Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Tightening my fist until the fabric was straining around it, I followed Voigt around the back of the car and cut the engine.

  When I looked up, her perfect ass that I’d had the unfortunate opportunity to notice several times now, sat perched against the back edge of her seat, propping her up and probably relieving whatever strain was on her ankle.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” the older man said with a smile and a shake of his head that betrayed just how composed he’d tried to sound.

  I stayed behind the car, fiddling with the engine because it was safer back here. Back here was where I belonged.

  “I think that should be good enough to qualify,” she asserted confidently, pulling her helmet off and letting a long stream of red-gold fire burn down her back.

  “More than enough,” he returned. “But I think G can make it go faster, can’t you?”

  Grunting, I stood reluctantly, keeping my eyes on my hands where they trailed along the edge of the car.

  “I have a few suggestions,” Kacey said, arching an eyebrow at me.

  She was pleased with herself—and she had every right to be—but this was just a sport to her. All the fun and games about racing ended years ago for me.

  “Second is too short. Third compensates by draggin’, and at the top o’ what she’s got it still feels like there’s more power left in her,” I said through tight teeth, watching her eyes widen as I ticked off all the things she felt while driving. “But all that needs ta be corrected after we install the new front screen.”

  “Never mind then…”

  “I know my way around a race car.” The urge to defend myself was overwhelming.

  “Yes.” She sighed whimsically.

  “What?” I was going to regret asking.

  “Like you said, the cars don’t talk back.”

  “And…”

  “And so it makes sense why polite conversation would be rocket science for you.”

  “Alright, girl,” Voigt jumped in, throwing up a human shield before we disintegrated into all-out war. “I’m thoroughly impressed, though I knew I would be. I’d like to meet with you tomorrow at the garage. We have some things to discuss.”

  Pulling back, he shifted awkwardly, as though this was enough contact and conversation for one day.

  “G.” He nodded to me, knowing I’d get the car back into the trailer and handle everything else here.

  My gaze was only on Kacey as Voigt walked away. The pop in her eyes, the part of her lips. She wanted to ask a million questions but held them all back, too afraid to look this gift horse in the mouth.

  Shaking my head, I turned and moved to the back of the car once more.

  “Can you steer over to the trailer?” I asked roughly. It was just easier to do with two people.

  She didn’t look at me as she nodded.

  Grunting, I pushed the car from behind and we maneuvered it to the trailer attached to Voigt’s F150.

  The car slowed to a stop and, before I could think about helping her again, Kacey hopped over the side, but this time, her ankle gave way. Her strangled cry made my body jolt forward, instinct demanding I help her—that I protect her.

  I lunged, thinking she was going to fall, but instead she doubled over and hobbled away from the car, breathing deeply as she regained her balance and the pain subsided.

  Strength concealed beneath a feisty spirit.

  Folding my arms, I approached and demanded, “What’s wrong with yer ankle?”

  Bright green eyes as vibrant as the green starting flag leveled me.

  “What’s your real name?” she countered.

  I grunted. Strong and stubborn.

  My name wasn’t a secret, though from her it felt like it should be. This woman who made a habit of breaking down barriers, and I wasn’t willing to risk the ones around my heart. Not even for a name.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Only if you want me to call you something other than ‘Groucho.’ Or maybe ‘Jerk.’”

  I let out a long sigh, bending down and heaving the race car up the ramps into the trailer, letting the question linger like fuel in the air. Pungent. Toxic. Needing to be addressed.

  When I turned back, she had one hand resting on the edge of the trailer. Her navy fire suit was unzipped down the center, revealing just enough skin and the shadows of cleavage to make my body spark to life.

  Also dangerous.

  Sparks and fuel never mixed well.

  “Ye shouldn’t have driven if it’s sprained that bad,” I pressed, locking my attention on the way she kept all her weight off of it.

  She dragged the pink tip of her tongue over her lower lip. Fuck. I felt the swipe like it was right along my cock.

  “It’s broken.”

  What?

  I balked. “Are ye feckin’ kiddin’?”

  She’d just driven an open-wheel car for the first time with a broken ankle.

  “It was only my gas foot. It’s not like there was a clutch or anything.” She shrugged. “And it wasn’t a major break, according to the doctor.”

  “So, you’ve seen a doctor?” I stalked to the edge of the trailer and stepped down, leaving us eye-level. “Where’s yer cast?”

  Again, another bump of her shoulders, as though she let concern for herself roll right off of her.

  “I soaked it off in the tub at my rental before I came here.”

  “Jesus—” I wiped a hand over my mouth. “Are ye daft?”

  She jerked back, eyes narrowing angrily. “No.” I could see the insistent tap of her pulse against the soft white skin of her neck. “Daft would be trying to drive with the cast, Groucho.”

  My jaw ticked.

  “Ye shouldna have come here.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Shaking my head, I grabbed the car towel from my shoulder and tossed it into the trailer, going about the task of closing everything up so I could get back to the garage—back to the car. Back to my job.

