Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  With a huff, I continued in my original direction, searching for Renner and hoping I’d never see that angry Atlas again.

  “You alright, girl?”

  I turned and blinked at the older, wiry man peering at me through tiny glasses that turned darker in the sun. Renner Voigt’s scratchy voice like the coarsest sandpaper, preventing the answer from being anything but the raw truth.

  And meeting him was about as uneventful as our first phone call. He didn’t ask questions. Not about me. Not about my driving. And not about what happened at Daytona. And he only ever called me ‘girl’… though it never sounded like an insult.

  When I found him checking over the green and white car, he’d barely spared a handshake let alone pleasantries before jumping into the details of the race car’s build. Though all IndyCars were made to spec, whatever areas could be changed, whatever parts could be altered, he’d run down the entire list for me.

  Renner Voigt was an interesting man. And it was no wonder, for all his great ideas, he operated backstage in the racing industry. Just like the Wizard of Oz—a man with no special powers, except being able to convince an entire world that he had them.

  Genius always tended to come with a side of insanity. And I was still trying to determine just how large of a side came with Renner.

  “Fine,” I replied, staring at the low-bodied car in front of me.

  The tiny chassis guarded by four large tires, the precious engine tucked behind the driver’s seat.

  Behind my seat.

  I was nervous about a lot of things, but driving… racing… never that.

  I’d never driven an open-wheel car before, but I knew they were a whole different world. With a host of different dangers.

  There was no top. No roll cage. Nothing to shield the open cockpit during a collision or flip. Nothing but a helmet to protect my head from any blunt force trauma.

  And with less body—less protection—the cars also weighed much less…about half of what my NASCAR counterpart would’ve measured in at. And it made the cars faster—topping out at just under two-hundred-fifty miles per hour.

  Even at one of the fastest NASCAR tracks, cars only reached an average of one-hundred-fifty-six.

  So, to summarize, Indy cars had less protection, went faster, were more aerodynamic, and had less weight to absorb the impact of any crash. And I was about to drive one for the first time. With a broken ankle.

  “Good.” He nodded, still looking over the car as though he could see through each metal plate to the vasculature of tubes and wiring inside. “We made some slight changes to the engine. Curious to see how it does before he really gets in there and starts making adjustments.”

  Great.

  “We? He?” I took another quick step forward as Renner walked to the back of the car, setting my wince free.

  After finding Renner on my own, I did my best to only move when he wasn’t looking directly at me—which, thankfully, wasn’t that often. His gaze rarely made contact with mine, but when it did, it felt like staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “My chief mechanic,” he grumbled, his head jerking side to side. “Not sure where he wandered off to, but you’ll meet—” He broke off and started. “G.”

  G? As in the letter?

  I followed the arrow of his attention to the man who appeared several paces behind me, holding a dirty towel and welding rod in his hands.

  The angry Atlas.

  “G, this is Kacey. Our driver.” Yup. It was the letter.

  Who had a name that was a single letter? Or a nickname?

  I gaped, but Renner’s focus was back on the car, leaving me and the steely displeasure dirtying the gorgeous features of the other man.

  “G… like the letter? By itself? Or G-E-E?” My head cocked to the side, unable to stop the blunt questions from tumbling out.

  He glared at me. “Just the letter.”

  “Does it stand for something? Or am I just supposed to call you a letter?” I probed. This wasn’t Hollywood. Racing didn’t have one-name wonders like Prince or Madonna or Lorde.

  He stood in stony silence for an immovable second. “Yes.”

  My eyes narrowed. Yes to what? Both questions? “What does it stand for? I don’t think I can just call you by a letter, you’re too—” I pinched my tongue between my teeth.

  Too what?

  Too imposing. Too unnerving. Too good-looking.

  I grunted. Too much.

  He was too much to be reduced to a single solitary letter. Too much man. Too much restrained emotion. Too much heat carving through his veins.

  Having to call him G was like trying to fit twenty pounds of shit in a two-pound bag.

  The tic in his jaw was as steady and precise as the timing belt in an engine. “Then don’t call me anythin’.” He side-stepped me with a shake of his head.

  “Just as much of a pleasure to meet you for the second time,” I grumbled under my breath; his nostrils flaring was the only indication that he’d heard.

  “Don’t mind him, girl,” Renner diffused, shooting an annoyed stare at his mechanic. “He does better with cars.”

  “Why?” I hummed, my mouth teasing the shore of a smile. “Because they’re named with single letters, too?”

  Burning blue brimstone locked on me. Hot. Deadly.

  Most imagined brimstone as red-flamed, hell-wrought wrath. But brimstone wasn’t coal-like and didn’t burn red. Brimstone was sulfur. And solid sulfur, when burned, burned with the color of his eyes—with the brightest blue flame.

  “Because they dinna talk back,” the surly mechanic gritted out, barely acknowledging either of us before walking off.

  Renner began to mumble to himself—a common occurrence during the hour I’d known him—but I couldn’t focus on what he said. I couldn’t even tear my eyes away from the mountain of a man, harsh and alive, the natural warmth of his accent making it easy to drift too close only to end up scorched by the words he spoke.

