Banging Wheels

by Natalie Banks

  “Oh God! Oh God!”

  Spurred on, he ground harder and deeper, letting out his own deep moans of pleasure and screwing up his eyes. He was close too, that much she could tell. Harder and faster still he went, sending her nearer and nearer. She was right on the cusp when she felt him starting to lose control, giving out great manly gasps, banging into her spasmodically. She let go, right as he exploded inside her, joining him in a frenzy of flickering eyes, open mouths and exaltation, their backs arching in some great orgasmic stretch, her mouth spilling out all kinds of noises.

  Finally, she collapsed, lying there in sticky haze of fuzziness and conjoined skin. And there she lay with him for quite some time, stuck to him in a mound of sweat and lost thoughts, before drifting off into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She woke the next morning naked and tangled up in a wreck of sheets, wondering where the hell she was, and then remembering. A double bed and the smell of vaguely-familiar man. She waved her arms about, expecting another body, but met with no obstacles, no flesh.

  Ah, yeah. Okay. She’d slept with the jerk in the bar. Her mind wandered back. What the hell had she been thinking? He was exactly the opposite of what she needed in her life.

  She slid to the edge of the bed. Her clothes were still strewn about the floor, but his were no longer tangled up in them. He must be in the bathroom. She slipped her panties back on and snapped her bra into place in search of some semblance of dignity, then knocked on the bathroom door. It pushed open — dark, empty. The hotel room wasn’t big and there was nothing in there — no clothes, no nothing. Not a sign that he’d even been there. Except maybe his smell on the pillow, and the sense of being used — in a good way — down below. Oh, and the sense of conflict in her head. Boy, had she needed that, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself. But it might have been nice to wait for someone who wasn’t a jerk. And while it was nice to be spared the awkwardness of waking up next to him, and despite having regrets of her own, it still felt kind of insulting that he’d pretty much run away, especially given it was his hotel room.

  She checked her phone for the time. Dammit — she couldn’t afford to be late. She slid back into her jeans, fixed her hair in the mirror, patched up last night’s lipstick, now inappropriately — or perhaps perfectly appropriately — a bright, harlot red, and prepared for the walk of shame, pulling the keycard from its housing in the wall.

  The lift door opened with a TING and in there was the couple from the previous night. She walked in, defiantly upright and sophisticated. Some part of her wanted to blurt out, ‘How was the sex last night?’

  “Ahem,” said the woman.

  What is it? My lipstick too bright for you prissy people?

  “Ahem,” she said again, more softly, her eyes guiding Callie’s down to her jeans with a kindly look of female solidarity.

  Oh no! The condom wrapper was stuck to her. Callie pulled it off in a flushed terror, and let them leave the lift first.

  Never, never, never again.

  “Would you like to pay by cash or credit card?” said the woman at reception as she handed over the keycard.

  “I’m not paying, it’s—” Dammit, what was his name? It had gone. “My partner.”

  “Your partner said you were paying before he left.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  He ran off and left me to pay for his hotel. I didn’t even know that was even possible.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her temper rise, “but he’s...”

  An arrogant little jerk? A presumptuous asshole? Just some guy I met at the bar last night and will almost certainly never see again?

  “...mistaken. You need to go ahead and charge his card.”

  “I’ll do that, Madam.”

  That she’d gotten out of the situation didn’t lessen her sense of annoyance. The mere fact that he’d thought it okay to try such a cheap, cheap trick was a slap in the face. What was the implication here — that it had been her privilege to sleep with him? That she somehow owed him? Or was it just that he was a massive troll? Whatever the truth, she had to snap out of this quickly — today was an important day, and she needed to face it with positivity and dignity. Despite that, as she headed out through the automatic doors, she was still digging around trying to recall his name, partly because she’d never slept with someone and not known their name before, and partly because she wanted a name to match up to her internal cursing.

  Her destination was only a couple of miles away, and the bike was barely warm when she got there. She killed the engine and walked up the asphalt driveway, smoothing out her blouse as she went, her cropped leather jacket hiding the worst of the crumples. It was hardly a business position or something where appearances were paramount, but she still wanted to come across right. As herself, sure, but not as someone who doesn’t give a shit. Not slovenly. Not someone in last night’s clothes and with a condom wrapper stuck to her. A maverick, perhaps, but not a loose cannon. A professional racing driver.

  The building was not large, but it was still an impressive structure, featuring copious amounts of steel and glass. Exactly the kind of office-like space that she felt out of place in. A couple of details made her feel more at home — a pristine racing engine sat in a Perspex case opposite the reception desk, and, more strikingly, at the end of the hall, a racing car, complete with sponsors’ logos. Though somehow seeing these things in this context made her feel uneasy — this sanitization of visceral objects. Engines and cars were living, breathing things that belonged in the heat and fury of the race track, not preserved in boxes like this.

  “Mr. Hutton is waiting for you upstairs,” said the well-mannered young man behind reception.

