#Swag (GearShark #3)

by Cambria Hebert

  Jace was different.

  He made me feel like a woman in ways I’d never felt before, in ways I thought I never would.

  I honestly believed growing up under my father’s roof, where it once had been hoped I were a son and not a daughter, influenced me. Sure, my mom would dress me up when I was little and she’d try to teach me to be a lady and take me to where she’d come from and try to mold me in her image.

  I never took to it. To her.

  Most would describe me as a tomboy. I don’t know what the hell that even meant. I was just me, and that me wasn’t a girly girl. I liked fast cars, ripped-up jeans, action movies, and I didn’t depend on a man for anything.

  Yet when I arrived in Colorado (a day before the race), we all went downtown and walked around the shops and had dinner at a restaurant with the best homemade fish and chips. Across the street was a place that caught my eye. A place I’d never seen or been to before.

  A blow-dry bar.

  If you’re anything like me, then you’re sitting there saying, “A what now?”

  A blow-dry bar is a place women go to get their hair shampooed and blown out. It’s not a salon. They don’t do cuts; they don’t do color. They simply shampoo, condition, and then blow your hair out into a sleek and gorgeous style that supposedly will hold for several days because, apparently, the blow-dryers are filled with fairy dust.

  Okay, they aren’t.

  But the way they advertise it, they might as well be.

  Naturally, I scoffed at the sight as I sat in the window of the restaurant across the street and chewed my steak. I’d walk in and those women would probably be horrified. They wouldn’t know what to do with a head of hair like mine. Hell, I didn’t even know what to do with it.

  The thought amused the hell out of me. Naturally, I then wanted to go there.

  I told myself it was because I wanted to show these blow-dryer wielding fairies nothing they did could tame this beast on my head… but really, the lure of perfectly straight, glossy hair, the way it was on the cover of GearShark, totally called to me.

  Jace had liked it. I saw the way his eyes followed it, and I recalled exactly how it felt to have his hands running through it. Granted, I liked my curls just fine, but this was a chance to sit in a chair and have it tamed without having to get a shoulder cramp trying to do it myself.

  FYI: When I “blow-out” my hair, I end up wearing a hat. ‘Cause, you know, I do a shitty job.

  So after dinner, I went there (they stayed open ‘til 9:00 p.m. at night! Clearly, the ladies around here were serious about their hair) and walked in, waiting for the shrieks.

  “Girl, have a seat. We’ll fix ya,” one of the girls said. She wore an apron that made her look official.

  About an hour and half later, I paid a price I never thought I would pay for someone to shampoo and dry my hair while gazing in the huge mirror behind the checkout desk.

  They did it. They actually tamed the beast.

  It looked even better than it had for the magazine shoot.

  I was thinking maybe there was some fairy dust in all the products she used… It was long, sleek, but not flat, and it reflected the overhead lights like glass. I couldn’t help but notice how my eyes looked even greener when it was like this. It was almost darker, richer.

  So here I stood, in the center of the second NRR race, realizing I had a lot more girl in me than I imagined. My hair. The butterflies courtesy of being somewhere near Jace.

  And for once? For once, it didn’t seem like a bad thing. So what if I liked having my hair done, and so what if I totally looked for Jace in the crowd? I felt like I spent my whole life trying to make up for the fact that I was born a girl. I fought against stereotypes and tried to prove my worth.

  All this time, I thought I was breaking down barriers. I thought I was strong and kickass. What if I wasn’t? What if all I’d been doing was trying to make other people happy by being who they wanted me to be? By letting them push me down when I was trying to rise.

  Why couldn’t I be a driver with really good hair? Why couldn’t I want to date and be treated like a woman even if I worked with a bunch of men?

  I could be tough and soft.

  I could, but then I’d make it harder on myself. Showing any kind of softness is sometimes like opening a door enough for someone to wedge their foot in to blow it open wide.

  I spent all this time giving everyone the theoretical finger, but in some respects, I suppressed some of who I was to please them.

  Wow. I felt fucked up.

  All because I got my hair blow-dried and locked eyes with Jace.

  Strange how sometimes the littlest things brought on the biggest change.

  Was I changing? I wasn’t sure.

  We were standing there staring at each other when the reporter showed up. Hopper was with them, like he’d been leading the way. I focused on him, trying to dislodge Jace from the forefront of my mind. He was dressed in his standard dark-colored jeans that didn’t look faded or worn like the kind Jace wore. His shirt was black, tight, and long-sleeved. The elbows had patches of leather, and there matching patches at his shoulders.

  Hopper was lean, not a huge guy, but he had broad shoulders from which the rest of his body tapered in. The tight material of the shirt molded around those powerful shoulders, shaped biceps, and narrow, tight waist.

  He was wearing a hat, a red one (it matched my sponsor logo), pulled low over the piercing lightness of his eyes. The dark-brown mop of hair on his head was covered, but the too-long ends curled up around the base of the hat at his neck, sticking out like he hadn’t even bothered combing it.

  His chin was pointed, but not overly so, and it seemed with the hat pulled over his eyes, all the emphasis went to his chin and the full lips currently pulled into concentration as he led the camera crew toward me.

