Qualify: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by TL Mayhew

  Not wasting any more time, I swipe my bag from the back seat, and take the concrete steps to the second floor. It’s a short jaunt down the hall and I’m unlocking my apartment door in minutes. Once inside, I lock it again before texting him back.

  Me: Inside now

  Me: Door locked

  Me: Love you

  His reply is instant.

  Dad: Thanks, hon.

  Dad: Have a good night.

  Dad: Love you too.

  Slipping out of my clothes, I toss everything in the laundry basket, except for my work shirt. I’m not ready to wash it yet. Not with the faint smell of him still on it.

  I lay it out on my bed and take a quick shower. By the time I’m done I’m exhausted, and it takes everything I have to slip on underwear and a nightshirt before sliding between the sheets.

  Tossing and turning until I give in, I grab the dirty shirt from the foot of my bed, tucking it up under my chin, and closing my eyes.

  Chapter 6

  The sun beats down on the dash of my car, forcing me to turn the AC up another notch. It’s an unusually hot spring in California. While most are enjoying it with their convertible tops down and bikinis on as far as the eye can see, I’m missing the cooler air in my hometown back in Kansas.

  In fact, I wish that’s where I was headed now instead of the errand Josh has me running.

  Errand. Who am I kidding? Let’s just call it what it is, a punishment for my earlier actions. At least that’s how it feels. Picking up ten packs of brake pads from the Kingston garage is not exactly how I’d expected my day to start.

  When Josh had texted me, I’d questioned, “Why there?” I could probably go online and order the same thing from a car parts site, but he’d insisted these were the pads he needed because they are manufactured by the Kingston brand and he wouldn’t be able to wait for a shipment.

  I really have no idea what he’s up to. There are no brake jobs scheduled in the near future; I’d checked. Nevertheless, I’m now sitting idle on a bumper-to-bumper interstate, sweating my ass off, and hoping Kye isn’t there when I arrive.

  Traffic creeps forward enough for me to veer off the interstate and head toward the industrial side of town. Their shop is essentially a converted warehouse outside of Collinsville, about an hour north of where I currently work.

  I’ve never been there before but have seen pictures on racing sites and social media. From what I remember, the architecture is something to behold. And I’m not disappointed when I pull through the wrought iron gates.

  The pictures don’t do it justice.

  Clean lines, right angles, and a whole lot of glass form the two-story building that, if I had to guess, spans over two acres.

  I pull into a parking space near the front entrance and sit in my car for a few minutes, imagining myself coming here, prepping cars, and traveling from race to race in a Kingston convoy. Not that I’d want to put myself in a position of working with Kye daily, but it doesn’t hurt a girl to dream.

  Letting out a breath, I pull my keys from the ignition and exit my car, but I don’t get five steps before I notice a sign above a parking space at the end of the row.

  RESERVED for our #1 driver Kye Kingston.

  Parked between the yellow lines and just below that sign is a silver metallic SF90 Spider. It’s a shame that in this moment the beauty of this piece of machinery is lost on me because all I can think of is… he’s here.

  I could turn around and tell my boss the pads weren’t ready, or ask that he send someone else, or tell him I’m sick. Anything to avoid going inside and possibly facing the very man who I should be staying away from.

  Instead, I give my body an ungraceful shake, tip my chin up, and walk with all the confidence I’m not feeling straight through those double doors.

  The building’s interior is even grander than its exterior. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up the front and part of a side wall in the lobby, where the late morning sun shines down on three Indy cars displayed proudly on the polished concrete floor.

  On the opposite side of the room are two floors divided by what appears to be a catwalk, allowing access to conference rooms and offices above, while frosted glass doors shield the rooms below.

  “May I help you?” a feminine voice asks, drawing my attention to a petite blonde seated behind a receptionist’s desk set off to the side. Her big blue eyes hold mine inquisitively, as though she’s waiting for my response and is interested in what I have to say.

  “Hi, I’m Berkleigh Shaw. Mr. Murdock from Dragoo’s Automotive sent me to pick up some brake pads he’d ordered.”

  “Well, Miss Shaw, let me have a look.” Her nails tap rapidly across the keyboard. “Ah yes, here it is. Ten pairs, five front and five back, is that correct?”

  I pull the folded-up receipt from my pocket to verify. “That sounds right.”

  “Great, one moment and I’ll call someone up here to take you back to our parts area. I’d give you directions, but this building can be a maze of hallways and dead ends.” She offers a soft smile.

  “I understand. Thank you,” I tell her, and then wave over to the Indy cars. “Do you mind if I have a look while I wait?”

  “No, we don’t mind at all. You can sit in any or all of them, if you want. They’re only replicas. Kye keeps his actual race winning cars under lock and key at an undisclosed location.”

  It’s interesting she calls him by his first name, when he owns the company. I wonder if they’ve… a spark of curiosity teases the back of my mind. If they have and she’s his type, then I feel a little more at ease because in the looks department she and I have nothing in common.

  The thought dissipates quickly when her soft voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Parts, please send someone to the lobby with the order for Dragoo’s Automotive. Miss Shaw is waiting.”

