Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  My pulse tripped, though it told me nothing about Garret.

  “So, obviously not your mechanic.”

  “Obviously,” I murmured, my shoulders drooping a little.

  “Well, Voigt has a smaller team. I’m sure the bigger houses snagged any names I would recognize.”

  “Yeah, good point.” I wasn’t sure why I was hoping that if my dad had heard of Voigt, he’d heard of G.

  “Alright, Speedy. I have to run before your mom has my head.” I heard her yelling in the background again.

  I smiled and shook my head. “Okay, thanks, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Speedy.”

  Kacey

  THE KEY CLANKED ONTO THE kitchen counter as I set my bag on the floor and propped my unused crutch against the small island, hanging my jacket over it.

  The urgent care doctor who’d been kind enough to consent to my use of an air cast would be disappointed to know I hadn’t exactly followed his instructions. I kept the cast on as directed, but there was something about the crutch, and I couldn’t bring myself to use it. Probably because my ankle didn’t hurt too bad as long as I didn’t put my full weight on it.

  Probably because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself in that way—to my weakness.

  After my appointment, I’d set up a coffee date with Gwen only to get a last-minute message that she was called into work for an additional shift.

  The glamorous nurse life, she wrote.

  I wasn’t upset. I knew what it was like to drop everything for the dream you loved. Plus, she worked with kids at Hembry Children’s Hospital, and I was happy with second place in those priorities.

  Don’t worry about it. Looks like I’m going to be in town for a few weeks now anyway, I texted back.

  Great! Let’s shoot for next Wednesday.

  Sounds good, I replied, grabbing a coffee and sandwich to go and making a mental note to ask Renner to borrow his truck tomorrow to make a run to the grocery store to stock the fridge. Even with saving money on a place, I wasn’t going to survive on eating out for the next several weeks.

  With my free time, I racked up my taxi expense for the day with a few more stops—picking up the rest of my things from my rental and a stop at the drug store for some shower products—before heading back to the garage.

  Resting my hip against the counter, and all the weight on my good ankle, I pulled off my Phillies hat and ran my fingers through my hair. I wasn’t taking any chances of being recognized in downtown Charlotte—the southern fried, patriarchal capital of NASCAR.

  Draining the last of my coffee, I scanned my new place again.

  Strange how the time of day could completely change a place.

  This morning, sunlight streamed in exuberantly from the wide windows, flooding the studio with light, making it bright and open and airy.

  But now, with the sun having set and the moon and stars out in full regalia, the space was littered with seductive shadows.

  In comparison to the bright, fluorescent lights of the shop below, the apartment had very few light fixtures to illuminate it. A single pendant light hung over the stove in the kitchen, and it was the only light turned on by the switch in the stairwell. Unfortunately, almost as soon as I turned it on, I realized it needed to be turned back off; the frost glass covering over the bulb obscured the light into a strange haze that was very painful; not to mention it made a very unpromising buzzing sound.

  So, I opted for the standing lamp next to the couch. It was an artsy, branch-like structure with arms extending out like twigs that contained tiny little lights all along the way. It wasn’t very bright, creating light and shadow that was artistic rather than effective. And turning on the second matching lamp next to the bed wasn’t much help.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I reminded myself as I walked into the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower after a long day.

  I winced as I flicked on the light.

  Of course, the bathroom had bulbs that might as well have been illuminated by the sun.

  Letting my eyes adjust, I got the shower running, unloading all my toiletries while the water began to warm.

  For almost twenty-four hours, the necessity of my move prevented me from looking into Garret or any other Gallagher. But the distraction of desperation now quickly faded, and my mind found its way to the infuriating man like a car around the track, eventually—inevitably—always veering back to the left.

  Back to him.

  Dragging in a deep, steamy breath, I yanked off my t-shirt and leggings, scolding my mind for being curious about a man I had no reason to want to know more about.

  He was just the mechanic. And a jerk. And I couldn’t stand him.

  Which was all the more infuriating when parts of me seemed to fall all over themselves under his burning gaze and rich brogue.

  After talking to my dad, my seeds of curiosity grew into leeches, slowly tugging on my rationality… sucking my sanity from my veins even as I stepped into the hot, soothing stream.

  The way he bolted after the photo shoot… the way he kept himself in that room, especially when I was in the building…

  I huffed and began to wash.

  Was it really that offensive to him to be working with a female driver?

  Anger spun through my veins.

  Anger at him, of course. For his attitude and insults, though I assured myself that I gave as good as I got.

  But also anger at myself because I was positive that as soon as Groucho stepped from the building, he hadn’t given me a single thought. Meanwhile, I’d been hanging on my dad’s every word, hoping for some tidbit of information to better understand the confounding man.

  To better understand why my body felt like it came alive when he was near.

  I shut the water off abruptly, reveling in the immediate cold shock. Punishment for the way my skin began to tingle at the memory.

  “Who is Garret Gallagher?” I grumbled to myself, deciding I was going to look him up—to prove he was a jerk and there was no reason I should be thinking about him.

