Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  “Right.” My lips pursed. “Anyone in particular?”

  He shook his head slowly before answering, “Nope. But I have a doctor friend who mentioned several of the kids wanted to meet a race car driver as part of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

  “Oh, of course. I’d love that.” I smiled, my spirits lifting. “Actually, I have an old friend who works as a nurse there. I can reach out to her.”

  Instantly, my mood brightened—not at the thought of sick children, but to do something more worthwhile than primping myself for media outlets who were just looking for the next bit of dirt. And, I would get to see Gwen in the process.

  “Good.” He gave me a quick glance and a flash of a smile. “I thought it might be something more to your taste. And it will hopefully attract us some good attention while you’re at it.”

  I hummed, and there was the real reason. But, I couldn’t blame Renner for pursuing something that was a benefit both to ill children and to his team.

  “That would be great,” I agreed. “Maybe then we could forego that interview altogether—”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Miss Snyder,” he warned lightly as he took a seat. “The track might be flat, but getting there with a decent shot at winning is an expensive, uphill trek.”

  I knew what street racing my own car had cost me before I’d been signed by Hoyt, and it was enough to drain every spare cent I had.

  I didn’t want to know what the engine in that back room was costing Renner.

  But it was the cost of my continued proximity to the man building it that really had me concerned. Costs that were intangible. Inescapable. Indomitable.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll get back in touch and arrange a time.” He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, the interview is still on.”

  “Wonderful,” I murmured wryly, grateful that his abhorrence of eye contact made him miss the eye roll that trailed after the comment.

  I didn’t mind being kept in Charlotte, especially for something like that. It was better than the blistery end of winter in Pennsylvania and it was distance from people who’d be more interested in my past than the prospects of my future.

  “Is there anything else?” I paused at the door.

  “Not at the moment.” My back was turned when I heard a distinct tap on paper just as Renner added, “Actually, Miss Snyder…” He trailed off, waiting until I faced him to continue. “Life is like racing, there are sacrifices one has to make no matter which path is chosen. To sacrifice fuel for speed. Or sacrifice speed to preserve fuel. I’d think carefully about what you want to know… and what you’re willing to sacrifice to know it.”

  My cheeks burned.

  There was no knowing Garret’s past without sacrificing something of my own—something of myself. And just like in the race, once something was sacrificed, there was no guarantee it would be worth it—or that I’d be able to get it back.

  Want. Desire. Was I willing to sacrifice those? Maybe. My heart thumped. Definitely more than maybe.

  But there was an ache that went far deeper—an ache to know the man who was carved from stone—the man who’d threatened bodily harm to a stranger on my behalf one moment, only to turn around and embarrassingly shut me down the next.

  It was an ache to be the place where he could soften.

  And I was afraid to think what I was willing to sacrifice to be that. To know him. To have him.

  I coughed slightly, jarring my heart back to a steadier beat, and nodded silently before leaving Renner’s office.

  I stopped just over the threshold, looking into the garage, and was faced with a stare of blue fire.

  I froze, my eyes locked in the dueling daze with his.

  What was he hiding?

  What happened to his brother?

  What happened with Dyson?

  Even though the questions were unspoken, Garret’s gaze narrowed as though he was tuned into my thoughts—as though I knew he’d been called a killer.

  Dragging my tongue over my lips, I lifted my chin up. I had every right to look into him—into his past; he was creating a machine that could kill me with the slightest alteration.

  The air thickened and sparked. Him, daring me to confront him. Me, taunting him to tell me the truth.

  His lip curled and, just when I thought he might approach me, I ripped my eyes away and bolted into the apartment.

  I wasn’t ready to face his secrets. If what I read wasn’t the truth, then I’d accept it for no other reason than I had to, because if I didn’t, it would lead me right back down the path that led to disappointment.

  And a lesson in restraint.

  A lesson in all the things I would never have.

  Kacey

  AVOIDANCE BECAME AS ESSENTIAL AS oxygen.

  I avoided G like race cars avoid right turns—moving in the complete opposite direction whenever he was near. I wished I could say it was hard—being that we were confined to the same building for a good portion of the day—but it was surprisingly easy since he stayed secluded in his back room, toiling over his precious engine.

  The only difficult thing was avoiding everything else about him.

  Especially his secrets.

  And if I was being honest, avoidance was essential because even in isolation the desire to know what happened with his brother…with Dyson…gnawed at the inside of me—chewing open holes where it was too easy for my own past to escape.

  My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

  “Hello?”

  “Kacey!” Even after all these years, Gwen’s warm and joyful voice was immediately familiar. She’d always been the brightest one in the room. With smarts, yes, but mostly because of her effusively kind and generous personality.

  There was no person she couldn’t bring to a smile.

  Except maybe Garret; I’d bet he’d give her smile-superpower a run for its money.

  Even just the thought of him brought the faintest hint of his spiced scent that effused through to the tips of my nostrils like the stickiest oil.

  “Hey, Gwen! How are you? Are we still on for Friday?”

  “Yes. Well. As of right now.” She sighed.

