Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  “I’m right where I belong,” I shot back, notching my chin up. I was. I swore I was.

  The way my heart pounded told me I was exactly where I needed to be.

  “Is that so?” he prompted, wedging himself closer to me until there was no space left. “Because where ye are is in my garage. In my car. In my damned business.”

  I tried to swallow over the tightening in my throat, but it was impossible. He was too close now, pressed against my front. Every sensation I’d felt minutes before when we were alone outside was magnified a thousandfold.

  I was unable to breathe against the hot steel of his chest.

  I was unable to see anything except the lust raging in his eyes.

  And I was unable to feel anything except how badly I wanted him.

  “Garret...” It was a whimper. A plea. A coaxing.

  Just let me in and this will all be okay.

  “Where ye are, lass”—he bent forward, putting his head alongside mine, his lips right against the shell of my ear—“is right where I want ye.” He pressed ever so gently against me, the thick rod of his erection lodging against my stomach. “And now, I’m goin’ ta teach ye a lesson.”

  I shivered, unable to stop myself from arching against him. “About what?”

  “Restraint,” he replied as his mouth traveled along the length of my jaw, branding me with his touch.

  “I know what restraint is.” There was a strength in my words that it didn’t feel like I possessed.

  “No,” he growled, the word hovering in the sliver of space between his lips and mine.

  My body vibrated with need—the same need I felt at the start of a race: the need to accelerate. The need to take off. But instead of a car, my body was the one needing release, the one handcuffed by his punishingly slow pace.

  I sucked in a breath as his lips pressed to mine.

  Desire detonated through my body. Sparks of fire seared through my veins at the first, firm contact. And only then did I realize this wasn’t a kiss.

  It was my lesson.

  “Restraint, lass,” he spoke, his lips rubbing over and across mine with every word, speaking them directly to my lips and into my mouth. “Restraint is havin’ what ye want right in front of ye.” Each word was a brand on my sensitive flesh—flesh that wanted his lips on mine, but not like this. “Right against ye.”

  This was the cruelest torture—his lips sliding and pressing against mine in motions an observer might see as a kiss. But they would be mistaken. Like being in the cockpit of a race car and being forced to drive twenty miles-per-hour, his mouth on mine was torture rather than temptation; it was having what you wanted in the most literal, yet unintended sense, yet not having what you really wanted at all.

  He growled and I felt the vibration against my chest—against my lips—more than I heard the sound. “Right under ye. And no’ takin’ it.”

  And then he was gone. His lips. His hold. His body. His harshness.

  I sagged against the support beam, my chest heaving as though I’d run a marathon as parts and tools clanged and crashed as Garret shoved them out of his way to disappear into the bowels of the garage where he knew I wouldn’t follow.

  Kacey

  RESTRAINT.

  The word spun into a curse. A chant. A double-edged sword of both strength and failure.

  I lacked restraint where most possessed it in even moderate amounts, and I wasn’t sure if it was even possible to change now. Even if I could, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  Restraint would’ve held me back from pursuing such a dangerous dream.

  Restraint would’ve held me back when I was behind the wheel from pursuing my spot in the race so aggressively.

  Restraint would’ve handcuffed my hands rather than letting fists fly at the man who thought he could touch me—degrade me—as though it was his right. A little bit of restraint at Daytona would’ve changed everything about my current situation.

  But wasn’t that what sexual harassment relied on?

  The promise of being spared infamy at the cost of one’s integrity.

  Instead, I’d clung to integrity and punched the bastard.

  And I’d cling to my integrity now, no matter how I teetered between wanting to kiss Garret and wanting to punch him for not kissing me.

  He’d acutely obliterated my senses, and I’d tossed and turned with unfulfilled dreams all night.

  And it was only this morning, with the seeds of rationality beginning to sprout after the unexpected deluge of desire, that I pulled out my computer and finally googled the man who hid behind a letter.

  And who prided himself on his restraint—restraint he had tuned and tested down to the centimeter. Restraint he had oiled and synced down to a split-second. Restraint that allowed him to, in the most basic definition, kiss a woman he desired without actually kissing her.

  But I knew better.

  His restraint wasn’t perfected; it was perilous.

  My head snapped to the stairwell, hearing the door to the garage open and, at this hour of the morning, knowing it was Renner arriving, not G.

  Turning my attention back to the screen, my hand twitched—a tiny gavel falling to signal my defeat as I hit the enter button and let the internet do what it did best.

  And that was when my heart mis-shifted, skipping beats—skipping sanity—as I scanned down the results.

  Nine years ago. Garret and Daniel Gallagher: Irish Gods Amongst American Mechanics.

  My eyes snaked down the article, picking up bits and pieces of G’s history, immigrating first from Ireland to England with his parents and younger brother, Daniel, where his father worked as a mechanic, and finally to New York when Garret was ten.

  Daniel.

  That was the name my dad remembered.

  My eyes pressed on, reading how both boys grew up helping their dad repair cars on both continents. How they salvaged junkers, rebuilding engines and reshaping destroyed bodies into cars they raced. And how, eventually, one of those cars caught the right person’s eye and rocketed them into the racing scene.

