I couldn’t even get one damn car around a simple fucking racetrack in a series of clean laps. Not anymore. Not since Queensland Raceway. I couldn’t explain it exactly, but every time I’d felt close to victory, something clicked out of place in my mind and for a tiny moment everything fell down around me. It shouldn’t have been an issue; it was barely a lapse in concentration. It was a problem though, because it always happened when I was barrelling down a straight at speeds just shy of three hundred kilometres an hour. At that speed, even a fraction of a second was too long, especially if the straight ended with a sharp right corner.
This time, I was lined up for the fucking Bathurst 1000. A partnered endurance race. It wasn’t only my arse on the line this time. My co-driver Morgan McGuire’s championship hopes were resting on our joint performance. He’d already taken a moment before I’d climbed into the car to warn me of precisely what he would do to me if I managed to total the car this time. It involved a pair of rusty pliers and a part of my anatomy that I was particularly fond of.
I brushed my foot over the accelerator again, taking comfort in the snarl that issued. The car was the best it had ever been. No doubt that was partly in thanks to the complete rebuild it had needed after my last outing, but I chose to ignore that fact. I tried to focus on the roar of the engine and not on the fact that my team had informed me that I actually was close to getting one record this year.
According to Sinclair Racing’s bean counters, I was one wreck away from passing the all-time repair cost in a single season. Suffice it to say this wasn’t the record they, or I, wanted. In fact, Danny Sinclair and his board were so unhappy with me at the moment that it was highly possible one more wreck would see me lose not only the championship—which was all but out the window anyway—but also my career. And I fucking loved my job. I was living my dream.
It wasn’t just the fast cars and loose women that excited me, although they were a benefit. A distinct benefit. My mind wandered to replay the previous night’s activities with a pair of girls. There was nothing they hadn’t let me do to them. By the end of the night, I’d screwed both of them in every way possible before sending them on their way.
Swallowing heavily, I discovered that thinking about my night-time activities at that moment was not the best idea. I needed the blood to stay where it belonged—in my head—and not be rushing south to fill my cock. I shifted in my seat and focused on the track in front of me and the chatter of my team in my ear.
In mere minutes, I would have to wrestle a six-hundred-horsepower, thirteen-hundred-kilogram roaring beast around a racetrack. That couldn’t be done with a distracted mind. Especially not at Bathurst, a track that required the utmost concentration from even the best of drivers. Like I used to be. Before Queensland.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the track in front of me as the thought struck. Just twelve short months ago, I’d been at the top of my game. King Shit. No one was able to touch me when I was on the track. I had started the previous season as the dark horse, one that couldn’t possibly be a threat, but I’d finished as the youngest driver ever to win the championship. At my age it was a fucking miracle I was in the car at all, let alone being discussed as a possibility for lead driver within the next few years. Or at least I was being discussed. Now, after a string of incidents, I was practically a wash-up who couldn’t even finish a race. I was barely twenty-two, and my career was already hitting the skids. Unless I pulled a miracle—and a finish—out of my arse, I was finished. The chequered flag would drop on my career and I’d never see the track again. At least, not for Sinclair.
The drivers behind me revved their engines in anticipation of the start, reminding me of where my attention should have been. My mind raced with too many thoughts, and I tried to push them out, to focus only on the most important of them all. Number one: I needed to get away clean. Number two: I needed to keep my head on the track. At least that way I might have a fighting chance of finishing, which would be fan-fucking-tastic.
I can do it.
The thoughts I’d been trying to keep at bay, to keep off the track, started to flash in my mind. I beat back the vision, refusing to let her screw with my head before I’d even started.
Can’t I?
My head spun as the doubt crept in. I pushed it down and decided that maybe that’s all I needed to do: think positive or some shit. Be the change I wanted to see in the world and all that other bullshit.
Or maybe I should just try to stop over-fucking-analysing everything.
The simple truth was that I needed to spend more time focusing on the race and less time chasing the doubt that raced through the memories in my own fucking head. If I worked out how to do that, I might stand some chance of salvaging something of the shit that was left of my life. I just couldn’t see a way past my particular issue. At least none that I wanted to do.
A voice in my ear confirmed the flags were due to go up in less than a minute. I allowed myself one second of solitude and closed my eyes. Pressing my foot deep onto the floor, I listened to the throaty roar that issued from my beast. It blocked out all other sounds and left me with a moment of peace.
My eyes snapped open as I heard the familiar sounds signalling me that it was time to go. The instant the green flag was raised, I jumped. Wrestling the heavy car into line was never an easy task—stalling was always a concern—but I got away clean.
Ride on instinct.
Don’t think.
Don’t overthink.
You know what you need to do.
Just. Fucking. Do. It.
I would do it. It was only one thousand kilometres, and I didn’t have to drive them all. Morgan would have his shot—he would do it clean. The championship was his for the taking if he did his part. I just had to do mine.
Easy.
Starting in pole position had given me an advantage. I’d capitalised on that, and jumped from the starting line fast, which made it easy to stay at the front of the pack. My skills and awareness of the other drivers only helped to strengthen that lead.