  “It’s exactly as we discussed over the phone,” said Travis Hutton, team boss of Travis Hutton Racing, all grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. “Just sign in about... oh... 657 different places and, if you haven’t collapsed by then, I’ll introduce you to your teammate.”

  Her teammate. She felt her stomach tense. This was the great unknown element, and yet perhaps the most important. She’d managed to secure a drive in a good car, but your teammate is your biggest rival. That is who you will ultimately be judged against. After all, you’ve got equal equipment, so there’s nowhere to hide. You can have the best car in the world, but if you can’t beat your teammate, you’ll always be seen as second rate.

  She took the heavy pen and flourished it across one page after another, repeating the same pattern again and again — everywhere there was a cross in red ballpoint. Clauses and sub-clauses, insurance and indemnity. They’d covered it all verbally before and the negotiations had taken serious time, but the truth was that she’d have taken pretty much anything that was on offer to get a drive like this. In the Junior Pro Racing League, you didn’t have time to mess around. It was one of numerous feeder leagues for the big time top-tier televised racing league, where only the most talented drivers made it. You had to impress, big time, quickly, and then move up again. To plateau here was to never make it to the top.

  “It’s a good car,” said Travis’s assistant, a woman in a sharp suit, with an even sharper demeanor. “We expect to win races.”

  Callie sensed some kind of hostility. It was something she’d experienced numerous times — other women seemed to either see her as an inspiration or else resented her, somehow holding the idea that she’d slept her way into getting a drive, or that she was there because of her gender, and not despite it.

  Of course, the men in the industry could be problematic too. Men didn’t like being beaten by a woman — something she’d experienced right from the start. Back in the days when they used to race empty plastic crates down the hill near her home, she beat a local boy and he got called all sorts of names for it by his friends. But once she’d beaten them, too, the whole dynamic would change to one of respect. Indeed, those beaten would often then goad newcomers into racing her, telling them they were pussies if the
y couldn’t beat her — knowing full well that they were toast. It had been a similar story right up through the various racing formulae — she’d had to earn her respect, and at times it seemed like they raced harder against her than the rest of the field — just out of fear of losing to a woman. But once she’d gotten that respect, her rivals often became her biggest advocates.

  Indeed, it often wasn’t clear whether her being female was a help or a hindrance. Everyone loved the PR, especially the advertisers — without sponsorship, she’d never have even got this far. But the bullshit could be tiring. She wanted to be defined by her driving, not by her gender.

  And perhaps the biggest obstacles thus far came from the most surprising source — home. Her folks had never taken her sporting endeavors seriously.

  “It’s not something for women,” her dad would say. “Or at least not for ladies. Besides, you’ll never make a living out of this. It’s a tough world out there, and you’re wasting valuable time. You could be building a career.”

  This really annoyed her. Motor racing was her career, or at least it certainly could be, and she was plenty good enough. Why couldn’t he see that?

  “When are you going to give up this nonsense, dear?” her mom would ask. “How can you have a baby when you’re driving? You can’t drive a racing car when you’re pregnant, you know. Your Auntie May says—”

  To hell with her Auntie May.

  This wasn’t some idle nonsense Callie was doing instead of having a life — this was her life. And there was plenty of time to have kids. It was all nonsense. But it did have an impact on her. She wanted to pretend that she didn’t care, but she did. She wanted — needed — her parents to support her, and be proud of her. But to get that, she had to prove them wrong; to convince them with achievements, and with the hard cash that would follow should she manage to take the step up to the big time. You can’t say it’s not a career if you’re earning good money and making progress.

  So there was a lot to gain by succeeding, and it was something that had pushed her on when times had been tough. But should she fail, in all likelihood she’d have to go back to them in ignominy. She didn’t even have the first idea what she would do as a career. She’d worked in a PR office for six weeks one summer and the tedium nearly killed her. She couldn’t cope with the normal — she needed something more. In her mind there was only one way — she had to succeed.

  Back in team HQ, she still had forms to sign.

  “It is a good car,” said Travis, thumbing his lapels. “A damn good car, in fact. And we expect to win more than races. We’re here to win the championship — again. Anything less, and we might as well not bother turning up.”

  It stood to reason. Travis Hutton Racing had won the title seven out of the last ten seasons. This was her big chance, and no mistake. You could be the best driver, but if you didn’t have a good car then you’d barely make an impact, and you’d never progress.

  There was another document on the table already, already all signed, including on the front cover — a brash, slick and confident swirl that took up far more space than was allotted. It was hard to make out the name, but this person already seemed to have their eye on the big time — it wasn’t a regular signature, but a heavily stylized one, deliberately resembling spinning tires and smoking rubber. Indeed, signature was the wrong word — this was an autograph. Here was someone who expected to have plenty of fans in the future.