  Nine years ago. Gallagher Brothers the Dream Team for Dyson Motorsports.

  I read before the name recognition hit me. I read how Garret, dubbed the Engine God, and his brother, the Magician, took the racing world by storm with their engine building and mechanic skills almost a decade ago—in the years when I’d been buried in books in college, convinced that was where life was taking me. Years right after my dad retired, placing these infamous Irish brothers right in the blind spot of what I knew of racing history.

  Eight years ago. Dyson blames Gallagher for Talladega Crash.

  My heart went haywire. Beat. Beat.

  Brake.

  It took only a second to realize it was Garret’s brother, Daniel, who the driver blamed for his crash.

  Beat. Beat.

  Eight years ago. Daniel Gallagher Found Dead in Garage, Suicide.

  Brake.

  The article was short. Not enough details. Not enough facts. And it was wrong to crave such personal information—to want to violate something so private.

  But the urge was instinctual just as much as it was cruel.

  The need to know more about the mysterious mechanic whose anger and melancholy shielded him like layers of a tree—thick barbaric bark that didn’t peel, but broke savagely as it shed, leaving sharp shards to ward off anyone who came close.

  And for those who came too close—like me—leaving septic splinters in my skin… in my soul… of a need only he could eradicate.

  Beat. Beat.

  Seven years ago. Shane Dyson was killed during the tenth lap of the NASCAR race in Las Vegas.

  Beat. Beat.

  I knew I recognized the name though my singular-focused search for an altogether different man blurred the recollection into something distant and fuzzy and unimportant. But now that it was right in front of me, I remembered.

  The names of young NASCAR drivers who perished while racing were hard to forge
t.

  His brother’s suicide. Their team’s driver’s subsequent death.

  But as much tragedy as Garret’s past contained, it was the article at the very bottom of the page that strangled my senses. My sanity. My very pulse.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  Dyson family hints a Gallagher was responsible for this crash, too.

  Brake.

  “Mr. Voigt!” I exclaimed, breathless from my careful yet hurried trek downstairs and through the garage, afraid to look for the man who troubled my thoughts while in search of the man responsible for putting me in his path.

  “I was wondering if you’d be coming down here,” Renner returned with an air of distraction as he organized the papers on his desk into neatly disordered piles. “With the response to the announcement, I’ve pushed the interview back to let things calm down a bit. I’ve another place I want you to go—”

  “Wait,” I blurted out, planting my hands on his desk, a shiver running up my spine. I had jean shorts on and a tee which was comfortable in the upstairs apartment that trapped heat and had the sun blazing in through the windows all day, but down here, in the garage, it was several degrees colder. Especially when Garret wasn’t around.

  Dragging in a breath, the older man’s beady eyes finally lifted to me, thoroughly confused as to why I’d interrupted him and derailed his train of thought.

  “We need to talk,” I told him, and just as quickly his eyes dropped, unable to stand the contact any longer.

  “Unless it’s a problem with the car, I don’t have time—”

  “It’s a problem with the mechanic,” I broke in.

  He waved a hand and pffted at me. “I told you, girl, don’t mind G. He’s a surly piece of work but harmless, and most importantly to me, a damn good—”

  “Killer?”

  Renner’s head snapped up so fast I was surprised his glasses didn’t fly from his face.

  “What are you talkin’ about, girl?” he asked with a low stringent voice.

  Firming my lips, I held my ground. “He sabotaged Shane Dyson’s car before Vegas and that was the reason for the crash.”

  The accusation tumbled from my mouth like oratory oranges spilling from a tipped basket. No catching them. No stopping them.

  I shifted my feet as the silence dragged on, uncomfortable and overwhelming.

  But I refused to drop my gaze or apologize.

  I had every right to know if the mechanic building my car was responsible for the death of another driver. Intentionally.

  “And where’d you hear that?” His expression hardly altered to ask.

  “I read some articles.”

  “That was a long time ago, girl.”

  “The internet doesn’t forget,” I countered, rising up and folding my arms.

  Ever so slowly, his fingers slid away from the papers they’d been corralling to rest limply at his sides.

  “But its memory is about as good as a well-worn sieve,” he mumbled, adding with a louder tone. “I wouldn’t believe everything you read.”

  I sucked in a breath, my heart fluttering with unease. Hardly a response. “And what should I believe?” I demanded. “Because that man has a problem with me, and from what I can tell, the last driver he had a problem with ended up dead in lap ten. So, you can tell me he’s grumpy all you want, but I have a right to know if he’s a kill—”

  “Watch yourself, girl,” Renner broke in, his voice firm but not threatening. “You read one thing and come down here, spoutin’ decade-old rumors—”

  “Is that what they are?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Well, if he’d killed someone, Miss Snyder, the only metal he’d have his hands on would be the bars of a jail cell, wouldn’t you think?”

  I shifted my weight, acknowledging that maybe, in my shock, I’d jumped a little too far in my conclusions.