  If he didn’t know I’m here, he does now. I walk casually over to the cars as though her announcement didn’t just raise every single hair on my body.

  There are photos in front of each car showing their winning counterpart and statistics on how many races it’s been in, along with the record-setting times for each win. The picture is a mirror image of the car before me, the only difference is the replica has been fitted with a clear molded plastic to show off the engine parts.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he says, startling me.

  I fight the urge to glance his way by keeping my eyes trained on the intricate details that make up the engine. “She is.”

  “I drove my fastest race in that car. Topping out right at 240 miles per hour more than once during that race. I ended up winning by a three-lap lead,” he says, the tap of his steps telling me he’s getting closer.

  “I see that, right here on the plaque.”

  “Does it also tell you… on that plaque, what driving that fast feels like?” he asks, slowly closing in on me and my place in front of his car. “How weightless you and this hunk of metal feel while your body vibrates from the adrenaline pumping through your veins?”

  They’re simple questions, and if said to another driver they may not hold any of the undertones I’m picking up. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but my body is reacting to his smooth tone.

  “No,” I say, moving closer to the car, hoping a little distance between us will cool my heated skin.

  It’s not far enough.

  He closes the distance, leaning over my shoulder, his breath heating my ear. “I can show you.”

  My mind is screaming for me to dart around him and rush back to my car, but I also want to lean into him. Feel his strong chest once again. Get a reaction out of him like I had back in Josh’s office when smoothing his shirt. I don’t do either. Instead, I stand there like an idiot frozen and speechless.

  “I have an idea. Do you trust me?” He stands straighter and offers his elbow to me. Just as he did back in college.

  I look from his arm to those hazel eyes. Do I trust him? Josh’s words falling down the rabbit hole that is
Kye Kingston filter through my mind, as does the fact that I barely even know him, but he’s not done anything for me to believe he’s anything like Donnelly.

  I glance around the lobby. It’s still only him and me, and the receptionist who keeps glancing our way.

  “Come on, I promise you’ll have fun.” He offers a warm smile and raises his arm a little higher.

  I shake my head and take a step back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Just show me where the brake pads are, and I’ll be on my way.”

  This time he crosses his arms and leans against the car. “Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking. If you don’t have fun, then I’ll have the guys load up your car and you can head back to Dragoo’s.”

  I eye him suspiciously. Still not sure it’s a good idea.

  “The clock is ticking, Berkleigh. What’ll it be?” he asks, pushing off the car and taking a step closer.

  Shifting on my feet nervously I consider what he’s asking. At some point, I need to face my fears. I’m not afraid of him, more so of my past haunting me and I’ll make a fool of myself. “Fine, five minutes. But she’s coming with us.” I nod toward the front desk.

  Not skipping a beat, he calls out to the woman, “Alicia...” He then takes my hand and leads me to her desk. “Could you please escort Ms. Shaw and me to the simulation room?”

  Simulation room? They couldn’t possibly have one here.

  The petite blonde who I now know as Alicia, glances between us then her eyes land on our entwined hands. Something flashes across her face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. She sets a Be Right Back sign on the counter and then comes around from behind the desk. “Yes, sir. Please follow me.”

  “Alicia has worked with us for quite some time,” Kye says, as we begin our way down a long hall. “Receptionist is only one of her many talents…”

  My eyes dart to the side of his head and I try to release my hand, surprised by his forwardness. If there’s something more between them then my hand shouldn’t be in his.

  His grip tightens. “Let me rephrase. She also works with the accountants, making sure all our records are filed appropriately, and she gives weekly tours of the facility. She knows this building like the back of her hand. I’ll admit, I sometimes still get lost in this place.”

  I laugh inwardly at the image of him lost in his own building.

  “And there’s a smile,” he says, leaning in and whispering as we head farther down the hall. “A beautiful one at that.”

  My cheeks heat and I glance at the floor.

  Aside from my father, no other man has referred to me as beautiful before. I’ve gotten whistles and catcalls thrown at me and it was usually at the track, but that’s the extent of compliments I’ve received. If I had to describe myself, I’d say I’m plain.

  The girl next door whose wardrobe consists of overalls or jean shorts and a patterned button-down shirt that’s quickly replaced with a tank top when the California heat is at its hottest.

  I barely ever wear makeup and my hair stays in a messy bun until work is over. It’s long and on a few occasions some of the strands have gotten caught on a bolt or a belt, which had taken hours to get it free.

  Recognizing I don’t believe his compliment to be true, he squeezes my hand and mutters it once again. My eyes dart to his and he holds my stare.

  Something passes between us, an energy of some sort. Just as they had in the past, those eyes give me comfort. A warm feeling of security and need.

  “Ahem.” Alicia draws our attention back and we both look at her. “It’s just right behind this door, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  He turns his attention on me. “Is there anything else we need from Alicia?”

  I glance from him to her and then to the door. The plaque next to it clearly naming it as a simulation room. Being in an unfamiliar place with a man I barely know is a huge step for me. It’s a fear I’ve faced repeatedly but it never gets any easier. I shake my head, albeit tentatively.

