Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  “I understand,” I murmured, pulling my hand from his hold. “And I understand how important Claire is. I know that what she’s going through is uncertain and can change in a split-second. But you owe her everything?”

  His glare burned like a poker on my skin before he turned and walked away from the conversation, yanking the wrench from where he’d dropped it on the floor and returning to his work.

  “You owe her your entire life, Garret?” I pressed.

  “Because it’s my fault her father’s is gone,” he roared on the tail-end of my question.

  The color drained from my face.

  Stories. Facts. Suppositions. Lies.

  Suddenly, what I knew of Garret’s past was nothing more than a skeleton, and now I could see what he’d left off—the pounds of flesh he’d sacrificed for her and to punish himself.

  “Owing her my life is the least I can do.”

  “And do you think she would want that?” I charged him. “If she knew, do you think she’d be happy with all the things you’ve sacrificed—all the things you’ve told her are worth fighting for?”

  “Get out.”

  Instead I strode over to him, standing on the other side of the engine stand, the metal block like a moat between.

  Tension crackled. Anger sparked.

  If there was any trace of fuel left in the cylinders, it would’ve ignited.

  I wanted to reach for him. I wanted to reach into the dark cell of his past he’d retreated into—his own personal prison—and comfort him. But I knew he wouldn’t accept it. I knew I was walking on fractured ice—one wrong step would have me tumbling into the cold depths of his harshness, wondering if his disdain would freeze me first or if the volume of his despair hiding there would succeed in drowning me.

  Instead, I spoke with a voice that trembled with the truth—because sometimes the truth is too earth-shaking to sound anything but unsteady.

  “I know how much you like cold, hard truths, G, so here’s another you can torture yourself with. Alone.” I baited him and, for all his restraint, he couldn’t look away from me. “Just because you regret something, doesn’t mean you caused it.”

  With that parting shot, I spun and left the room, not bothering to close the door behind me.

  For all his brilliance, for all his attention to detail when it came to the engine and everything else about that car, and for all his heart-aching commitment to the sick little girl who’d stolen my heart… this was the one distinction he couldn’t see.

  He could regret what happened to his brother, he could regret what was happening to Claire, but that didn’t mean he’d been the one to cause it.

  He hadn’t killed Danny.

  He hadn’t made Claire sick.

  And I hoped he’d stop punishing himself as though he had… before he smothered out all chance of happiness.

  My strength flagged as soon as I was back upstairs, my chest caving in the moment the door locked behind me.

  The loud clank of metal clashing against a ragged, real roar below made my breath catch.

  After a few beats of deafening silence, I heard it—the low, strained grunts of a man giving in to his desire. Maybe I imagined the sounds of his fist jerking along the length of his cock, but I didn’t imagine the rough groans and feral breaths.

  He’d tried to fight it and he couldn’t. Neither could I.

  I wanted him with a force that was mechanical—unable to be altered by fate or feelings. Like a machine, all the parts had been put into place and its only option was to run.

  It didn’t think. It didn’t have a choice. It just ran. Circle after circle.

  Revolution after revolution.

  And it drove me toward a hope that something would change.

  But Garret had taken us out of gear. All we were was a foot-on-the-gas, revving-toward-the-red engine running in place.

  And I was afraid this raging machine would burn through my heart as fuel before we ever figured out how to move forward.

  Garret

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  My spine snapped straight, and I turned to the side, realizing my focus had followed Kacey as she disappeared into the trailer to put on her fire suit.

  I’d given up on trying to keep my gaze away—keeping my hands off her was hard enough this last week.

  She had the strength and grace of a damned saint. Meanwhile, I was the kind of asshole who was warmly welcome in hell.

  But I didn’t see any other way. No matter how much I wanted her. No matter how many times I wondered if I was making the right choice or if I’d overreacted, ultimately, I walked away because the risk was too great.

  So, days passed with a kind of alcohol-based professionalism—necessary to get through this but still burned going down.

  Turning to Voigt, I saw his gaze follow the same path as mine with curiosity.

  This time, though, I knew he wasn’t talking about the girl; he was talking about the car.

  “I guess we’ll see when she gets out there,” I replied gruffly, crouching down to take one more look at the new windshield-like attachment I’d spent the week installing. The sleek, halo-like structure resembled the shield on a Formula One car but with a few variations.

  “Seems like it’ll be clear,” he surmised, reaching out and running his hand along the top rim of the Aeroscreen. “Wasn’t sure what to expect when they told me about it, but it doesn’t look too fancy.”

  This was the first year this kind of screen was being implemented. Next year, the cars would come with the screen already fabricated onto the body. But for this season, each team was responsible for fitting their car with the new safety measure.