  Obviously, he wasn’t in jail which meant, at the very least, he wasn’t convicted. But, now that I thought about it, I hadn’t read any information where he’d even been arrested for the crime. And on top of all that, never in my years around and in this sport had I heard rumors that Dyson’s death was anything more than an unfortunate accident.

  “I know his brother died. I know they both worked for Dyson,” I went on, though with hesitation this time. “The article mentioned something about revenge. Revenge for what? Daniel Gallagher killed himself.”

  Each piece of information was like one more turn on the track leading me farther and farther into the race of rumors and I just needed to get to the finish line.

  I needed to know what fueled a man as callous and lonesome as Garret Gallagher.

  “The past is the past, Miss Snyder. Even if I knew what happened, there’s no point in dredging up that boy’s story.”

  I exhaled slowly. “So then why are there rumors about G?” I pleaded. “Why would someone suggest such a thing?”

  Renner’s face shadowed and his attention returned to his papers, and I knew even before he spoke I wasn’t going to get the answers I was looking for.

  “There are always rumors surrounding things that happen on the track, girl. Rumors make for good headlines,” he said with careful calmness. “I’d think you of all people would know that.”

  I winced, heat bursting in my cheeks.

  Of course, I knew. It was the whole reason I was here. Rumors about why I’d seemingly out of nowhere attacked Puglisi after the race. Rumors that had no basis in any reality except the one where drama and speculation sold stories.

  “This may very well be my last year on the track, involved at this level, Miss Snyder,” he went on with a weary voice. “I made sure to pick people for this team who gave my car the best shot at winning. And I can tell you right now, one of them isn’t a killer, and the other isn’t a spoiled brat.”

  I swallowed over the tightness in my throat as he drove his point home.

  “You’re right.” I nodded. “I’m sorry. I just saw it, and I wasn’t thinking.”

  Once again lacking restraint.

  My head snapped to the side as the door to the garage opened and shut, announcing the arrival of the very man we were talking about.

  Heavy footsteps grew louder and before he reached the doorway to Renner’s office, G began, “Voigt, I know we’ve got the Aeroscreen being delivered tomorrow, but I’m going to need the day. I need to be at the—” His sentence plummeted into silence when he saw me standing there.

  Deep blue eyes narrowed, the sculpted muscle of his jaw ticked ominously.

  “Miss Snyder.”

  I gulped. The cold, curt greeting a far cry from the hot and heavy lass he’d murmured against my lips.

  His eyes slid over me, down my white tee, making my breasts tingle and my nipples harden and ache against my bra, down my short jean shorts, warmth following the path of his gaze and pooling in my underwear, and skimming over the lengths of my pale exposed legs.

  I shuddered. My skin heated as though each cell possessed its own internal memory of how it felt to be pressed against him. Against the hardness of his body. Against the force of his desire. Against the fortitude of his restraint.

  I shivered. “G.”

  Just a letter. Not even a name. Nothing that could make me want more.

  Except the only thing I wanted was more.

  More of his touch. More from his kiss. And to know more about his past that seemed even more infamous than mine.

  The single syllable was a subtle shot to his chest, the wound only visible in the painful flash in his eyes. In that moment, something bloomed deep in my stomach, a whisper of want murmuring into my blood that Garret wasn’t unaffected—wasn’t as restrained as his cold words and harsh actions led me to believe.

  His gaze left me as though I was something he had no use of and turned to Renner who, for being socially unobservant a majority of the time, seem peculiarly aware of whatever was happening between Garret and me.

  “Voigt.” The muscled mechanic’s hands tightened o
n the doorframe and gave the older man the briefest nod of greeting.

  He was a killer alright.

  Garret Gallagher swiftly stole the life from my lungs and barricaded the beats trying to escape from my heart. He eliminated every part of me that didn’t find him essential.

  “What can I do for you, G?” Renner prompted.

  Garret’s hard gaze shifted between me and the other man before speaking again.

  “Never mind. We’ll talk later,” he declared with no uncertain implication that it was my presence that prevented the conversation from happening. Spinning on his heel, his hand stoked the flames of his hair as he walked away and I could almost see the trail of frustrated fumes left in his wake.

  “Surly,” Renner repeated once G closed himself in the engine room. “But it’s only skin deep.”

  I covered up my harsh laugh with a cough.

  Too bad that surly skin was as impenetrable as Kevlar to kindness.

  “So, you won’t tell me then?” I asked once more in the off chance that such a direct question would change his mind.

  “If I asked you to tell me about Daytona, would you?”

  Touché. My chin dipped. “Got it.”

  The rustle of papers indicated this discussion was over and it was back to business as usual.

  “Now then, I was saying…” He reached up and rubbed his hand over his mouth, his eyes flicking to the open door, almost as though he wanted to be certain Garret didn’t hear him.

  “Something about somewhere you want me to go.” I rubbed my arms, the goosebumps left on them by the surly mechanic lingering like a tough stain on my skin.

  “Yes. Hembry Children’s Hospital.”

  My eyebrows popped up. Well, that wasn’t what I’d expected.

  “A hospital?” My head tipped. “Is someone sick?”

  “Lots of people,” he quipped and I flushed. “And in this case, lots of children.”