)

by Michelle Irwin

  By the end of the working week, Alyssa had used the contacts that Danny had unofficially given me to generate some significant sponsorship money. It was more than enough to cover the cost of the car, the signage, the entrant fee, our accommodation, and the insurance. I couldn’t have asked for more.

  Alyssa had pulled together a minor miracle in much less time than I could have ever imagined, so it wasn’t a great surprise to me when she had three clients within the first week. True, one was a driver on hiatus with an injury, one a driver who’d retired almost three years earlier, and the other was me. But nonetheless, for a manager-stroke-publicist just starting out in the game, it was a fan-fucking-tastic start.

  Then she used the perseverance and grit that I knew she possessed in spades to find opportunities to promote me that would help to keep the sponsors satisfied. She contacted Woman’s Idea, the magazine who’d interviewed us months ago, and arranged for them to do an interview with Dane and me. The same photographer arrived on our practise track day and took photos of us in our suits as well as in more casual clothing. Even better, Alyssa had secured a time-for-prints agreement with her, so we got free use of the photos for our promotions.

  It was all going so well.

  In fact, the only problem with the new arrangement was that I barely saw Alyssa. During the day, she worked her arse off on the phone arranging this, that, or the other, and then at night she would pore over the contracts that came in, reading and rereading any clauses that had the potential to cause us trouble. I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone taking better care of me or my career.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t have signed the first contract thrown at you by Sinclair Racing,” she murmured one night over the top of the paperwork she had brought into bed.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, kissing her shoulder, trying to get her to focus her attention on other things besides the paperwork: namely me.

  “It really was a stock-standard contract that gave them all the power. I’ve seen some of the negotiated agreements, and there were a lot of clauses they would have been willing to move on.”

  What she’d said stayed with me as I headed into work the next morning. I wondered whether that was what bound Danny’s hands when it came to Hunter, and why he was so seemingly willing to lend his support to my alternative venture. Was he unable to do anything to censure Hunter without cause? Was that what he’d meant by needing to wait for hard evidence? Certainly Hunter had been on a tighter leash since Townsville. I would probably never know for sure. One thing I did know was that Danny would never tell me.

  THE COUNTDOWN for Bathurst was on.

  During the weeks leading up to it, both Dane and I had interviews with morning TV shows, radio, local papers, pretty much anyone that would have us. The words “media slut” were a more than adequate description of us during that time. But it was all worth it for the end goal.

  There was, however, one magazine that was champing at the bit to get either, or both, of us, that Alyssa simply refused outright. After all, they’d already made their money off me, through their “star writer” Miss M and her trashy, rumour-filled stories. Each time Tillie or Talia tried to call us, Alyssa was quick to dismiss them.

  Of course, that didn’t stop them from running the story about my comeback. Only, instead of exclusives, they had to use second-hand information. At first, they made a half-arsed attempt to tar and feather me, but without printing long-dead issues, they had nothing.

  It was a crazy time for everyone. I was working on my privateer career in the evenings while still holding down my day job. In the end, I was still signed up to race at Phillip Island, albeit only in the Mini. Because I didn’t have to pit for Hunter now, it was set to be a fairly easy weekend. I just worried about Alyssa’s safety. I wanted to ban her and Phoebe from attending, but I never could.

  In the end, she took the need out of my hands by apologising and telling me she would be too busy to attend—what with Bathurst a little under a month away. Her announcement left me free to concentrate on nothing but my driving. Well, nothing but my driving and avoiding Hunter like the plague.

  I finished the weekend at Phillip Island first in the Micro Challenge championship, because I’d managed to claim pole, and then place first, second, and first in the races. It should have been cause for celebration, but there was no time, because the big race was creeping closer and closer.

  Somehow there seemed to be more things left to organise each day and nothing ever seemed to get marked off as complete. There were items on the list I’d compiled from Danny’s advice that took much longer to arrange. Customised race suits and HANS devices were two items we’d have to order as early as possible because we needed to ensure they had the sponsors’ logos on them, but we couldn’t order too early or we risked missing a sponsor.

  Although Alyssa organised so much other stuff, I was responsible for the design of the car’s exterior and the sticker placement. Of course, she helped me a lot with that as well because she knew the sponsor contracts inside and out. She knew who’d been granted major sponsorship and any mandatory placements. It cost a small fortune to have concept designs drawn up of the final car, but it was worth the money because it meant we could get the required sign-offs before spending the money on the vinyl stickers and finding some problem after the car was finished.

  Even as everything else fell into place, I was left needing to arrange the team who would support me when I went racing.

  For myself.

  It was going to be so strange. Sure, I would be using a Sinclair Racing car, and I was racing on their team licence, but I had to pay for that right, a pretty penny in fact. Well, a pretty penny and a fuck-tonne of ugly ones. For all intents and purposes though, it was my car and my team.