  Back to the company of metal and gears… the kinds of things that didn’t have questions or retorts. Or a mouth that looked too goddamned enticing as it equally aggravated and aroused me with every damned syllable.

  “Ye should get it looked at,” I ground out, tearing my gaze away from hers.

  Her eyes danced as though my frustration was amusing.

  “You seem to care an awful lot about someone who you claim shouldn’t even be here.” Her head tipped back, daring me to contradict her.

  Daring me to not sink my teeth into the thrum of her pulse and drink some of the life right out of her.

  I spun on her, feeling her sharp inhale as it sucked the oxygen from the air between us, pulling me ever so slightly closer in the process.

  “I care about my job and this car and making sure it wins this damn race,” I ground out, foolishly stepping closer and letting myself tower over her small stature. “This might all be a game to ye, but this is everything to me.” Her lips firmed. I’d made her angry. Good. “And I’m not going to let some girl risk it all because she’s too foolish to take care of herself properly.”

  Images from the news flashed in my mind of what happened at Daytona. The fight she’d picked with Puglisi. What she’d risked. What she’d lost.

  She was reckless.

  Beautiful. Determined. Strong.

  But too damned reckless.

  A combination that didn’t bode well in a sport where your life was on the line—a sport where her every move, for better or worse, was scrutinized.

  “You don’t think this means something to me?” she scoffed, not backing down like I should’ve known she wouldn’t. “I’m the one who soaked my damn cast off to make sure I didn’t jeopardize my one shot to drive this car in this race. To win this race.”

  My eyes dropped as I felt the firm press of her gloved finger into my chest. Even though her checkered racing gloves blunted the tip and masked the heat of her hand, it felt as though that one touch poked a hole in my defenses I’d worked
for years to build.

  Easily. Without even trying.

  As though they were nothing but a balloon.

  “So don’t stand here with your high and mighty mechanic attitude, Groucho, and call me daft when I’m going to be the one responsible for winning this,” she charged. “You take care of the car. I’ll take care of myself.”

  My nostrils flared. “Fine.”

  Perfect.

  “Good.” And with that, she spun and hobbled back toward her things.

  “Dammit.” I huffed when she was far enough away not to hear. Each step she took on her injured foot made me wince with the need to help her. But she wouldn’t take my help now.

  With a long exhale, I locked up the back of the trailer, glancing one last time in her direction. She stood, stripping out of her fire suit into a skin-tight tank and black pants underneath, with her cell phone pinned between her ear and shoulder.

  Her thin clothing did nothing to hide every curve and turn of her body as she wiggled out of the rest of her race gear, and my body wanted things it hadn’t for a long time.

  Desire seared through my veins like race gas—a precise fuel that could withstand greater forces just as equally as it could burn hotter and faster if ignited—and my cock turned to lead in my pants.

  Fucking hell.

  She turned and caught my gaze.

  We were like two sticks of dynamite—attraction and aggravation attached to the same lead. And when we were close…when we conversed… that lead was lit directly in the center, racing to detonate us both.

  I needed to keep my distance. Explosions—no matter how enticing—never ended well.

  I spun back to the truck. Grabbing the last of my things, I climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted my painful arousal.

  It was better if she hated me. Distance and disdain would stop this desire in its tracks.

  Kacey

  I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR to the garage, checking the address Renner had given me again. Definitely the right place. It was about ten minutes outside of downtown Charlotte and halfway between the city center and the speedway—a quiet spot in a perfect location.

  Taking a step back when no one answered, I scanned the outside of the inconspicuous two-bay, two-story brick building for any signs of life.

  The building a gray-washed rather than red brick with no name on the outside to designate what it was, who it belonged to, or the kind of mechanical genius contained within the walls. What did stand out though was the upstairs; garages rarely had second levels in the first place, but this one… the front was lined with large windows. In comparison, the main level had only the two, worn-gray garage doors and a matching man door, but nothing to let you see inside.

  Probably a good thing since it housed around a million dollars’ worth of car and parts.

  Instead of knocking again, I went straight for the brass handle. Finding the door unlocked, I let myself inside.

  My ankle protested each step I took, but the pain was muted by the new cast caked around my foot.

  Aside from increased inflammation, the doctor I’d gone to see yesterday after leaving the track said I hadn’t done any more damage to the break, but that I really needed to take it easy now. Seeing my agitation, he’d compromised on the hard cast for one more week before I could settle with a stiff wrap and an air cast for the following three.

  I refused to use the crutches though. I refused to look weaker than I was.

  Especially knowing I was going to have to face Groucho again.

  My hair spilled over my shoulders, long and loose to make up for being tied down and crammed in a helmet yesterday. I shivered at the distinct decrease in temperature inside the building. With a pale blue tank and loose white linen pants that fit easily over the width of my cast, I was dressed for a warm Southern break from the cold winter in the Northeast.

  And I would make the most of it for the next two days before heading home and biding my time until Renner summoned me for practice or for qualifying. That was how racing season worked. Like driving through town, there were times when all the lights were green and it was go, go, go, and then you’d hit a red light. One after the next. And there would be a lull in progress.

