Silence detonated in my ears, followed by a hollow ringing and painful reminder that even here—for this one race—I wasn’t going to escape my past.
One of their drivers.
We all knew who he was referring to.
“I see.” I tried to breathe through my anger. Don’t make a scene, Kacey. Don’t let them get to you.
“The rules for Indy cars haven’t been updated in some time, Miss Snyder. There’s no harm in having them re-evaluated, but I wanted to get your opinion on the matter.” He cleared his throat, full-well knowing the fire he’d set and patiently waiting to watch how it would burn.
I swallowed down the bitterness in my throat. “Of course, there’s no harm. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.” Even if it was misogynistically mistaken.
“Quite, though you have a very… interesting… way of showing your own, especially about Puglisi,” he egged me on.
I took a deep breath, my eyes narrowing on the line he treaded very carefully. “An interesting assumption about the man who’s trying to have the rules of the sport changed because he wants it to be harder for me.”
“Racing is a hard sport, Miss Snyder. I’d argue that’s why not very many women do it,” he placated.
“Racing has always been a man’s sport, Mr. Baldwin. I’d argue that’s why these rules get made.” I folded my hands in my lap. “But whether they change or not, I will still be at that race; I will still be driving. That won’t change.” I smiled. “Do you have any other questions for me about the race, or is that it?”
Jack frowned and cleared his throat, disappointed that I’d dropped his bait. “So, since you haven’t driven open-wheel before, do you think you’ll have any pre-race rituals to help gear you up and keep your mind focused?”
I uncrossed and then crossed my legs again, the heat in my blood simmering with the new onslaught of questions.
“Well, I think being in an open cockpit going about two-hundred miles-per-hour is enough to keep me focused, don’t you?”
They chuckled. “I guess that’s true,” Jack replied.
“Miss Snyder,” one of the other journalists, Nate, broke in eagerly. “My, uhh, wife was wondering what you’ll do if the race falls during…” He trailed off and cleared his throat, his face turning beet red. “Well, you know, during that time… if you’ll still race…”
I stared at him. Blankly. Stupidly. Horrified.
My face twisted, quickly noticing a lack of wedding ring on his left hand and the distinct suspicion that it was none other than these morons who wanted to know if my period was going to affect my driving.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “Are you really suggesting that I might not race if I have my period?”
The three of them sputtered. “Well, you know, heat strain is a big deal during a race, and they say when a woman is—”
“No. You know what they say, Mr. Baldwin? The University of Michigan did a study on female drivers driving during their period”—I emphasized the word they struggled to say—“measuring every body parameter from heart rate to body temperature to stress and exhaustion, and do you know what they said?” My eyebrows rose, but I didn’t give them the courtesy of floundering at an answer. “They said there was no difference between their measurements and those of the men in the study.”
“Oh. Well.” Jack cleared his throat. “We were unaware of that—”
“Yes, I can see that you were ignorant.” The double-entendre was poorly concealed. “I have a question though.” I shook my head with a harsh laugh, unable to stop myself. “Do you ask the other male drivers if they will still race if they have a headache or a stomach ache or a cold?”
They looked between each other, the answer obviously no.
“I didn’t think so,” I told them as I rose. “And I think we’re—”
“Pardon the interruption,” G broke in, my body coiling tightly at his arrival. I looked up at the man who’d arrived the moment I was about to make a very rude exit, taking the discourteous gesture and bearing it himself. “But I’ve got work to do, and it’s goin’ ta get loud in here. So, I think that’ll have to be all fer today.” A merciless expression slashed across his face.
“Garret—” Renner tried to break in, but without much hope of changing the outcome.
Jack glanced up at the intruder and was about to look away when he did a double-take, clearly recognizing G.
“Wait a second.” He pointed a finger. “You’re Gallagher, aren’t you? Garret Gallagher.”
The mechanic’s tension sent a shock wave through the room.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Jack rose and shook his head. “It’s been a long time since one of your engines has been on the track. How long has it been? It was what, seven—eight years since your brother—”
“Eight,” G cut him off. “And I’m just here for this race. Assumin’ you let me get back ta my job.”
The reporter rose, his hands sinking into his meaty hips. “I heard you left the industry when the… dust… settled.”
The other reporter chimed in, “I heard you took up with your brother’s—”
“Yer in my house gentlemen, and ye’ve worn out yer welcome,” he warned with a voice that sent a cold chill down my spine.
The two men looked to one another, taking the hint… and everything else he could fabricate from the curt words. Their satisfied smirks made my stomach turn, the wheels in their heads twisting and turning everything from the two of us to make a sensational story.
“Curious to see how your car will finish, Mr. Gallagher,” he said as he stood. “Assuming it finishes.”
I tensed at the insult, realizing a second later that I wasn’t sure the barb had been aimed at me.
“Good day, gentlemen,” I said tightly, clinging to the emergency escape that Garret’s intrusion had provided.
“A pleasure, Miss Snyder.” Jack’s voice taunted me as I turned away, coating my spine with a layer of disgust. “Mr. Voigt.” He turned to Renner. I wondered if he expected the older man to allow them to stay.