  On top of the promotion and sponsors, and pit crew, there were the simple logistics of the weekend. We had to get the car to the racetrack, get us into town, and arrange accommodation for the rest of the team. I had a newfound appreciation for all of the office staff at Sinclair Racing. They made it all look so easy. We’d already decided that Alyssa was going to be with me, but because she was going to be there in her official capacity as my manager, Mum was going to be on hand to look after Phoebe for us as well.

  Morgan had volunteered to oversee the car on race day, managing the pit crew and race strategy. Thankfully, he’d learned a lot hanging around with Eden over the years and she was teaching him more every day.

  My boys had been given the weekend off from Sinclair Racing without even having to ask for it, and they’d already agreed to pit for me. I had to pay them, of course, and I had to get Danny to sign off to allow them to work for me, but it meant I had a crew I trusted to the ends of the earth pitting for me.

  The hardest thing to deal with was the doubt in the public mind. I’d heard the rumours circulating ever since the announcement had been made, but each day they seemed to get louder and more persistent.

  Two weeks out from Bathurst, I was discussed in depth on the ProV8 show. In a debate featuring current and past drivers, they argued about whether or not I was washed up. They questioned whether I would still be able to handle a V8, especially with no real practice other than my Mini races and two track days that I’d shared with Sinclair Racing.

  I’d been asked the same question by almost everyone who had interviewed me: with such a hex on my career right before my forced retirement, did I feel the pressure to perform? My answer was always the same: yes and no.

  I felt the pressure to be successful in the form of putting my nuts on the line with the sponsors. I hadn’t started a race for almost twelve months, but I also hadn’t successfully finished one in the six months prior to that.

  My entire future in a V8 rested on this one race. If I got through the weekend unscathed and managed to finish in a decent position, it would give me the perfect opportunity to renegotiate my position with Sinclair Racing.

  Then there was the pressure of the knowledge that every bump, scratch, a
nd dent on the car would come out of my pocket. It was the reason we’d ensured we had contingencies in place, but still . . .

  If the car was a write-off, we’d lose everything. That realisation made me appreciate Alyssa’s agreement to my wacky plan that much more. I was risking everything we owned, everything we were, on one race, and Alyssa stood behind me 100 percent.

  Despite all of the pressure that I faced though, I was actually relatively calm about the upcoming race. There were two reasons for my calm: Alyssa and Phoebe. Just as I’d come to understand at Emmanuel’s graveside, I knew no matter what happened on race day, even if I crashed out as spectacularly as I had the last time I drove around Bathurst, they would be there for me. All that mattered to them was that I came home safely.

  That meant more than I could imagine.

  In addition to working and getting everything ready for the big event, I also had to plan for the race itself. It had been such a long time since I’d properly raced a V8, and my return debut would be in a one-thousand-kilometre race that would last close to eight hours. I spent as much time as I was able to preparing myself physically and mentally as best as I could for the long race.

  Part of my preparations included endurance training. I would wake extra early, creep into the gym at home, and spend hours thumping away on the treadmill or the cross-trainer, interval training as best as I could. During those long stretches, I had nothing to occupy my thoughts, so I often found myself recalling the way my life had been just twelve short months ago.

  Some days, I tried to envisage what my life would be like if we hadn’t met on that plane on the way to London. Would I still be in the dark over my son and daughter? Would I still have my head up my own arse? Would I still be sleeping with random women in a vain attempt to find something that I now realised I would only ever have with Alyssa? One innocent touch from her satisfied me more than a hundred random fucks. The truth was, though, that I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. I hadn’t realised how dead I’d been inside until she brought me back to life.

  More often than not, the end result of my mornings spent in the gym, and inside my own head, was racing back up to the bedroom and climbing into bed with Alyssa to do our own special stamina training.

  It was after one of these “training” sessions that Alyssa turned to me, biting her lip anxiously. She’d been scratching her fingers absent-mindedly across my scalp, but she stilled her hand as she spoke. “I was thinking . . .” She trailed off.

  “Yeah,” I said, urging her to continue the scratching at least, because it had felt fan-fucking-tastic.

  “Well, it’s just . . .” She paused again and looked into my eyes, as if trying to assess how I would take whatever she had to say. I tensed a little in preparation, not knowing what it was, but knowing it was obviously important to her. “I’ve seen the way you’re facing this race and everything. You should be scared. Hell, you should be terrified, but you’re not. You’re cool and calm and just doing what needs to be done.”

  “Babe, you know there is a hell of a lot going on down below the surface that no one else gets to see.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I know, but you’re still willing to face something terrifying in the hope that something good will come out of it.”

  “I couldn’t have done any of it without you by my side.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I know. It’s just that it’s made me realise that maybe I need to face some of my own fears in the hope that something good comes of it.”

  I frowned, utterly thrown by what it was that could be so terrifying for her that would bring something positive.

  “So, I was thinking that maybe . . .” She paused again and took a deep breath. “Maybe I should book an appointment to have the Mirena removed? Maybe we should . . . you know, try?”

  “Try?” I asked stupidly before the impact of her words hit me. I knew much more about the Mirena—the hormone-releasing IUD—than I had when we were in London. I knew the basics of what it was and what it did.