  “Hello?” I called into the space, hearing the clank of metal a second later.

  Directly in front of me but all the way at the back of the shop, G appeared through an open doorway to what looked like the engine building room with all the ventilation and piping going in and out of the space.

  He paused in the doorframe, filling almost every corner of the void in the wall.

  The angry Atlas, welding the world to his will with nothing but the fiery pain burning behind his eyes.

  And familiar heat pooled in my chest before dripping low and steady through my stomach and down between my legs.

  The man had secrets. Let’s face it, we all did. But his…his started with just his name, and without knowing that, I doubted I’d learn much else about the man responsible for building the car.

  I didn’t know anything about him, but I knew I didn’t like him.

  I didn’t like how he thought this was all for fun for me. I didn’t like how he clearly thought I was just some emotional girl not thinking before she acted.

  And I didn’t like how I’d thought for a second he actually cared about my ankle, the way he helped me into the car and the bright flash of sincere worry before he crushed that bubble with harsh critique and a cold claim to only care about winning.

  Yet, my body reacted to him like he was its throttle—giving my pulse its speed and the coils of need low in my stomach their power.

  In comparison to the mechanic, the garage was almost spotless.

  I walked toward him and his jaw tightened, grabbing a towel from the workbench outside the door to wipe his hands. It had to be a tic. I knew from being around cars long enough that a mechanic’s hands couldn’t be completely cleaned. And I wondered if it was a reminder of whatever haunted him, that no matter what he did to atone for it, it would never be enough. It would never remove the stain.

  “He’s in his office,” he grunted, pointing to the small room built into the corner to my right.

  His gaze snapped to my ankle, the cast visible enough if one was looking. I caught just the faintest hint of relief lighten the load on his shoulders and the steely weight in his eyes before he turned and disappeared again into the back room.

  A chill swept over me with his molten gaze gone.

  Ignoring the instinct to follow him—to see what he was working on—I headed for the office and the real reason I was there.

  “Renner?” I called, raising my hand to knock.

  The door opened instantly, framed eyes hardly meeting mine before he motioned me inside with one hand, the other holding a phone to his ear as he listened and nodded to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “Yes. Of course.” He nodded again, pleased. “Next week will be great. I want to get this going as soon as possible.”

  Clasping my hands in front of me, I took in the mess that concealed an office. It quickly became clear that the garage bays and shop were spotless because of Groucho not because of Renner.

  Renner had a mess to accompany his madness.

  Papers littered his desk. Coffee mugs sitting on top of stacks, leaving brown-stained rims underneath them. The walls were covered with photographs framed or pinned up of cars and racers from the past. He’d been in the business for decades and I marveled at some of the older photos containing younger versions of famous familiar faces.

  There was a museum of racing inside this tiny office, too much of a mess to be able to truly appreciate it all, but the volume of memorabilia too overwhelming to be ignored.

  “Sorry about that.”

  My attention shifted back to Renner, realizing he was now talking to me.

  “Come. Sit. Please.” Without looking, he motioned to a chair that had a stack of papers on it.

  Biting back a smile, I replied, “I�
�m okay. Thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” He adjusted his glasses. “So, I’ve got the contract here…” He trailed off, eyes scanning across his desk, realizing he couldn’t see what he was looking for. “Oh, there.” He pointed to the chair again. “It’s right there for you to sign. Everything is standard as far as driver compensation goes. No surprises.”

  I picked up the document, skimming over the lines reminiscent of things I’d seen before. He didn’t say a word or try to rush me as I read through everything. In fact, I almost wondered if he forgot I was in the room as he settled behind his desk, sorting through papers and restacking them as though he knew exactly where everything was and where it belonged.

  “It looks good.”

  Small eyes—made smaller by his lenses—sprung to me. “Good,” he clipped, strumming his fingers. “Now, for the publicity.”

  “Publicity?” My head cocked.

  Of course, there were always some advertisements, some stories printed, some speculation made. But never more than that.

  “We need publicity.” His nose crinkled. “We need to get your name—my name—out there. We need something more. Something different.”

  I gaped. “W-What?”

  For the first time during this whole interaction, his gaze met mine, so sharp I thought I might have to sit the way it cut right through me.

  “I’m not a big team, Miss Snyder.” I knew this was serious because he’d only ever called me ‘girl’ in person before. “I don’t have a big operation or the big funds that go with it. I’ve got enough, and I’ve got my wits. But for this… for this we can do more.”

  “What exactly do you mean by more?” I pulled the contract to my chest, folding my arms over it as though trying to protect it from his next idea. “And please, just call me Kacey.”

  His head tipped, considering my request. Then he stood suddenly and with hardly a flick of his wrist motioned for me to follow him into the shop. At least he was moving too fast to catch each wince as I hobbled quickly to keep up.

  “There’s an opportunity here, girl.” I guessed it was either Miss Snyder or girl. “An opportunity for more sponsors. An opportunity for a story to give us more attention and a bigger piece of the pie—for you, too.”