  Usually, reporters weren’t allowed down in the pit, especially before the start of a race. But this was the NRR, and lots of things went here that didn’t go in the pros.

  “Joey G.?” the man said, a press pass clipped to the breast of his suit jacket. He gripped a mic in his hand and was trailed by a cameraman. The camera was fairly large. You’d think as advanced as we were with technology these days, he wouldn’t be saddled with such a huge piece of equipment.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering what the heck he wanted with me.

  “I’m John Lennox from KW3. I was wondering if you had a few minutes before the race starts to give us a short interview.”

  I glanced down at his badge again. It bore the logo of the national TV station that covered a lot of races. It was the first time any national station had approached me, including after some of the races I’d won that I thought were pretty big deals.

  My eyes slid to Hopper, who was standing close by. He nodded encouragingly.

  “Sure.” I smiled at the reporter.

  “Great!”

  I had no idea what to expect. What he would ask, what would come out of my mouth. But this was what I was here for. This was what my father wanted.

  And me, too. Didn’t I want more attention? More equality on the track?

  Now’s your chance.

  “Ready in three…” John said to the cameraman.

  “Isn’t it too loud right here?” I worried, glancing behind me where the pit crew was working and yelling to each other. Drew and Trent were beside his bright-yellow racecar as he prepared to strap in and drive onto the track.

  “The background noise is authentic,” he explained. “We can tone down the sound in the editing room.”

  “Sounds great.” I agreed. “Can you give me a second?”

  Hopper peered up from beneath the brim of his hat like I’d lost my damn mind. I grinned at him.

  “Sure,” John said, a little surprised.

  I jogged over to the bright-yellow car, noting the small French fry decal on the corner of the dash. It had to be something Trent put there.

  “Wanted to tell you to rip it up out th
ere,” I called over the noise. The breeze blew through my hair and whipped it around behind me.

  “Thanks!” Drew called back, his white teeth flashing. The blond strands of his hair were wild, and there was a spark of excitement in his eyes.

  He is totally high.

  High on adrenaline, the crowd, and the race.

  God, I loved that feeling.

  I jumped forward and flung my arms around his neck for a quick hug. “Burn rubber,” I whispered in his year. Okay, more like yelled over the roar.

  He laughed. “Will do!”

  I left him with Trent and jogged back to the reporter. It wasn’t lost on me the camera was following my movements.

  “The news broke in the new issue of GearShark Magazine recently that you have confirmed your crossover to the NRR from the pro racing division.”

  I nodded and practically heard Hopper shouting at me through his mind. Clearly, nodding was not acceptable for a TV interview. “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “I’ll be finishing my season with the pro circuit this year, and next year, I’ll be entering the NRR.”

  “You seem to be pretty close with NRR star Drew Forrester. Is that because you like him or because your father sponsors him?”

  “It’s because he’s a damn good driver, which he’s about to prove yet again today.”

  John nodded. He seemed a little disappointed he wasn’t able to goad me with that question. I glanced at Hopper and noted the way he was looking at John.

  I settled a little more firmly onto the ground and smiled for the camera.

  “Will your father, Ron Gamble, also be sponsoring you in the crossover?”

  “Yes, along with several other large sponsors.” I had no idea who those were yet… I just prayed I got some.

  “Will you still feel as warmly of Drew Forrester when he’s your competition?”

  “I don’t think of him as my competition. I don’t think of any other driver that way. They’re my peers, and we all do the same job. I just hope to do it a little better.” I smiled and ran my hand through my hair.

  John blinked.

  I smiled wider.

  “Some people are speculating the reason you’re crossing over is because of a brewing romance with another NRR driver.”

  I laughed even as my stomach tightened. “I’m pretty sure you know Drew is off the market.”

  “I’m not talking about Drew Forrester. I’m talking about Lorhaven, the man who appeared on the cover with you.”

  “I think if anyone read that article, they would know he’s not fond of my crossover,” I replied, short.

  Figures everyone was jumping to that conclusion. Why hadn’t I thought about this when we were doing the shoot? Because my hormones had taken over. Ugh.

  “According to some of our sources and online reports, some of the pro drivers aren’t too happy with it either.”

  That was news to me. I’d been so busy I didn’t even pay attention to people’s reaction to the feature story… Apparently, that hadn’t been too smart.

  “Well, considering they weren’t too fond of having me in the division in the first place, I’m surprised they care I’m leaving.”

  “Do you think their reluctance to your pro career is because of your father?”

  I thought about it for a second, glancing at Hopper. His icy-blue eyes held a warning.

  Fuck that.

  “Honestly? No. I don’t think it would have mattered if I was a man. I think the fact that I’m a woman is what everyone in the pros hates so much.”

  Hopper sighed loudly.

  I ignored him.

  “Is that why you’re crossing over? Your interview with the magazine seemed to be cut short before you could answer that,” John said, glancing at the camera as if he were telling the viewers.

  “It’s definitely part of it.”

  “So what I’m hearing is you feel you’re discriminated against as a woman in the sport of racing?”