  When Voigt hired me, he’d brought me up to speed on the safety changes that had happened in the half-decade since I’d been out of the sport—though I’d caught wind of some type of prototype screen protector from Claire when she babbled about what she’d seen on the news.

  Tested at Indianapolis last year, the Aeroscreen was approved and then mandated for implementation this season to help protect drivers. The open cockpit design resulted in far too many deaths for far too long.

  “Hard to install?”

  “Not too bad,” I clipped. It was a bitch. But it didn’t help that I was triple-checking everything because my damned mind liked to wander to the only component of the car I wasn’t in control of—the driver.

  And it was damned hard to ignore the way she always seemed to be there. Always curious and wanting to help. Ignoring the way she smiled at me as though I hadn’t ripped her heart out that night and crushed it right in front of her face.

  And if I thought the way her little display twisted my balls into twin engines of unfulfilled need was punishment, it was nothing compared to this—compared to her kindness.

  A ragged groan bubbled from my lips. Maybe that was the point. Hating me would’ve been easier for me to handle. If she wanted me to hurt like I’d hurt her, this was the way.

  Maybe if I’d done a better job at makin’ her hate me that night—if I’d done a better job at not wantin’ her so damn bad…

  That night was like a ghost inside my soul. Always there, but unable to be caught. Unable to be put to rest. And I didn’t know what haunted me more. The memory of her—her taste, her touch, her body so willing to give it all to me.

  Or her parting words.

  Just because you regret something doesn’t mean you caused it.

  “Took you all week.”

  I grunted. “It’s a wee bit more than jus’ boltin’ the damn thing to the car,” I replied, cantankerously, though I knew Voigt wasn’t completely serious.

  “The frame can withstand thirty-four-thousand pounds—so, about six of our trucks piled on it. And the screen is a canopy-like aerospace material. Ballistics tested.” I told him, rattling off a bunch of the specs rather than dwelling on the distractions that plagued me.

  “I know there’s hubbub about her being a woman and all, but I don’t think they’re going
to be shooting at her.” He looked at me with complete seriousness and oblivious to the joke he’d made. Lucky for him, I wasn’t in any kind of mood to laugh.

  “Doubt anyone would be that good of a shot.”

  Voigt bent down and examined the expensive safety addition as I continued, “Tear-offs are attached at the seams.” I pointed to the black corner junctions of the glass. “It added a shit ton of weight right in the center. I tried ta account fer additional drag and downforce, but I won’t really know until—”

  “We give it a try?”

  My head snapped to the side, Kacey standing at the front of the car, her helmet tucked underneath her arm, her other hand planted on her hip.

  I cleared my throat, searching her eyes for the double-meaning her voice implied before answering with a clipped nod and dragging my gaze down from hers.

  A mistake. Her fire suit was partially unzipped at the top, the rest of the semi-padded material hugging her petite curves.

  Ye shouldna be losin’ yer mind over this, I chided myself as a new stream of desire coursed through my blood.

  This was the problem. I thought one night with her—no matter what that night meant—would be easy to put behind me. It was only one. Single. Night.

  But it was like a seed. I thought I’d taken the tiny spark of promise—the glimmer of feelin’ that made my heart feel like nothin’ before—and buried it deep. Covered it up to stifle it out.

  Turned out, buryin’ it deep meant I was planting it so far inside me, that when it started to grow, I couldna stop it no easier than I could find it again ta dig it out.

  “Well, get in, girl,” Voigt huffed. “I got calls to make. Meetings to attend. Three weeks. We’ve only got three weeks.”

  I bit into my cheek as I stood, my cock pressed urgently against my pants. Damn thing suffered from short-term memory loss. It remembered with vivid precision the feel of bein’ buried inside her tight cunt, but it lost all recollection of the sobering decision I’d made that it would never happen again, nor all the pain it suffered at bein’ left unfulfilled these last days.

  After that night, I kept my hands off myself.

  Of course, you did, Garret. You’re quite adept at punishing yourself.

  My fist tightened, frustrated that I was starting to imagine her replies to the thoughts in my head.

  “Hold on.” I put out a staying hand, leaving them to talk as I jogged back to the truck and grabbed an old ball of wool, electrical tape, and scissors out of my bag.

  Voigt’s conversation with Kacey halted when I returned, his expression confused.

  “What are you doing, G?” Kacey asked.

  “I need to confirm this damn thing isn’t goin’ ta hoard air and drag.”

  “You know I spent good money on computers and sensors and things to check for drag,” Voigt broke in with a tone of displeasure, his brow crinkled above the think rims of his glasses.

  “Well, ye can return ‘em because they’re shit.” I pulled my scissors from my back pocket. “Now, let’s figure out if she’s hoardin’ air.”

  Voigt huffed, setting the instruments to the side and grabbing the wool from me.