  “We’ll be fine, thank you, Alicia, you can go,” he tells her. She turns on a heel and without another word heads back the way we came.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “Five minutes,” I remind him.

  He chuckles and checks his watch. “We’ll see.” With that he releases my hand and opens the door.

  I can’t believe my eyes at the room on the other side.

  It’s as big as an airplane hangar but instead of airplanes it holds six life-size Indy cars. They’re all lined up, three on each side, and individually settled in bays with all kinds of mechanics beneath. Like a ride at an amusement park.

  “This is amazing,” I say, in awe of the space. Trying to look at everything all at once. “I’ve heard about these before but have never seen or been in one.”

  The room is eerily quiet, considering it’s filled with so much muscle. Our shoes tap along the concrete floor as we follow the path separating each car until we reach the last row. I peek inside.

  These cars match those in the lobby but three monitors, angled in such a way they give a 360-degree view of a virtual track, replace the space where a windshield might be.

  “Pick one,” he says, heading toward the back of the room.

  A grin spreads across my face and gets wider the more I think about sitting in and driving one. Although I am making an assumption that’s what we’re doing here. It could be he’s just brought me in here to look at the cars.

  Nevertheless, he told me to pick one, I end up next to a car in the back row, closest to the exit.

  When I glance back at the direction we came in, I only see a shadow of his form as he disappears off to the side and out of the light. I’m left alone in the large space, a low hum of electronics and lights the only sound I hear.

  The longer I wait for him, the more my nerves dance beneath my skin, but not about driving the car. It’s more about being alone with him and wondering what he might have planned.

  The thought of Donnelly’s office chooses this moment to tease the back of my mind. I’m lost in thoughts of the past when a shuffling sound echoes throughout the room.

  I can’t tell from which direction it’s coming. “Kye?”

  No answer.

  A chill raises the hairs on my arms and my breaths come quicker. “Kye! If this is some sort of joke… so help me.”

  He steps back into the light and raises a helmet in the air. “You can’t very well experience the drive without one of these.”

  I release a heavy breath, letting go of the nerves and distrust before putting myself in a position of something I feel I can finally enjoy.

  He chuckles, nodding toward the car as he closes the distance between us. “Climb in and I’ll help get you strapped in.”

  I glance back and realize the dash has come to life. It offers enough light to see the seat and the spot where the steering wheel goes.

  “Well go on, get in,” he encourages.

  With the slightest hesitation, I place my hands on the side of the car and navigate my way into its interior. It’s quite the task, but I manage without falling on my face or into the compartment beneath where all the simulation components are housed.

  “Are you comfortable? Do you need to adjust the seat for the pedals or anything?”

  Stretching out my legs I find the accelerator, brake, and clutch pedals. They fit my five-eight height comfortably. “The seat position is fine.”

  “Okay, these simulators are designed to feel like the real thing, which means you’ll feel the road as the tires travel over pavement, you’ll also feel the corners and the decreased speeds when you let off the gas or use the brake. And although the car won’t roll, you can crash, and believe me, you’ll feel the impact.”

  He squats down next to where a door would be, and I catch his serious expression through a random ray of light. “It’s been more than five minutes, Berkleigh. If you’re done here, we can leave.”

  Once I’m seated in the car, the unsureness of e
arlier slips away and is replaced by the large grin spreading across my face. “Like hell I’m leaving. I want to drive.”

  He chuckles and stands, gripping something from behind me and pulls the racing belt over my head. The straps lie across my shoulders and he adjusts the metal clip before pulling them down over my breasts and angling it between my legs. “Are you still okay?” he asks, the buckle hovering a safe distance from my crotch.

  “I’m better than okay. Lock me in and let’s get this party started,” I tell him, feeling a lot more confident now than I did when he’d suggested this detour. Maybe it’s adrenaline running through my veins from the excitement of getting to fake drive a race car.

  He lowers the buckle farther, slowly, and precisely. When it glides into the slot, his hand brushes against my crotch and I suck in a breath. My eyes dart to his.

  I can’t tell if the move was on purpose, and he doesn’t apologize. All I know is I wouldn’t be mad if he did it again.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he lines up the helmet on top of my head, and without so much a word about what just happened, the molded plastic slides down over my hair. It’s heavy as shit and makes it almost impossible to keep my head up straight but I manage.

  “Testing...testing,” he says, his voice filtering through the speakers.

  I offer him a thumbs-up.

  “There’s a microphone, you can talk back to me,” he instructs me.

  “Oh…right,” I say, thankful he can’t see my expression as realization sinks in.

  Once we’ve confirmed the speakers and microphone are working, Kye verifies the safety systems are online. When everything is showing green, the steering wheel is installed and the final power switch is flipped. The car roars to life.

  “You’re all set. Keep an eye on the screen, when you get the green flag, press the pedal to the metal, and we’ll see you at the finish line.”

  At that he disappears from my line of sight.

  The cars are lined up on the screen.

  My car is in the middle and I quickly realize I’ll have to get out in front as soon as I get the signal.