Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  I didn’t want special treatment.

  “We can re-evaluate at the beginning of next year. Maybe get you back on as a developmental driver at the very least.”

  I nodded, flashing a brave smile and keeping my head high as though the waters weren’t rising.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I replied, knowing he didn’t have to do this himself.

  “You’re a damn fine racer, Kacey Snyder. One of the best I’ve seen.” He pointed at me. “This isn’t the end of your story.”

  “I know.” Even though it felt like my dreams were slipping through my fingers. I wouldn’t break down now.

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  I nodded. He was trying to be kind, to soften the blow by making a promise that might not be kept. I understood. I did.

  He reached out and I shook his hand, and as I walked from the room, I clung to the knowledge that one of the greatest NASCAR racers of all time knew I was one of the best drivers out there.

  I knew I was, too.

  I was just going to have to find another way to prove it.

  One Week Later

  Spring was supposed to symbolize new beginnings.

  Instead, I was back in Pennsylvania. Back in my small apartment, I wouldn’t even be able to afford it a few months without another job. And back to searching for someone… anyone… to sponsor me.

  There’s always another lap, Speedy.

  My dad had pulled me into his arms the day I came home and whispered that in my ear. Mike Snyder was a mechanic, and the reason I grew up loving NASCAR. And anytime I failed at something, he’d tell me to pick myself back up, dust myself off, and keep moving. Because there was always another lap.

  There was always another chance to regain what you lost.

  But, for the first time, I was struggling to believe it.

  Unlocking my apartment door, I barely cracked it open before I was met with the white and gray snout of my parents’ husky.

  “C’mon Togo. Let me in,” I chided with a small chuckle, using my grocery bag to move the eager pup away from the door.

  My parents were on their yearly winter cruise this week, so I told them I’d watch their dog. At least one thing worked out from me being home.

  Dumping my keys and my grocery bag on the counter, I sagged back against the fridge, ruffling Togo’s fur as he pranced around my feet. By now, the news had mostly blown over of my suspension and subsequent drop from the Hoyt team. But I was still living with… dealing with… the aftermath the nuclear bomb had left on my racing career.

  If I could even call it that anymore.

  My parents had offered for me to move back home, save some money, while I figured out what I was going to do. But I couldn’t. Not yet. To me, that was the proverbial nail in the coffin. I loved my parents. But moving back in with them felt worse than failure; it felt like acceptance.

  Acceptance that this was it.

  Acceptance that my shot at becoming a professional race car driver was done.

  Acceptance that my dear mother had been right when she told me I didn’t belong on the track.

  “I know, boy. I know. You want to go for a walk,” I sighed. “Let’s go.”

  Clipping on his leash, we were back out in the cold air. Spring was here, but Pennsylvania hadn’t gotten the memo. It was still parka weather and there was a thin coat of snow that appeared overnight.

  “Always so happy,” I muttered as Togo pranced next to me, his eyes snapping over the tall, historic buildings that lined the sidewalk of downtown Bethlehem—a different setting than his normal walk around my parents’ cul-de-sac.

  Every window of every house, high rise, and store lit with single candles. The colonial façades and wrought-iron street lamps heralded a different time.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned as he tugged on the leash toward a squirrel that sprinted up a tree.

  We rounded the corner by the white and welcoming Moravian church, an imposing structure that cut an unforgettable profile into the horizon when my pocket began to buzz.

  I grunted.

  My parents were making port today, so I was expecting their call.

  They’d claim it was to check on Togo. And I’m sure it was. But it was also to check on me.

  My steps slowed, much to Togo’s dismay, when a number I didn’t recognize appeared on the screen.

  South Carolina.

  Normally, I didn’t answer unknown callers. But this time…

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” a gruff voice with a Midwest accent rasped. “This Kacey Snyder?”

  I stopped walking, Togo moving around my feet.

  Instantly, I was on the defensive. Last week, I’d been flooded with emails, calls, and even appearances from reporters wanting to get my side of the story.

  No.

  What they wanted was to see me break down. Because that was what they expected from the little girl playing race car driver.

  But I’d never let them see me break.

  “Yes. May I ask who’s calling?” I demanded with steely curtness, tempted to just hang up. I didn’t have time to provide fodder for their drama.

  “Renner Voigt.”

  The name seemed familiar, like a dream I couldn’t quite remember. Someone from the racing world who I couldn’t quite place, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Not right now.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I want you to race one of my cars.” It didn’t even sound like I had another choice. “For my team.”

  And then I laughed. Without hesitation.

  “Is this a joke?” Because it had to be.

  There was a pregnant pause and that was the first indication it wasn’t.

  “I don’t… joke, Miss Snyder.” The way he said it sounded like he meant he didn’t joke at all. Period.

  “Oh.” My head tipped to the side, looking around for other signs of life to make sure I wasn’t dreaming because this was the strangest and most untimely offer I’d ever received.

  “I want you to race for me.”

  “Race… one of your cars?” I squeaked and then shook my head, the reality of my suspension hitting me full-force. “I’m sorry, but I can’t, Mr. Voigt. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m suspended from the big races for the rest of the year,” I replied calmly, finding my bearings much easier since my situation was cut and dry.