  And she . . .

  She wanted to remove it.

  Which would mean . . .

  It would mean . . .

  “You want to try for another baby?” I asked almost incredulously as the words sunk in.

  She nodded slightly, her eyes showing her raging terror over the idea even as she agreed to it.

  “You’d do that for me?” I asked stupidly.

  She shook her head. “No, I’d do it for us; for all of us. For our family.”

  I couldn’t help the wide, shit-eating grin that spread from ear to ear across my face. I was surprised at the intensity of the warmth that coursed throughout my body at her words. She wanted to try for another baby.

  It was more than just the thought. Her agreement meant she truly believed I would be there for her.

  She trusted me.

  Even though she was scared of what could go wrong, she would do it. For us. It was a momentous fucking decision for her, and I was determined not to fuck it up.

  “That would be . . . Wow . . . That would be fucking awesome. Are you sure about this though?”

  “Are you?” she asked, throwing my question back at me, and I saw the faintest hint of doubt in her eyes. I realised that her primary fear may have been about what could go wrong, but there was a part of her that was scared of having to face it alone again.

  I was the cause of that fear, and it was my responsibility to erase it. Her trust wasn’t absolute, but she wanted it to be.

  “Absolutely positive. But maybe we should wait until after the race so we have plenty of time to practise.” I winked at her. “And then we’ll talk about it some more.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: QUALIFIED

  BEFORE I KNEW it, it was time.

  All of our preparation and all of the stress came down to one event, one weekend, and ultimately to one race.

  We travelled to Bathurst on Tuesday, arriving a little after lunch, and set up amongst the other teams. We didn’t stand out or draw any excess attention, which was good because it made us feel like we belonged. It felt a little strange arriving so early for a meet, but it was necessary. All the things that Danny and the other office staff had always organised at Sinclair Racing, I now had to do for myself. Things like getting the car scrutineered before the race-meet, having the documents checked, and arranging for Morgan to attend the team managers’ briefing.

  The other thing I had set up, without Alyssa’s knowledge, was that she was never to be left alone. If I wasn’t with her, she would be with Mum or Morgan. My boys were keeping an extra eye out for her and Phoebe when they could and even Eden, despite being in the Sinclair Racing shed, had also agreed to watch out for Alyssa. I felt safe in the knowledge that Hunter wouldn’t be able to get within one hundred metres of my girls without my knowledge, and that made me feel better about the weekend.

  I spent all morning Thursday going over the finer details of the car. It had come to us in pristine condition from Sinclair Racing, but we needed to ensure it was prepped and ready for dealing with the pressure of Bathurst. My boys and I ran through the majority of the checks on the car and we even managed to drag Liam down from the Sinclair Racing sheds to cast his eye over it. We used the excuse that it had to be good for a few extra hours of time against our apprenticeships. He laughed at our cheek, but agreed nonetheless.

  Dane and I had already agreed that I would take the first practise session. Not that I needed it any more than him—we were both as fucking rusty as the other—but because I was the one who’d hatched the grand plan, it was my money and reputation on the line, therefore it was only fitting that I was the one to take the V8 out for her first run.

  It took me a moment or two to get used to the car. I noticed a few things in my first lap. For example, I had to brake much earlier than I did in the Mini—I realised that very quickly when I took my first corner much too fast and almost ended the weekend long before it had even started.

  In exchange, I could accelerate
out of the corners faster, which came in handy, although it meant I had to be in the correct racing position that much earlier.

  After a lap or two though, I’d found my groove again. My fingers danced across the steering wheel almost as if they’d never been parted from it. My hand jerked through the gears with practised precision. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. It was a familiar dance with a favourite partner.

  Hard to the left, rein in the car with the brakes, and then accelerate hard up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right, roar through the cutting and Reid Park before racing past McPhillamy and into Skyline.

  Despite the year that had passed since my last time around this track at this speed, I’d not forgotten the view as I neared the top of the mountain. I took one quick look to calm me, and then I focused back on the car and feeling the way it responded to my touch as I fell through the S bends and into the Dipper. I barely braked for the soft right then jumped down on the pedal before the hard left around Forrest Elbow.

  I hit the accelerator hard the moment I was free, and was zooming down Conrod Straight in next to no time.

  I couldn’t force the smile off my face the whole way around the track. Morgan’s voice squawked over my radio regularly, letting me know how the car looked from the outside.

  As we got further into the session, I couldn’t help having a little fun and ribbing him in reply, telling him that his fiancée’s voice was much sweeter in my ears.

  When I came in, there was a fifteen-minute window for me to brief Dane about the car, and then I was sitting on the edge of the track watching him drive my money—my family’s future—around the track. I finally knew how Danny felt every time I had taken to the track, especially in that last six months.

  I probably owed him another apology.

  Or six.

  “WE’RE GETTING great times,” Morgan enthused, reading the in-car telemetry reports together with the official lap times.