  Drying quickly, I pulled on navy boy shorts and a long, loose white tee that draped down to just above my knees.

  Turning the potent lights of the bathroom off, I hobbled over to the couch and sank back into the cushions. Toweling dry the ends of my hair, I velcroed my air cast back around my ankle before opening my phone to search his name when a loud clank caught my attention.

  Freezing, my eyes whipped around the room. Though poorly lit, the open space made it easy to confirm I was alone. But just as I’d convinced myself the noise came from outside, the clank happened again. Someone was downstairs.

  In the shop.

  At nine-thirty at night.

  My pulse jumped to full-throttle as I stood with a wince, putting too much weight on my ankle at first, and cautiously approached the stairwell.

  I’d locked the door when I came back; I knew that for certain.

  Maybe Renner forgot something.

  Or maybe someone had broken in while I was in the shower.

  I listened for another minute. Though I was no expert on breaking in nor stealing, whoever was down there certainly wasn’t making noise like they were taking things.

  But I wasn’t going to risk it.

  This was my only shot to race this season—my first shot at Indy. I wasn’t going to risk something happening to the car.

  Firming my lips in a determined line, I limped quickly to the kitchen and, moving my jacket to the counter, grabbed my crutch, once again using it for something other than its intended purpose.

  Turning off the lamp so no light followed me, I carefully moved to the steps, wielding the crutch like a handicapped hammer, ready to swing and strike if necessary.

  The doorknob was older and, regardless of how careful I was, rattled slightly as I opened it.

  Crap. I bit my lip and prayed the intruder was too busy making his own noises to notice mine.

  Using the crutch to push t
he door open ahead of me, I quietly limped into the shop, a faint light streaming from the clean room.

  The door to the engine room was sealed—like it had been for most of the week while G worked in solitude. The light inside condensed and sprung through the small square window in the door, providing only a spotlight on the side of the car and leaving the rest of the main room in darkness.

  Inching along behind the shelving units that sat just outside the stairwell, I squinted through the various parts and boxes on the shelves to try and see who was here.

  Nothing.

  No movement. No person.

  But definitely a light that hadn’t been on earlier.

  I bit my lip.

  I should call Renner. Or the police.

  But maybe if I could just get a little closer… if I could see inside that room.

  And in the narrowed focus of my goal, combined with the handicap of shadows, I missed the box sticking out on the bottom of the last shelf. It whacked straight into my injured ankle and sent a piercing pain spiraling up my leg and spilling a cry from my lips.

  Biting my lip, I squeezed my eyes shut, dragging in deep breaths to force the pain away and praying I wasn’t heard.

  The door flew open and took every other thought from my mind. Light burst through the darkness like an open flame, revealing a singular figure who invaded my space.

  And it was no surprise because he’d been invading my thoughts all afternoon.

  Black pants and a black shirt clung to him like sticky shadows, the fading light catching on every curve and plane of his tautly flexed muscles almost completely swallowed by the darkness. His hair swirled in waves that revolted against any kind of order. Light catching the strands and setting the auburn on fire—the only outlet of the torrent of emotion crashing inside that perfectly prejudiced head of his.

  But the shadows couldn’t keep my focus when the piercing brimstone gaze locked on me and narrowed with a violent spark.

  I was obscured by the shelf and its contents, but that didn’t matter. Not to this man.

  The one who saw right through the helmet and fire suit, right down to my broken bones and battered dreams.

  “Kacey?” The low growl that chased my name from G’s lips was far more frightening than any intruder or thief could’ve been.

  Swirls of red-hot need, bleeding with adrenaline and recognition infused my cells with a new kind of high.

  He was the worst kind of imposing.

  Insufferable. Intolerant. Inescapable.

  My lips parted, removing all barriers for the lodged breath in my lungs to escape, but to no avail. It hid deep in my chest, seeking shelter from the intensity of his gaze.

  My pulse hammered, as though it could outrun his attention. But my body, it stood frozen, like prey knowing it has been caught in the sight of its predator.

  “What the hell—” He broke off with a muffled curse, dragging a hand through his hair, stroking the blazing strands. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Shocked back to reality by the familiar, infuriating words, my spine jolted straight.

  “Me?” I snapped. “You shouldn’t—”

  I cried out, forgetting all about the box I’d already hit once as I tried to walk through it, sending me tipping and spiraling—and heading directly for the floor. The crutch crashed to the ground and my hands reached out, grasping for anything to try and stop my fall, but only managed to send bottles and small boxes spilling down around me first, coating the ground with metallic confetti.

  Like a crash on the track, as soon as my body prepared for impact in one direction, it was whipped in another—in the opposite—hoisted up and spun until my back slammed against the hard support of the shelf. And, this time, instead of the roll bars caging me in, protecting me, it was the skin-coated steel of G’s muscled arms.

  My eyes flew wide and I gasped. But there was no air. There was only him.