My radio blared to life less than a minute after the start. The crew informed me of an incident in the first corner. It was already behind me, so I was ready to ignore it. There was only one thing I needed to know about it.
“No safety car,” Eden, the woman I put my faith in on race days, confirmed a second later, alleviating the lingering concern.
Her statement meant there mustn’t have been any major damage to the cars. That was all I needed to know. I didn’t listen to the rest of Eden’s information as she listed the cars involved. I didn’t really care. My only concern was the track ahead of me.
My fingers danced across the instruments. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. It was a rhythm I’d memorised years ago. The cadence of the movements matched the private symphony in my mind. Hard to the left. Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting. Reid Park. Past McPhillamy. The track, the car, everything came together to form a routine I’d done so often before that I probably could have done it with my eyes closed. Of course, taking the mountain for granted was asking for trouble.
Especially considering my recent performance issues.
In the last four years, I’d raced at the track a number of times. First, it had been in a production car, and then finally one year ago, I’d taken on the mountain in a Sinclair Racing V8. I’d fucking finished strong. My debut in a V8 and I’d finished second. It was almost unheard of for someone my age, but I was just that good. I’d driven with McGuire then as well. Buoyed by that win, as well as my other ones earlier in the season, I’d won the championship. I’d had such great fucking prospects. It was the stuff of legends—hall of fame worthy.
And then I fucked it up. Or more specifically, she did.
Refusing to linger on the thought, I focused on the track. I was coming into Skyline and I needed my head in the game. I’d learned from previous races and my many practise laps that with the time to enjoy it, the view from the top of the mou
ntain was breathtaking. Under any other circumstances, I would have taken a moment to appreciate the scenery, but midrace it was more important to focus. To stay in the moment. To feel the car and let it guide me safely down the mountain. Especially with so much on the line. My balls being first on the list.
For a breathless moment, I hung suspended in the sunlight before the road dropped away beneath me and I paced through the S bends into the dipper.
A soft right. A hard left. Accelerate hard down Conrod Straight.
The start/finish line flashed away beneath me in a blur of white and black.
You’ve got this, I reminded myself as I exhaled a shaky breath.
One lap down. One hundred and sixty to go. Thankfully, I would only have to drive around half of those. Morgan would drive the rest so I just needed to get through the laps the only way I could at the moment—one at a time.
The track map was as strong in my mind as ever. Despite the fact that I’d driven Mount Panorama enough for it to be almost ingrained in my psyche, I’d spent hours studying it again over the last few days. It was never enough though; it was always a track that managed to surprise even the most experienced drivers.
I refused to let the doubt-filled thoughts creep in. I needed to keep my head focused on each lap, one at a time, and not think beyond my current stint. Thirty more laps, give or take, and then Morgan would take over and I would have nothing to think about while he drove his bit. I’d have nothing to do but watch on and be ready to take control again when the time came. Thankfully, the track in front of me was still empty and I’d already built a small buffer between me and second place.
THE LAPS continued to drop away in a haze of sun, heat, and speed as the cars behind me jostled for positions. My radio squawked to life at regular intervals, directing me to watch my fuel, my tyres, or just issuing directions for the small adjustments I needed to make inside the car. I fell into the comfortable pattern of the track and felt my mind start to drift. Brown eyes filled my mind, even as I resisted the urge to think about her.
“Safety car, Declan. Bring her in.” Eden’s lilting voice shrilled in my mind, focusing me back on the track for lap thirty-one. “Morgan’s ready to go.”
Thank Christ.
All I needed to do was bring the car safely into the pits and then I was in the clear for roughly thirtyish laps as Morgan took control of the car. If he crashed, well, that was all on him. I briefly wondered if he’d let me anywhere near him with the rusty pliers if that happened.
Once the car was in the pits, I breathed freely again. The love I felt for the job was fast becoming a noose around my neck, dragging me down to the depths of doubt—and it was all her fault.
The changeover between drivers was hectic as usual, but I was free and had done a decent job increasing the lead by fractions of a second at a time.
I pulled off my helmet and shook my head before brushing my fingers through my hair to return some shape to the dark auburn mess. I would hate if anyone saw my trademark spikes flattened against my head in a terrible case of helmet hair. Or worse, for some damn pap to catch a shot of it. Even though I earned my pay on the track, I had a reputation among the ladies that I had to maintain. Morgan and I both did really. Although he’d been all but taken off the market, we were still the poster boys of the series. Women wanted us and men wanted to be us. With his surfer-style blond looks and the blue-eyed charm I’d been gifted with by my Irish heritage, we provided the perfect package to the sponsors.
There was a time where I’d had issues with posing for the magazines and other duties. Then I saw the benefits. Especially on shoots with other models—it was rare that I didn’t bring at least one of them home with me.