  “I’m not calling you to race NASCAR. I know what happened. I’ve seen the news,” he replied as though it were obvious as a blinker signal which way this conversation was turning. “I want you to race a car for me at Indy.”

  My jaw dropped. I didn’t feel the cold. I didn’t feel Togo wrapping his leash around my legs, eager to keep our walk moving. I didn’t feel anything except the pilot light that burned in the pit of my stomach.

  A tiny flame of hope.

  I jumped just as the bells of the large church began to toll. The gongs rolled around in my head and I wondered if I’d even heard him correctly.

  “At Indianapolis.” I swayed back against the stone retaining wall that ran along the upward incline of the sidewalk, my legs an untrustworthy support in the face of his proposition.

  Indianapolis. The Indianapolis 500. The Super Bowl of racing.

  “That’s what I said.”

  I hardly heard his monotone retort.

  Of course, Indy had been a goal. A future goal. One of those ‘reach-for-the-moon’ type goals after I’d already cemented a place among the stars of NASCAR.

  But he wanted me to race it now.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes. I’m here. Sorry,” I stammered, one gloved hand tugging at my ponytail. “Indy. You want me to drive Indy.”

  “Yes.”

  Damn, the man had few words.

  “Well? You interested or not?”

  I should’ve thought about it. Indy was a different world. And a different car. I should’ve been more cautious knowing that racing IndyCar after a NASCAR suspension was risk
y for my career; any kind of major loss would all but tank my chances of returning to NASCAR next year.

  But I couldn’t stop myself.

  I couldn’t stop the spinning in my stomach, the energy winding up and revving for a place to go. My blood pumped in my ears, louder than the roar of an engine. Racing was in my blood.

  And this was my next lap.

  “Yes. I’ll do it.” I smiled, the adrenaline and anticipation mixed with a shot of fear was inebriating.

  “Good,” he replied, though his tone hardly indicated either pleasure or displeasure. “I’ve rented out Charlotte for a private test session next week. I want to see you drive. Be there on Tuesday at nine.”

  “Okay—” Click.

  I pulled the phone from my face and stared.

  Renner Voigt had just offered me a driving position. And then he’d hung up on me.

  I tipped my head back, staring up at the tip of the steeple as I began to laugh.

  “You heard that, right, Togo?” I asked the only soul around. “He wants me to drive for him. At Indy.”

  The single most important race in the industry.

  Tongue dangling from his mouth, Togo just tipped his snout, not caring a wink about how my life had pulled a left turn—no, a U-turn—and sent me headed back out onto the track.

  Life—bright and vibrant and fierce—roared through my veins as the widest smile broke over my face.

  Now, I just had to figure out who exactly Renner Voigt was.

  “Alright, boy, let’s finish your walk.” Togo clearly didn’t care about my shock or surprise. Only squirrels interested him.

  Lost in a tornado of anticipation, I didn’t notice the woven strip of fabric around my foot until it was too late.

  I went to step forward and tripped, and then slipped on the snow-slick sidewalk, crashing to the ground with a squeal of surprise and a sharp burn of pain through my right ankle.

  Shit.

  Kacey

  Five days later…

  “YEAH, DAD, I’M FINE.” I propped my phone against my shoulder, pulling up my pant leg to check on the red, angry skin peeking out from the bandage around my ankle as my Uber driver turned into the Charlotte International Speedway.

  “Can’t believe your racing for Voigt.” My dad chuckled on the other end of the line.

  He’d been the first person I’d called after the conversation that changed the course of… well… everything. Well, the first person I’d called after hobbling home and having a neighbor take me to urgent care for my ankle.

  My dad knew the industry. He knew the sport. And he knew all the names that I didn’t—including one Renner Voigt.

  Renner Voigt was the race car designer and owner of one of the longest-lasting but low-budget teams. He wasn’t rich, but his lack of gross funding was made up by his immense passion for the sport which kept him coming back season after season without fail.

  With my dad’s insight and Google’s detective skills, I formed an image of Voigt as a prickly pioneer. Obsessed over racing and methodical almost to the point of madness.

  He lived in the shadows of its spotlights like a specter of the sport. Designing cars. Engines. Modifying. Tinkering.

  The wizard behind the screen.

  And now, the wizard wanted me.

  “I gotta go. We just pulled through the tunnel.” The momentary darkness as we passed underneath the race track was obliterated by the bright light of the southern sun dousing the center of the ring.

  “Love you, Speedy.”

  “Love you. Tell Mom, too.” Ending the call, I tossed my cell into my large tote bag and opened the door.

  Sliding along the seat, I shoved my small rolling suitcase out of the door first, the weight clanking on the pavement.

  “You sure you don’t want any help?” the young driver asked with concern.

  “I’m good,” I huffed, stepping with my left ankle first to take all the weight. “Thank you.”

  I could’ve fit my driving suit in a duffel bag, but then I wouldn’t have been able to use the suitcase as a crutch. And I needed a crutch.

  My ankle was broken.

  Urgent care had confirmed the break from my fall and put me in a cast. Unfortunately, a cast wasn’t going to work out for me. Not today. I needed a foot, not a lumbering leg of plaster.