  His hands held my arms, large hot supports that gripped with unwilling necessity, like muscles working through the exhaustion in the last quarter mile of a marathon. Numb. Lacking in strength. In ability. In everything except pure mental determination to make it. That was how Garret held me, as though he needed to but couldn’t bear to.

  Dragging in deep gulps of the limited oxygen between us, my lungs filled with the scent of him.

  Of race car.

  Of grease and metal.

  Of speed coated with masculine spice.

  Of raw, unfiltered power, brimming at the edges, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

  “Christ, how have ye survived this long?” he bit out, his eyes searching my face before dipping lower.

  I tensed, hoping it masked the shudder that stretched through my body. His gaze fell to where my nipples poked against the white fabric of my shirt, the poor lighting giving it an unintended sheer quality.

  “Without you,” I assured him, my voice husky and thick.

  Anger split like a bolt of lightning across his face.

  “What are ye doin’ here?” he demanded. “And why the hell aren’t ye wearin’ any feckin’ clothes?”

  Whether he knew it or not, his brogue was brandished like a weapon—cutting through my prickly defenses like a hot knife through butter. But the heat from his hands… that was achingly unbearable. Searing through the thin fabric of my shirt, it burned through the skin of my upper arms and buried low in my stomach, dripping a steady stream of desire between my legs.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I charged, and then winced, clarifying, “I mean, about being here. It’s late.”

  “Why are ye here, Kacey?” he growled again.

  Notching my chin up, I told him, “I’m staying here. In the apartment upstairs. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “It damn well is my business when I’m tryin’ ta work and yer sneakin’ about in nothin’ but a damned shirt, makin’ me think I’m goin’ ta hafta fight some bloody ass—” He broke off, seeing the surprised look on my face from his unexpected outburst.

  Clearing his throat, he continued with tighter control, “Does Renner know about this?”

  “Who do you think gave me a key?” I scoffed and demanded again, “Why are you here? You left pretty early today, I thought you were done with the garage for the day.”

  He bent closer to me, desire brimming like a rough current underneath the frozen surface of a river we were dangerously trying to cross. “Maybe I was just done with the people in it,” he growled back, and the irony that my flinch brought me even closer to the lips which had just insulted me wasn’t lost on my desire-fogged mind.

  His Irish accent grew muted behind his stone facade, just like the rest of his emotions, all bottled up to fuel a precise and powerful engine, built for a singular purpose, running with a singular drive—an internal drive that I was desperate to know more about.

  Until I stumbled in and threw a wrench in his well-oiled machine.

  My breaths began to misfire. Choppy bursts that hardly satisfied my body’s most basic need for survival in favor of something that felt far more life-threatening.

  G’s gaze captured mine, his dark irises stuck in turmoil like an engine revving but unable to shift—something powerful was rising, something he wanted to escape but couldn’t.

  Maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but be fascinated by him.

  Because being around him felt like those moments when I was in the driver’s seat of that car, my body moving faster than it seemed possible, my mind racing for more, and my heart clamoring for the next pass—the next turn—the next something to take me farther.

  And G, he was just as dangerous, just as unpredictable as those famous laps. He tempted me with his untapped emotions, making my body itch to see them at their full potential, rather than stifled into anger and frustration.

  For so long I’d told myself I didn’t care what anyone thought—what anyone said. Being stereotyped was something I’d learned to live with. But him… the man I couldn’t stop
thinking about… as ridiculous as it sounded, I wanted to change his opinion of me. Whatever it was…however he’d happened on it… I needed to change it.

  I needed his record of me to be right.

  “Why don’t you like me?” I asked with an unsteady voice, my limbs liquifying the longer I stood so close to him—so close to the fire that would burn me.

  “Ye shouldn’t be here.” His voice was ragged. A thrill shot up my spine to know he was affected like I was. Angry, but affected nonetheless.

  I tipped my head forward, off the backing of the shelves, putting the tip of my nose just inches from his. Instead of sending him retreating, my advance prompted his. Our faces locked in such closeness that one would be hard-pressed to find the insides of an engine with tighter clearance between all its moving parts than we had right now.

  His breaths were my own. The heat from his skin intermingled with mine.

  My eyes fluttered shut for what felt inevitable with every millisecond that ticked by.

  The heat. The need.

  This kiss.

  “Then why are you still holding me?” I murmured, unable to stop from taunting him into admitting what we were both still doing here, regardless of how much we disliked each other.

  For the faintest second, I felt a brush against my lips—so soft it could’ve been a by-product of my heated imagination. And then it—he was gone.

  My eyes popped wide, finding him standing in front of me as still and as unaffected as a statue. As though he hadn’t just almost possibly kissed me. My hands found the nearest edge of a shelf to hold onto as G’s support completely vanished.

  I gulped in air, intoxicating desire that had built up and pressurized between us overflowed like a clogged sink into the dark space.

  “What the hell is this?” He reached down and picked up my fallen crutch.

  Pursing my lips, I took it from him and held the wooden support alongside me. “A crutch, obviously.”

  His eyes drew into thin slits. “Were you going to hit me with that?”