  “Alright. Time to get in, girl,” Renner declared. “Let’s see what you can do.” He pinned me with one of those intense stares and I nodded, tugging my helmet on.

  As he crouched near the back tire, I made my move to climb into the cockpit.

  Planting my left hand on the edge of the door, I flinched when my right hand connected not with the back of the seat—its intended destination—but with hot stone.

  Even through the thick fabric of my racing gloves, warmth zipped all along my arm and down my spine.

  G’s harsh gaze glared back at me as he lifted my hand until I had no choice but to use him for support and climb into the driver’s seat.

  It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Obviously, the man wasn’t shy about his dislike for me and yet, he’d reached out to help me.

  He has a letter for a name, Kacey. Why would you expect him to make a lot of sense?

  And my ankle was hardly jostled by the process—a process that would’ve hurt a helluva lot more if he hadn’t held me.

  His hold didn’t linger as I settled into the cockpit.

  Maybe it was just the adrenaline that had my nerves racing. Maybe it had nothing to do with him.

  Pulling my visor down, I glanced up at his expressionless face that somehow carried so much emotion. He clearly wasn’t affected by the touch, I thought as he turned away and murmured something to Renner.

  Shifting in my seat, I buckled in and tested the feel of flexing my ankle as though I were stepping on the gas. I winced. Not too bad. Thankfully, it only took a slight motion to send the car on its way toward two-hundred miles per hour.

  “No need to go crazy, girl,” Renner instructed, bending down on my left side. “Just a few laps to see what you’ve got. See if you can get enough speed out of her to qualify.”

  “Got it.” I nodded, and then the engine roared to life.

  Four laps in and I knew it was a bad idea.

  It wasn’t even my ankle.

  It was the car.

  The difference in
the build. The difference in where I sat and the perspective I had.

  I couldn’t build up speed because I couldn’t be sure how close I was to the wall. And without much protection between me and that wall, I wasn’t going to risk it.

  Letting off the gas, I pulled back into the pit, wishing I’d find only Renner waiting there for me.

  Wish not granted.

  Renner met the back of the car to cut the engine. Meanwhile, I was met by the man with a letter for his name, his arms folded and his scowl worn like armor as he bent next to me.

  “Is it yer ankle?” he demanded, his accent even rougher over the valley and hill of the question.

  He knew.

  He’d known this whole time.

  Thank god my helmet was on and he couldn’t catch the way I balked at the blunt question.

  “Something wrong with the car, girl, or are you nervous?” Renner provided a blessed distraction from G’s intense gaze and unnerving perception. He butted in front of the mechanic and gripped the side of the car, reminding me of a mother bear prowling next to her cub who’d wandered off.

  “Car’s fine,” I admitted, keeping my voice steady and my focus on anything except the man in the background watching me like a hawk.

  I cleared my throat and pushed myself up from the seat until my butt rested on the headrest. “Not used to the open wheels.” I scanned the side of the car. “Not used to how close I can get to the wall.”

  “Alright, well take a few more laps, then.” He patted a hand on the edge of the cockpit. “You barely topped one-seventy. You’re going to need better than that if you want to qualify for me.”

  My throat constricted as I swallowed, anxiety building air castles in my lungs. Tall and formidable.

  “Yeah. I can do it.”

  I exhaled slowly and took another glance at the thick rubber jutting out from the side of the car like giant black boxing gloves itching to get into a fight with the padded cage that confined the arena.

  Think, Kace. Think.

  I just needed something… something to give me an idea of distance…

  “Good. Start her back up, G.” Renner walked away, waving the mechanic over as he went.

  Crap.

  G’s arms dropped, and I could see in his eyes that he was going to get answers from me first. But as I watched him come closer, I caught sight of the welding stick and an idea sparked.

  “I need that.” My grunt echoed inside my helmet as I hoisted myself over the side of the car, taking his welding stick as I went and ignoring the shark spike of pain from my ankle up my leg when I landed on solid ground.

  Shock was the only reason I was able to take it from him so easily and make it around the far side of the car before he followed.

  “What the hell are ye doin’?” he groused. When I caught him off-guard was when the accent came out thicker; like squeezing a bottle, when I put too much pressure on him, it forced out more things that should’ve stayed stuck inside.

  It didn’t matter.

  I didn’t care what he thought of me.

  “I need…” I trailed off, scanning the body of the front wing and tires of the car. Squinting, I searched for the spot I needed. “Aha!” Taking the welding stick, I wedged it in the seam along the side of the wing, locking it into place so it stuck out from the side of the car.

  “What the—”

  “I need to know how close I am.” I rose and spun, sucking in a breath when I realized how close he stood. One deep breath could make us touch.

  One deep breath could set the world on fire.

  “This will tell me I’m close enough,” I finally finished.

  But from where I stood, my internal gauge screamed that I was far too close… far too close to him. Confirmed by the hammering of my heart and the fear of crashing into hard, solid male… a dangerous crash indeed.

  I needed to get away from him. I needed to do what I came here to do. Backing toward the cockpit, I groped for the edge of the car, clasping firmly and climbing back into my seat, my ankle protesting bitterly the entire time.