“I’ll show you out.”
I shuddered with relief, though I knew Renner couldn’t be happy. This wasn’t quite the kind of publicity he was looking for. But what was I supposed to do? How much was I supposed to sit pretty and smile for? I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
And Garret… I ignored the heat of his gaze as it followed me as I pushed into the back clean room and shut the door behind me, dragging in long gulps of air as though I hadn’t had any for the last thirty minutes.
I just needed a moment before I faced them both—even if that moment was in enemy territory.
Kacey
I COULD ONLY IMAGINE ALL the things I’d proved Garret right about in these last few minutes. Emotional. Clumsy.
I’d tripped and fallen right into their trap.
This was why I stayed away from the media.
I tried focusing on deep breaths and not the fading sounds of muffled conversation on the other side of the door.
They’d come bearing smiles and a warm welcome. They’d led into the conversation as though they respected me as a driver. And then they’d thrown the first punch.
It wasn’t bad enough what Puglisi had done on the track—ruining my car and my shot at placing at Daytona. It wasn’t enough what he’d said to me. It wasn’t even enough what happened after those fateful words, nor when my response booted me from that world.
Nothing was enough to make up for the way I’d leveled him flat on the ground like I wasn’t just scraping five-feet tall and he wasn’t almost double my weight. It wasn’t enough for the way it was caught on video and went viral.
My fall from grace wouldn’t make up for the bruise to his pride.
And that was why it was Puglisi’s mission to make my path in this sport hell. At every turn, even when he was hundreds of miles away, he was determined to drag my name through every gutter, and to put up every obstacle in my way—a foundation o
f an unfair advantage to outweigh my legitimate skills.
I jolted as the old metal handle to the door clicked and opened.
I didn’t need to look to know who’d come into the room. I felt the intensity of his focus every moment it was on me—like a light switch only he could flip.
But right now, there was no meter. No protection from the surge of anger that spun through me.
“I don’t want to hear it right now,” I told him tightly. Later, he could scold me. Later, he could tell me I was too flippant and easily provoked.
“Hear what?” The gruff question echoed off the white walls.
This room fit him. Cold. Sterile. Filled with all sorts of things to fulfill a purpose but not live a life.
I spun to face him, indignation still burning hotly in my blood. “That I’m too emotional. That I have no control. That I can’t—”
The door shut and cut off my words, and I blinked at how embarrassingly close to crying I was.
“Christ,” he swore and dragged a hand through his hair. “That’s not…” His exhale was a statement itself.
“Not what? Not what you meant when you said those exact words?” I charged, yanking my wrist from his grasp.
His jaw ticked with the urge to contradict me—one I wished he’d indulge so I could expend some of the bitterness boiling in my blood, though hardly any of it was because of him.
Garret let out a long sigh, abruptly changing his tactic. “Y’alright, lass?” The question was soft and soothing over his brogue—for the first time it was gentle with me.
And ‘lass’…
Well, that word slid right into the place where all the other four-letter l-words congregated and made itself at home.
“Why’d you do that?” I demanded, my bottled-up frustration continuing to find an outlet in the man who seemed willing to take it. “I didn’t need your help. I can handle myself.”
And more than capable of provoking it.
“It didna look like ye were handlin’ yerself.” His growl sent a warm shiver down my spine. His eyes shadowed. “And I needed ta get ta work, and those men are feckin’ assholes.”
“Well, then, I’m surprised I wasn’t more prepared to handle them since I keep having to deal with you,” I told him, notching my chin up and reveling in the bright flash in his eyes. I could fight back. And I would. Even if I was fighting the wrong person at the moment.
“I dinna have all day ta sit around and listen to ye talk about yerself.” His words were rough but lacked all bite.
With a gruff exhale, he moved around me, plucking different tools from the rack on the wall and focusing his attention on the engine block, apparently expecting me to leave.
“Me?” I queried. There was too much energy in my blood for me to walk away—especially when a past I had no business asking about was dangled in front of my face. “It seemed like they were more interested in you at the end there than they were me.”
I needed to know. Whatever the truth was, it had shaped the strong, solitary man in front of me. Self-sacrificing to the point of servitude. And callous enough to keep everyone away.
Because if no one liked you enough to get close, you never had to wonder what you were missing.
“I’m just the mechanic.” He began to crank away on the engine, measuring and adjusting parts according to the blueprint in his mind.
“With an interesting past from what I’ve seen.” His eyes snapped up, and I realized too late my slip. Admitting to looking him up.
“And what have ye seen, Miss Snyder?” he demanded with an arresting low tone.
There was no going back now. No running away.
Not if I wanted the answers I tried to convince myself I didn’t need.
“That you and your brother, Daniel—”
“Danny,” he corrected.
I folded my arms. “You and Danny were the dream team of the racing world.”
“What else?”
I sucked in a breath. “That he killed himself.”
Hurt rippled over his face like a raw, open wound that had never healed.
And I prepared myself for the worst—for the consequences of my asking. Every muscle tensed. Air piled up in my lungs, ready to release in a fight-or-flight response.