  I chuckled. “Still don’t know how to say no?” Gwen was notorious in college for not being able to turn down anyone who asked for help. No matter how much she had to do. No matter what was asked.

  “For all the schooling I’ve gone through, I still haven’t learned that one,” she returned wryly. “I missed your call earlier…”

  “Well, I was actually calling because I have a plan B for us catching up.” I’d left her a voicemail yesterday after Renner got back to me and let me know they wanted me at the hospital on Wednesday—tomorrow. “My boss asked me if I could go over to Hembry tomorrow to meet and hang out with some of the kids. I don’t know where exactly you work but—”

  “What! That will be awesome! I just heard this morning that we might have someone coming to visit the floor but they didn’t give us any details yet.” Her enthusiasm was infectious. “They will be so excited to meet you, Kace, you have no idea. Especially this one little girl—I swear, it doesn’t matter where I put the remote, the channel always makes its way back to sports and racing. She’s such a huge fan of yours.”

  My chest swelled.

  Even though my career felt like I was pushing a hundred-pound boulder up a hill, it was these small flashes of bright, warm light at the top that kept me going.

  “I’m really excited,” I confessed. “But that was what I was calling about—to let you know.”

  “This is so great, Kace! I can’t wait to see you. So tomorrow morning then? If you want to come at seven-thirty, we can grab some coffee first.”

  “Perfect.” My smile faltered with a knock on the door. “Looks like it’s my turn for work to interrupt. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Her cheery goodbye was lost against Renner’s call.

  “Miss Snyder!” A sharp rap on the door to the apartment yanked m
e back to reality and only a faint recognition of the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

  “Be right down!” I hollered back, smoothing my hair over my shoulder once more.

  It had been three days. Three days since that night. Three days avoiding anything other than sharp stares and curt greetings only when essential. But today, Racer magazine sent a journalist to interview me. And Renner. And Garret.

  And that meant necessary close proximity with the infuriating and secretive mechanic.

  “Coming!”

  I spread some Chapstick over my lips. There was no hair and makeup today, but that didn’t stop me from pulling myself a little bit more together. Even though I wasn’t too keen on this whole PR business, after some time to think it over, I had to admit he had a point—and a good plan.

  The only way to secure sponsors was to put myself out there, to market myself with who I was.

  And who I was, was a woman racing in a man’s world.

  Taking a deep breath, I carefully descended the stairs and was greeted by Renner on the other side.

  “‘Bout damn time, girl. Didn’t take you for the primping kind,” he grumbled.

  I’d curled my hair into neat waves that spiraled down my back and put on a dark pair of jeans along with a teal, scoop-neck blouse. I chose the outfit because it made me look professional, not because the jeans clung to my curves like the car clung to the track, and the top put the chest I tried to downplay out on the speedway on modest display… not because I wanted a certain mechanic’s eyes to be on me—to want me.

  I groaned.

  The man had practically seen me in my underwear the other night and walked away without batting a lash. He’d dragged his lips across mine in the most blatant bastardization of a kiss and then brushed me off. Who was I kidding?

  Garret Gallagher was a dangerous consequence in an already unsafe sport.

  “Just want to make the best impression I can for this,” I told him with a half-smile. “I know sponsorships might depend on it.”

  That ended his grumblings.

  “Now, look.” He slowed and half-faced me. “I told them Daytona was off limits, but I can’t guarantee they’ll listen.”

  My spine straightened. “Okay.” I looked over to where three men were congregated around the car, all dressed in suits as they pointed and talked among themselves. My eyes slid from them to scan the rest of the shop, coming up short from the subject I was hoping to find.

  “Where’s G?” I blurted, winning me a sharp, narrow stare from Renner above his low-resting glasses.

  “Late.”

  “Why?” If Renner was knocking on my door to make sure I was down here on time, I wanted to know why Garret got away with being late.

  Maybe because he wasn’t the driver.Maybe because Garret Gallagher made his own rules.

  “You’re nosy, girl,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “And you don’t seem concerned,” I returned, trying to keep my tone light. “What if he was out drinking and shows up hungover?”

  Renner laughed, a quick awkward noise that didn’t seem right coming from a man who was comfortable in his awkward seriousness.

  “I’m not concerned because I know the truth, girl.”

  “And what’s that?” Just as I asked, the door to the garage opened and G strode inside, the wind sweeping in behind him, blowing loose locks of hair forward, the soft curls hitting the steep planes of his cheeks and falling to the side as he scoured the room.

  He wasn’t drunk, that was for sure.

  He had on dark jeans today and a white tee—a dangerous outfit choice to be wearing in the garage. But one that molded to him no less distractingly

  “Well,” I said with a slight squeak in my voice. “Looks like we can get started.”

  Leaving Renner to catch up to my stride, I braced myself for the scrutiny I was about to subject myself to and made my way over to the group of journalists waiting to talk to me.

  “Here she is!” The one in the middle exclaimed, his eyes turning into indistinguishable slits as he smiled. “Miss Snyder, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jack Baldwin, and these are my associates, Nate and Trevor.” He nodded to the two men who’d accompanied him.