  I was going to pay for this later… later when I’d be snacking on ibuprofen like it was M&Ms.

  But pain was hard to focus on when his proximity frayed all my senses.

  G glared at me for a long second before stalking to the back of the car and crank-starting the engine.

  This time, I let my ankle drift downward and the car suctioned to the ground as I picked up speed. My hands moved in a Simon-Says sync with the dash on the steering wheel, shifting when the shift lights indicated, watching as the numbers climbed, and slowly but surely inching toward the wall.

  Maybe G stood for Gorgeous.

  Pursing my lips, I shifted again, climbing to one-eighty as I tried to rein in my thoughts.

  Or maybe it stood for Groucho. I smirked. That one made more sense.

  With a soft chuckle, I slid closer to the wall, seeing the first set of sparks as the welding stick scratched along the barrier.

  There it was.

  For two more laps, I pulled away and then dipped closer until the stick hit and sparked. Each time provided me with a better spatial sense of where the car was and just how close I could go.

  Two laps was all it took.

  Two laps before I crossed two-hundred-and-fifteen miles per hour.

  Two laps before I knew I could qualify.

  My smile split across my cheeks like a lightning bolt of pure determination and my heart raced like thunder in my chest to keep up.

  I could do this. I was going to race in the Indy 500.

  And it would be because I belonged there.

  As I pulled back into pit lane, I brushed off the flutter in my stomach from knowing I’d just proven myself.

  It definitely wasn’t because I was proving to be attracted to the grouchy and irritating Irishman.

  Garret

  I WIPED THE TOWEL OVER my hands again even though it wouldn’t help. They were perpetually dirty from a lifetime of being a mechanic.

  But it wasn’t the dirt I was after—it was any lingering trace of her.

  “What do you think?” Voigt appeared behind me. His small glasses completely shaded, shielding his gaze from mine.

  The buzz of her whipping around the track was a familiar strain on my brain. Swirls of sound over and over and over again, the tornadoed thunder of the engine echoing powerfully.

  I knew without checking she was well-over the speed she needed to qualify. I knew without looking that Voigt was impressed with how she was driving. I’d heard enough times that she was what he needed—that Kacey Snyder was the missing piece to cementing his name in the annals of the history of motorsports before he finally took his leave.

  My mouth thinned into a tight line. “We still need ta get the screen installed on the front. See how it affects the weight and drag. Second gear is too short, and right now, the engine sounds like it wants ta go faster but even if she pushed it, I dinna think it could.” I huffed. “I think there are a million things I need to change before this car goes out on the track in Indy.”

  That wasn’t what he was asking.

  He wanted to know about her. Kacey.

  Too bad I was only here for the car.

  Plus, my thoughts on her weren’t the kind of thing to be shared—they weren’t the kind of thing that could be easily wiped clean.

  “Not what I meant, G.” The older man planted his hands on his hips, his eyes still following the green car whipping around the pavement. “What do you think of the girl?”

  I thought she had a name, but Voigt was never fond of those.

  I thought she was a damned fool for being out there when she was injured—and clearly trying to hide it.

  And I thought that her eyes were far too deep for someone so young, her hand much too delicate and dainty, the way it fit into mine, for it to drive so well, and her body… I grunted, shifting my weight to adjust certain parts of my body that had their own opinions.

  Her body be
longed in that fire suit. Not to protect her, but to protect me from the thoughts of strawberry hair spread over pale skin—thoughts that threatened to send my blood into flames.

  “I only know cars. Engines,” I told him. “That’s why ye came to me. That’s what ye hired me for.”

  Kacey was like a spy—effusing this innocent and outspoken charm yet fully capable—and admirably skilled—at handling something so difficult and dangerous.

  My jaw tensed, reminding me that I didn’t want to be here. Reminding me that I had to be here. For Claire’s sake.

  “You’ve been doing this a long time, my friend. I know better than to believe you when you say that.”

  I didn’t look at him, watching as the green insect-looking collection of precisely moving parts pulled into pit lane.

  I’d been working on cars for as long as I could remember. My parents were poor Irish folk and repairing our car was a necessity that saved us time and money during the harshest years.

  I didn’t know how the trickle of events happened. But at one point, my brother asked me to help him fix up a junker to race in our town. I did, and we lost. But I learned and we tried again. And again. Eventually that junker was winning every race we could get it to, and, at one of those races, the right people noticed.

  From Ireland to Britain, we’d worked on race cars, plucked off one rung of the ladder and dropped onto the next. Climbing.

  Higher and higher.

  Next thing I knew, my brother and I left for the States and began a decade-long career in American motorsports.

  A decade that died seven years ago.

  And should’ve stayed dead.

  Until Renner Voigt called me. Said he needed me. Promised me the largest chunk of the largest Indy purse the sport had ever seen.

  And I needed the money.

  Medical care wasn’t free here, but it was the best. And Claire needed the best.

  With a heavy sigh and shake of his head, Renner walked by me, heading for the approaching car while I remained stock-still.

  I hated being back on the track. It was a reminder—a paved graveyard of my failures. But the irony was that if I wasn’t here, I’d be responsible for one more death.