Knowing I had some free time, I headed into the garage to take a breather. As soon as I was clear of the immediate pit area, I unzipped my fire suit and pulled it loose. Freeing my arms, I tied the top half around my waist to give me some air. It was so fucking hot. Being October, the air temperature was easily over thirty degrees. On the track though—in the car—it had been closer to sixty. I grabbed my water bottle, downed it almost too fast, spilling some of it down my chest. Reaching for another, I was tempted to just pour the whole thing over my head before sitting to watch the race on the monitors.
By the time I was settled, Morgan had already pulled the car cleanly back onto the track and was working his way past the slower cars. He was a speed freak like me and, even though I would never admit it to his face, a fantastic driver. He had just the right balance of brains and balls to find success on the track. That was why he’d finished second behind me last year. He was older and more experienced—and the current lead driver for Sinclair Racing. If I had one or two more championships under my belt, our positions might have been different.
It was being fucking discussed.
But that was before Queensland Raceway.
Once, that track had been my main stomping ground. It was close to where I had grown up, was near where I’d gotten my start in karts, and also where I had eventually cut my teeth in the early stages of racing cars. I’d moved rapidly up the ranks while I was still in high school, before being offered a place on Sinclair Racing’s team. They were the elite Holden team in the ProV8 world.
Danny Sinclair, the team owner, had courted me onto his team by offering me a five-year contract for a lot of money. No, not just a lot—a shitload of money. More money than a suburban boy like me had ever expected to make in ten years or more. The only problem with the offer was that it had meant relocating to Sydney. Which meant leaving my friends and family behind and saying a final goodbye to her.
We’d already broken up by the time I’d got the contract, but it was still devastating to say that final goodbye. Seeing her that last night—the night it ended for good—it was clear the hurt we’d inflicted on one another the day we broke up was still so raw for the both of us.
After I’d moved to Sydney to join his team, Danny had told me that as soon as he’d watched me race, he’d wanted me to be part of his “family” and everything else had just been a formality. I started as a junior driver in production cars almost straight away. Within two years, I’d moved up the ranks and had been given the chance to drive as part of their V8 team. I had more than exceeded everyone’s expectations—I was just that damn good. Or at least, I had been. Until Queensland Raceway.
That was where I saw her again.
I had no idea what she was even doing at a race. She hated the sport. She’d always told me that she couldn’t understand the fascination boys had with their “toys.” Regardless, she’d been at that racetrack—my home track—mere metres away and separated from me only by a group of about twenty people. I’d wanted to speak to her so badly, but I didn’t want to force open old wounds for either of us. That was if she even still bore any scars.
We hadn’t spoken since I’d left for Sydney around four years earlier, and that meeting had been difficult. She’d tried to call, often in fact, especially in the beginning. I’d known that if I wanted to have a chance of making my career work I needed to avoid her. She was too small town for me, and her dreams would only drag me into a suburban life I would never be happy with. A clean break was the easiest option for her. For both of us.
Over time, her calls had slowed until, almost a year after I’d moved, they’d stopped altogether. Once the calls stopped, I’d almost been able to put her out of my mind for good. She still resided in my dreams and nightmares and in memories of both good and bad times—smiles and tears. Our past played out on instant replay every night, but other than that, she’d never crossed my waking mind.
Until Queensland Raceway.
Until I’d seen her in person once more.
She, Alyssa Dawson, the knobbly-kneed girl I’d loved, had blossomed into one hell of a woman. Her hair, mahogany brown and hanging to her waist, was silkier than I remembered it. My fingers twitched at my side as I thought about the feel of it tickling against my skin as we’d kissed. At some point
, her hips and boobs had taken a womanly shape that her previously boyish frame had never hinted was even possible.
When I’d spotted her, it was clear that she was waiting for someone. Her gaze scanned the crowd at regular intervals. For half a second, I’d arrogantly assumed it was me. That maybe she’d come to beg for another chance. That she was willing to admit she’d been wrong and that my racing was a career after all.
With a satisfied smirk on my face, I’d begun to move in her direction. That’s when I saw him. When her lips split into a wide smile the instant the hulking figure headed in her direction, I knew she’d well and truly moved on and had no further interest in me. The guy cut an imposing figure, towering at least a head over most of the crowd as he walked toward her from the concession stand. He held a hot dog in each hand and had two cans of Coke balanced in the crook of one arm, which proved it wasn’t an accidental meeting.
His perfectly tanned face returned her grin before he planted a kiss on her lips and handed off her half of the food. Watching as their lips touched, my hands formed into fists at my side. It didn’t matter how brief their kiss had been, it hurt like a son of a bitch to witness. In that instant, I wanted nothing more than to pound him into the pavement. Not just because he’d kissed my girl.
She’s not yours anymore.
It was painfully obvious that she’d willingly come to watch a race with someone who wasn’t me and seemed to be enjoying herself even though she’d protested against the series the entire time we’d been together.
It was clear that it was love—she’d never once come to watch me race when we were together. A new emptiness clawed its way into my chest as I watched them sit happily together and chat as they ate. When they’d finished, she ruffled her fingers through his jet-black hair. With a laugh, he’d picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder, caveman style, while she giggled and pretended to protest. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to see, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pair.
Declan Reede: The Untold Story (Complete Series) Page 12