  She felt an anxiety in her throat, but also an excitement. This was it. This was what it was all about. She’d beaten all her previous teammates, although with each rise in formula it had gotten that bit closer. Each time only the cream of the crop advanced. Each time the competition was stronger. Soon you were racing against the cream of the cream of the cream.

  “And the deal with a team in the top tier still stands, of course. You win the championship, you get the drive.”

  Now that really was the big time. If she got that, then her parents would finally have to accept that this was for real. She hadn’t even driven this year’s car yet, and the next carrot was already being dangled.

  “Welcome to Travis Hutton Racing.”

  They shook hands. She went for a firm grip, but he was gentle. She was used to this — men treated her hands like fine-bone china, yet these were hands that had wrestled with steering wheels since her early teens now. It would take a lot more than a firm handshake to damage them. She’d broken both her wrists in an accident in her early years — she’d gone off in the rain and went straight into a barrier. Lacking in experience, she kept her hands on the wheel as the car made impact. You only do it once.

  “Here’s the man himself,” said Travis, shifting his gaze to the door.

  She turned on her heel, still smiling, even the turn seeming like an agony as she waited to discover who she’d be scrapping with for the whole season, who she would be doing physical and psychological battle with race after race, both in the car and out.

  And there he was. The smile. The slicked hair. The missing button. The baby blue eyes.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Was that really her? Incredible. And he could tell from the look in her eyes that she was similarly confounded. Best he hid that. Make it look like he already knew. You’ve always got to keep the upper hand.

  “Hi, I’m Drake.”

  “Callie.”

  That was it — Callie. At least he’d got past the awkward fact that he’d forgotten her name. It was a bad habit, come from too many one night stands. The name seemed like the least important thing if you were never going to see someone again.

  “So,” he said, a wry smile forming, “you’re the one who’ll get to witness all my glorious victories from right behind. Well, maybe not right behind.”

  “In your dreams. Oh, and is that your best shirt?” she said. “You’re missing a button.”

  He didn’t need to look down.

  “Why not just pick a new one up and leave me to pay for it?” she continued. “Oh, and before you ask, no, I didn’t.”

  Ha! Oh yeah, he’d forgotten about that. It wasn’t like he needed the money, or even expected her to pay — he just liked to nurture that side of him; he liked to play the jerk card.

  Getting women came easily to Drake, but this one had something special about her. Even now, as he looked at her, he remembered tracing his hands down her elegant curves. He could still smell her on himself that morning as he slipped back into his clothes and sneaked out. He thought back to kissing her and found himself inadvertently licking his lips.

  But it was more than just a physical connection that had attracted him to her — she had a confidence about her, a self-respect and a competitiveness. But he knew he was going to have to stay on top of this situation. The way she’d raced him on that game just the night before had shown him that. Sure, it was just a game, and sure, he’d come out on top, but even then he had recognized a determination, a focus, a will to win. And perhaps worst of all was the fact she hadn’t seem fazed by his trick at the start — she’d just come right back at him.

  He didn’t let anyone get the better of him nowadays — neither in racing nor in life. It was funny to think back — he was so eager to please when he was younger. It was especially true in the case of his mom and dad — he seemed have to spent his entire childhood trying to squeeze some affection out of them.

  “Nice kid,” the neighbor used to say to her husband when he saw him washing the car.

  But then his parents sent him to boarding school, and everything changed.

  “Come on, guys,” said Travis, looking somewhat bemused at the interaction. “Well, guy and girl.” He smirked as though the novelty still amused him somehow. “Save it for the race track.”

  Drake saw her eyes narrow at this awkwardness around gender. This was good — keep her feeling needled in any way possible. He’d raced against a few different women in the lower leagues, so he had no iss
ue in racing a woman. Those guys who got all worked up about that were losers. But it was the first time he’d slept with a teammate, that was for sure.

  How was this going to pan out? In his favor, hopefully. Whatever you do, you have to beat your teammate — at any cost. It’s the only person with exactly the same equipment. He was sure had the edge. He always did. Who was it who said, “Never give a sucker an even break”?

  What he wouldn’t do for another night with her. What was her name again? Callie. He looked at her again, flashing her that fox-like look that women never seemed able to resist. Another tool in his arsenal. She rolled her eyes in response and turned away.

  Damn.

  Drake strolled around the pristine garage, the sealed floor reflecting the clean lighting overhead. He caught sight of himself in the black glass panel of the data center — the kit they used to track, store and analyze all the car performance data — and stopped to admire himself in the colors of his new racing suit. Damn he’d come a long way. Even the sponsors’ names seemed like medals — it was tough to attract the money in the lower racing divisions, and he’d never have made it if it hadn’t been for his parents’ financial support in the early days.

  The team didn’t have many employees — this wasn’t the top level, so there just wasn’t the money — but still more than he’d experienced before. They had a caterer for a start, and here she was now coming around.

  “Can you help me hand out these drinks, dear?”

  Oh my god, she thinks Callie is on the catering staff! How does she put up with all this bullshit?