What I didn’t prepare for was the way his head dropped to the side, his hands gripping on the engine block like it were a life raft.
“Danny and me… we were a team,” he said slowly. “From before we even came here, we were a team. And when we stopped workin’ for our da and started in this business, we became the best.”
My tongue moistened my lips.
“And it was all Danny—Danny the Dreamer. That’s what we always called him.” A pained smile creased his face. “I was practical, but he always had his head in the clouds. He was always comin’ up with these crazy ways ta make things better—faster. He was the real genius.”
I cleared my throat softly. “That’s not quite what I read… at least as far as engines go.”
He glared at me, obviously not wanting to accept any compliments even if they were the truth.
“Ye ever notice, lass, that the things that fly the highest are usually the things most fragile?” he rasped. “Like a kite. Or a balloon.” His attention dropped back to his fist, like he could will it to punch himself. “Danny was so bright. He flew so high. But it doesn’t take much—a few words that jeopardized the dream he followed, ta prick his sanity.”
“What happened?”
Sometime while he was speaking, I realized I’d moved closer to him. Drawn in by his story. Drawn in by his past. Drawn in by an ache to ease his hurt.
He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head, as though the truth was a pointless endeavor now.
“Ye really want to know?” he asked with a low voice.
It froze the moment—the one where he’d, once again, flipped what I was feeling on its head.
Those men were forgotten. The interview was forgotten. Puglisi was forgotten.
All because the man who’d fought tooth and nail to keep every piece of himself from me now opened up to me in order to ease my anger. My pain.
“Only if you want to tell me,” I murmured. Only if he wanted to let me into his business.
“We were offered a new job with Colton Donavan’s team.” My eyes widened. Donavan was legendary in the racing world. Even now—even though he wasn’t racing anymore—his team led the industry. But back then… when he was racing… an offer to work with him cemented the articles’ assertions that Garret and his brother were the real thing and best the industry had to offer.
“And that was a bad thing?” I prompted, trying to understand how something that would’ve skyrocketed their career ended up jeopardizing it.
“It was when Dyson heard I’d met with Donavan about it,” he said tightly. “I mean, it’s Colton-fuckin-Donavan, ye meet with the man even if it is just ta tell him no, politely and respectfully ta his face.”
“You were going to turn him down?” I gasped.
He nodded slowly. “It woulda meant breakin’ our contract with Dyson Motorsports early.”
“And cost you a lot,” I interjected.
“No, lass.” He stared at the far left cylinder, his hand wiping it down with firm, methodical twists. “It was no’ about the money.” That intense focus snapped to me, ripping my exhale from my lungs. “It was about the commitment. We’d signed on ta do a job. We’d made a promise. And neither of us would break that, no matter the money.”
“Oh.”
The scale in my chest that judged the man in front of me, the one he tried to burden with the weight of his abrasiveness and over-compensated insults, tipped so far in the opposite direction it snapped.
“But Dyson got wind of the meeting, and that’s when I realized there’s a reason most of the people in this industry live in a cage behind a helmet—because it’s easier to hide that way. Easier to hide their selfishness. Their petty drive for money and fame.” The words
spat from his mouth like the harshest of curses.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, ye don’t, lass,” he lamented roughly and went back to work.
“I want to understand, Garret. I want to know the truth.”
“And ye don’t think what ye read is the truth?” he charged. “Tell me. Tell me what ye think ye know.”
Swallowing hard, I answered, “That Danny killed himself.” I paused. “And then it said you sabotaged Dyson’s car and caused him to crash in revenge.”
Metal clanked onto the workbench but I couldn’t look to see what he’d dropped, not when he came to stand in front of me.
“And is that what ye think?” he growled, his face hardly an inch from mine. “That I killed a man by messin’ with his car? That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it? Maybe ye should just believe the simple explanation.”
My lips pursed, anger pulsing hotly against them for a moment before I snapped.
“And what about what you think?” I charged, sending his eyes wide with surprise at my outburst. “That I punched a man because he edged me out on the track?” I didn’t know what it was about this conversation—this man—that made me open up about the one thing I swore I wouldn’t talk about. “Because that’s what it looks like.” I turned away and swiped the traitorous tears from my eyes. “But then again, I already know you believe the simple explanation.”
Meeting his tumultuous gaze for a half-second, I turned to leave the room—to leave us on even ground of being defined by a past that was nothing more than a lie.
“Dyson heard about my meeting.” I froze, my back still to him as I held my breath, waiting for more. “And because he was a jealous, insecure prick, instead of just askin’ us about it, he decided to make it so that workin’ fer him was our only option.”
I turned slowly, my heart thudding in my chest, like a defendant waiting for his verdict.
“He qualified fer Vegas on the first run, but insisted the car could go faster—said it felt like third gear wasn’t long enough.” Garret shook his head in disgust. “I argued with him, said he pushed the car hard to qualify with the time he did and that he shouldn’t risk any damage.” He speared his hand through his hair, the red waves falling like waves of fire across his forehead. “I shoulda known, the way he looked at me—the daft insistence that we tweak third and let him back out there.”
Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World) Page 13