  “Nice to meet you.” I extended a hand and shook theirs firmly.

  “We won’t take up too much of your time today, ma’am.” He motioned to the chairs behind them. “But we just have a few questions for you. I’m sure you’re just as excited about racing Indy as we were hearing about it.”

  I had a feeling I was a little more excited than that, but I kept that to myself.

  “I’m very excited. Very honored Mr. Voigt asked me to be a part of his team.” I nodded over to the older man who hardly acknowledged my compliment, lost in conversation with G. My eyes stuck on them for a moment, noticing G’s drawn expression and vacant eyes. Even Renner, in an uncharacteristic move, reached out and gave his shoulder a quick pat.

  “So, this is your first time racing at the Indianapolis 500?” Jack asked and my attention hesitantly returned to the three journalists.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “And how does it feel to know you’ll be the only woman on the track?”

  Air dumped into my lungs.

  I shifted in my seat, fighting back all the biting retorts I wanted to let loose and instead, replying, “Probably about the same as if I wasn’t.”

  Drivers. We were all drivers. That was what I wanted to say.

  Jack’s eyebrows rose and he just gave me one of those placating nods and the two other, younger men shared a look between them.

  “Did you always want to be a race car driver? It doesn’t look like you’ve gone through the normal track, pardon my pun, to get yourself in the driver’s seat.”

  I eased a little at the familiar question.

  “No.” I half-smiled. “Even though my dad was a mechanic for Haus Racing before he retired, I went to school for engineering. I never really thought about racing cars myself until I started dating a guy in college who loved cars. We went to this amateur street racing event several years ago and after he raced, he handed me the keys and told me to try.”

  “Sounds like a keeper.” Jack chuckled.

  “Well, the car definitely was,” I returned with a grin. “That relationship didn’t work out, but it was too late; I’d already been bit by the racing bug.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  I nodded. “More races. Getting my competition license. And then just driving any car they’d let me in until I was picked up by Hoyt.”

  He jotted down a few things and flipped to the next page in his notebook, scanning for his next query.

  “When you were with Hoyt’s team, did you find you had to keep in better shape than the other drivers?” He glanced up before adding, “Strength obviously plays a role in the sport, so I’d imagine, being as petite as you are, that you have to work a little harder for it?”

  Goosebumps rose hesitantly down the length of my spine as the conversation waded into unfamiliar territory that appeared safe only on the surface. “I don’t know that I have to work harder for it; we all have to keep in shape.”

  “But you don’t ever feel like you’re not strong enough to handle the car?” Trevor jumped in.

  My eyes snapped to him and my head slowly tipped to the side with the lopsided quality of his double-standard.

  “Last I checked, I was only required to drive the car, not carry it,” I quipped.

  Trevor’s eyes bulged our from his narrow face and he quickly sat back in his seat, effectively excusing himself from the conversation.

  “So, how do you feel about the recent call for a change in the weight guidelines?” Jack continued with a quasi-apologetic smile.

  My brow furrowed. They’d changed the weight rules for NASCAR a few years ago, forcing cars to add weight to them if the car and driver didn’t reach a certain weight level; I didn’t understand why he was asking about it now.

  �
�You mean the penalty for lower weight drivers?”

  He nodded.

  I faltered for a second, somewhat blindsided by the question. “Well, it is what it is, but I think it’s a little ridiculous, if you want the truth.”

  I winced. I was asking for trouble, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, first, the argument is that a lower weight allows the car to perform better, however, the flip-side to the argument could be made that a heavier driver gives the car more traction, allowing better performance,” I began, crossing my legs as that familiar fire of indignancy rose inside me. “But more importantly, I don’t see penalties in other sports for athletes with an advantage. I mean, did the NBA institute a height restriction with the argument that men like Shaq or LeBron James or Kobe Bryant had an unfair natural advantage over other players? No.”

  All three sets of eyes widened and stared, but it was the singular set that locked on me from a distance whose heat I felt boring right through my clothes and into my skin.

  You don’t belong here

  Inhaling deeply, I continued, “The only reason that weight restriction was put in place was because there were women drivers in the race.”

  “Is that so, Miss Snyder?” The geniality of Jack’s expression dimming with each word I spoke.

  “Racing is one of the few sports, Mr. Baldwin, where men and women compete on the same field,” I told him. “Basketball. Soccer. Track. Skiing. Swimming. Most every other sport you can think of, men and women compete separately. But not here. Not on the pavement. On the pavement, we’re all just drivers. And the thought that a woman driver could beat a man… I think that bothers a lot of people in this sport, and so rules to promote fairness—the likes of which have never been implemented in any other professional sport—were put in place.”

  “I see.” He nodded slowly, the butt of his pen tapping on the paper. “It seems that you haven’t heard then.”

  “Heard what?” My head tipped, my heart hanging on its last beat.

  “Well, it looks like some folks at Scott Racing are calling for stricter weight rules for the Indy cars. Rumor has it, one of their drivers is threatening to not race at Indianapolis if they aren’t implemented.”