  “I know I am.”

  “Care to give us and the viewers at home an example?”

  “Well, take this interview for instance.” I pointed out. “The first couple things you asked were about my father and relationship status.”

  “I fail to see how that’s discrimination.”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “Not technically, but I’ve watched you with countless interviews. My fellow male drivers are never asked about who their fathers are or what their relationship status is. You were effectively turning all the attention to the males in my life instead of asking me about being a female driver.”

  Hopper was staring daggers at me. Behave yourself! his expression said. The cameraman looked amused, and John seemed a little shell-shocked.

  He cleared his throat. “So what’s life like as a female racecar driver?”

  I smiled brilliantly. “It’s been pretty interesting lately.”

  He seemed afraid to ask me to elaborate. Admittedly, I think I was, too. “What do you hope to gain out of your crossover with the NRR?”

  Here’s your chance…

  “More drive time, more fun, and less rules.” He started to pull the mic away, so I quickly added, “And to spend more time with Drew Forrester, who is likely going to be the first NRR champion.”

  “So I guess we know who you’re rooting for today?”

  I laughed. “Of course.”

  “So one last time…” He paused. “Would you care to comment on your relationship with Lorhaven?”

  Unbelievable.

  “I don’t really have a comment,” I said. Then with a smile, I added, “Maybe if he ever asks me out, I will.”

  John Lennox turned in front of the camera and smiled into it. “There you have it, folks. An exclusive talk with Joey G., the first driver to give up the pros in favor of an unestablished division of racing.”

  I bristled. He made me sound so… fickle. Rage boiled up inside me. Made me sorry about all the things I hadn’t said.

  “And…” He continued, his voice cheeky.

  Cheeky = something stupid was about to come out of his mouth.

  “Sounds like it’s a direct challenge for NRR driver Lorhaven to ask out this little firecracker.”

  Little firecracker?

  The red light on the camera went off, and I dropped my smile. John turned back around. “Hey, thanks—”

  My finger jabbed into his chest, and his words cut off. “Why were you trying to bait me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?” he asked, like he was an idiot.

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. Well, thank you for taking the time to interview me.”

  John and his gigantic camera-toting friend rushed off. Hopper scowled and started forward. I turned away, toward the race, which was already in progress.

  The pit crew was standing at the ready with everything Drew might need front and center. I glanced up, squinting against the blinding summer sun at Trent, who was standing on top of the long tractor-trailer with Drew’s name scrawled across the side, along with my father’s business logo and the logo for the NRR. His shirt was bright yellow, Drew’s name scrawled across his wide back, and there was a black baseball hat pulled over his face. Sunglasses wrapped around his eyes, and a headset rested over his ears with a mic at his lips.

  His eyes never once left the track, more specifically, Drew’s position. I watched as Trent’s lips moved, and he smiled fast. Then he turned serious again and went back to the job he took very seriously.

  Trent served as Drew’s spotter, his eyes for the entire track, to warn him of blind spots, potential issues, and he also would be able to make sure the crew could burst into action with exactly what Drew needed when he pulled in.

  I’d never been to this track before. It wasn’t a pro raceway. It wouldn’t pass all the codes and requirements to make it pro quality. It wasn’t a perfect oval-shaped speedway like I was used to. The pro racing circuit was more about science and precision. We measured how much fuel we put in so as not to weigh the car down to
heavily. The tire pressure was always exact, and we planned each pit stop to perfection, because one misstep could cost a lap, a lag, or basically a total loss. The variables in pro racing were more standard in a lot of ways… more controlled. Essentially, the drivers were all on equal footing.

  This was not the case with the NRR.

  This track was bigger, longer, and had a lot more curves, like a country backroad. No track was exactly the same. While the first race of the season was more standard because it was at my father’s speedway, this one was much more exciting and showed the fans what the NRR was all about.

  More variables. More unknowns. That was the NRR.

  There was a section of gravel instead of asphalt the drivers had to transition on as they drove, and there was a dirt road that cut right through the center of the course that they had to drive across. The dust from the commotion filled the air and floated down the entire pit row.

  In this division, it all came down to who was a better driver. It was more like off-road racing. It came down to which driver could maneuver the best, control his vehicle the best through the curves, the transitions of the road types… It was about more than speed.

  I liked it. It added a lot more elements to the race. It added more drama and grit. And to me, it added more heart. It let a driver really show what they were made of. By the sound coming from the stands, it was a huge hit.

  I loved the feel of race day. It was like being contaminated with a virus, except it wasn’t a gross sickness; it was more of an epidemic you enjoyed sweeping through your body. The vibrations of the car, the tone of the roaring crowd. The cheers, the announcers, people yelling at every turn.

  I didn’t always get a side seat to a race. Most of the time, I was in the driver’s seat where a lot of the sound was muffled by my own car.

  But man, I loved both equally the same.

  “Discrimination, Joey?” Hopper said, nudging me in the side. Guess I couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there forever.

  I glanced at him out of the side of my eye. “Like you don’t agree one hundred percent.”

  “Look, I know it hasn’t been easy, but that interview could have gone a lot better.”