  And I wasn’t going to give up my only shot at racing this season because my right ankle was injured.

  It was only a minor break, but even with the cast, the doctor told me to take it easy.

  I hadn’t told him I needed to take it racing.

  So, I wore it right up until I arrived at my rental this afternoon. Luckily for me, the rooms I’d rented from Wendy, a nice elderly woman, in her large colonial-style house, came with a massive soaking tub. Filling the tub with hot water, it took me about an hour to soak the plaster right off.

  To be fair, I wasn’t completely careless with my ankle; I’d wrapped it with an elastic ACE bandage for some support—enough to get me through the next few hours.

  I hadn’t told my dad I would be driving today either—only that Renner wanted to meet me in person and show me the car.

  And I definitely hadn’t reached out to Renner to let him know about the injury.

  This was my only shot at racing this season. I could suck it up for a few laps around the track.

  In retrospect, I hadn’t told a lot of people a lot of things, but I was here now and that was all that mattered.

  The suitcase grumbled unevenly as I rolled it along the pavement, hobbling as best I could to avoid everything but minimal contact on my fractured ankle.

  It was strange to think that some days, this place was filled with thousands upon thousands of people when right now, it felt like a ghost town. The stands stood like a winter forest, empty and echoing as the wind blew through them. The only noise was the sound of the wheels on my suitcase and my off-kilter breaths.

  I’d never been to Charlotte, though the speedway looked similar enough to most other racetracks. Still, there was a different kind of expectation in the air today that made it stand out. I wondered if Indy would feel the same.

  I’d been to Indy one time as a kid—one time over a decade ago when Danica Patrick had taken seventh. Since then, no female had placed in the top ten. No female had even come close. I shivered the thought off my back.

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. The only thing I had to worry about today was driving well enough to impress Renner Voigt—and well enough to hide my injured ankle.

  Even if I couldn’t hide it—even if I had to tell my prospective boss about my injury—I would be healed come May, and definitely by Memorial Day which was almost a full three months away.

  The faintest movement caught my eye and my head turned left, focusing on the track.

  And then on him.

  A man standing at the fence imprisoning the track. His arms outstretched from his broad back, gripping the thin steel so tight I could see his arms bulging against his long sleeve-tee, the mountainous muscular terrain leading down to the white-capped peaks of his knuckles.

  My head tipped and my lips parted.

  His head fell between his shoulders and he held the fence with a powerful paralysis—teetering on the brink between pushing it away or pulling it closer. A modern-day Atlas holding the world in his grasp. He wanted to let it go—to be free of the weight and responsibility—but he couldn’t.

  Though the way his head hung hardly visible made it seem like the real strain was internal.

  He looked like a famous statue from antiquity. A perfectly proportioned body layered with divinely stacked muscles and missing a head.

  A mythical man of muscle and mystery.

  My lips quirked in a smile, and as though the gesture was a bullet to his back, the statue’s head snapped up, cracking the stone of his spine, to glare over his shoulder.

  A grim blue gaze peered at me over unruly auburn waves, their length shoved back from his face but curling at h
is shoulders. The narrowed slits of his eyes were underscored by prominent cheekbones and jaw cut as sharp as an ax, dusted with the unshaven ashes of a few days’ old scruff.

  He was beautiful. But a harsh beauty. An angry god.

  I imagined beauty and rage had warred and, crafted from the clash of their weapons, this man had been viciously carved from the sharpest edges of their swords. And now, the rest of us had to suffer the violent contrast between anger and appreciation.

  Forgetting my ankle, I took a step closer to him and flinched at the sudden, sharp sting.

  “Excuse me.” I flashed a smile and licked over my lips, trying to quell the heavy thump in my chest. “Do you know where I can find Renner Voigt?”

  The fence rippled in shock as he shoved away from it, crossing his arms over a chest that looked even broader than his back. He stepped slowly toward me, those grim eyes reaping over me, taking me in. Taking my soul.

  I straightened when he locked on my broken ankle and, biting back the discomfort, I pressed it flat to the ground, hoping it looked normal. Hoping I didn’t look weak.

  I didn’t know who he was. And he didn’t need to know I was injured.

  His gaze snapped back to mine, brimming with turmoil. Goosebumps scaled my spine like unwelcome visitors up my walls, and my heart thudded as they invaded my body with warmth.

  “Ye don’t belong here,” he declared with a deadly-low, Irish-accented voice.

  It was pure poison. A lilt I’d previously always found to be warm and welcoming as it seeped into your bones—but not today.

  Today, it was menacing. Today, it was a threat.

  “You don’t know me.” My chin tipped up—forced up—by the obstacles stacked in front of me. But I refused to let them block my vision. I refused to let them stop my dream.

  He turned and stalked off, and a chill swept over me. Even if it was poison, his attention had kept me warm—had made me burn.

  With indignation, I swore.

  “Thanks for your help,” I shouted after him, extending an arm and a single, raised finger to his retreating back before it disappeared behind a building. “Jerk.”

  And I refused to waste any thought on one more large, obnoxious male who didn’t think I belonged behind the wheel on the track… because racing was a man’s sport.