  “It’ll go faster,” he charged, and, with a grunt, I handed him the scissors and accepted his help.

  I caught Kacey’s gaze as she watched us tape the three-inch cuts of wool in equal increments on the car.

  “Let me help,” she demanded, extending her hands for some of the tape and wool.

  I grunted as my hands brushed hers. “The wool will blow back straight where air flows free. If it drags, it’ll flail about.” I mimicked with my hand.

  This way I’d be able to see—this way I’d be able to diagnose where the attached airflow—the kind that followed along the body of the car—and where the separated airflow—the kind that was pulling and dragging against the car and causing problems—were.

  Wind tunnel testing was prohibited on the cars. But this… tuft testing… was as good as I was going to get.

  One misplaced stream of air… one unbalanced gust… at these speeds, that was all it took to spell disaster. I didn’t care how much they’d tested the damn thing—I hadn’t tested it.

  It wasn’t proven for me.

  Within a few minutes, we had the car covered with the wool tufts and ready to get out on the track.

  “Alright, let’s see how we do.”

  Kacey secured her helmet and began to climb into the cockpit that was now narrowed to a chute-like entrance with the addition of the wraparound Aeroscreen.

  With a muffled curse and an urge I couldn’t halt, I reached out as she lifted herself up and over the barrier, holding onto her arm—and taking some of her weight so she didn’t re-injure her cast-free ankle trying to navigate the new, constricted setup.

  As soon as she was seated, I drew back, but it didn’t stop the heat of her gaze from finding me from underneath her helmet.

  “So, I have one camera here”—I rested one hand on the top of the windshield and pointed with the other over her left shoulder—“in addition to the one on yer helmet.” I told myself she didn’t shudder when I got close to her.

  “Got it,” she confirmed with a nod, looking out of the new shield. “So far, my field of view seems pretty good.”

  I tensed slightly. I’d been more curious than concerned when I first heard about the change in regulations and the work I’d have to do to the car for it, but now, knowing it was going to keep her safer out on that track, necessity replaced curiosity.

  I couldn’t risk losing her.

  Lifting my hand out from next to her leg, I rested it behind her, finding her gaze behind the tinted plastic. “Be careful.”

  I rose and walked behind the car before I could leave anything else too promising on the line—before I began to fool myself into thinkin’ I could have somethin’ I couldn’t.

  Reaching for the engine, I cranked the beast to life, fear surgin’ just as powerfully through my body.

  I’d modified the engine—tweaked it after her test runs—to make it faster. And now, I was sending her on the track with a faster engine and a new component that, if not adjusted properly, could be more dangerous than not havin’ the shield at all.

  My heart lurched as she pulled away from the pit lane, accelerating steadily onto the track.

  Voigt and I stood like statues of silence, watching the car gain speed as it circled the track and watching the little trails of wool suck back to the car with the force of the wind.

  Sure enough, after the first lap, I could tell the airflow over the car was as it should be. I checked the readouts from her steering wheel and watched her on the camera. She wasn’t struggling to keep the car in line and, when she passed, all the tuft pressed back in a straight line.

  With everything checking out on that end, I needed her to push the engine.

  “Everythin’ feel good?” I bit back a groan at my thoughtless choice of words that I’d asked through her helmet radio.

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright, Kacey.” I cleared my throat. “I just want you to feel out the engine fer me. So, ye can take it to the limit.”

  I jolted as I held back the ‘lass’ that almost slipped out on the end.

  “No problem,” she returned, and then the car picked up speed as she came out of the corner.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Voigt mused next to me, shoving his hands into his pockets, staring at the track like it was his favorite vacation scene.

  And it probably was.

  A sea of applause and a black asphalt beach.

  “Yeah,” I agreed gruffly. No point in denying it.

  When it came to driving, she was fearless but not reckless. Patient but assertive. Fast but not foolish.

  The thing was, it took some observation to see it. At first glance, it was easy to mistake her true character with quick assumptions. So easy, I’d done it. But it was that second look she caused, the one that came after the thought, ‘wait, did I just see…’ whic
h made it clear that first assumptions were deceiving.

  Even though it felt like she was everywhere this last week, my body ached like she was nowhere close. And in the moments when her presence wasn’t tempting me, I found myself digging out my phone to watch videos of her racing. It was a rabbit hole that started with Daytona.

  I must’ve watched every news outlet’s coverage of that fight—every feckin’ one—searching for the truth.

  Of course, I believed her.

  The look in her eyes. The way she spoke. No one in their right mind wouldn’t believe her about what really happened after that race.

  But I wanted to see it. I wanted to see that fucker touch her and then I wanted to make him admit to it before beatin’ the livin’ hell out of him.

  I wasn’t a violent man. But when it came to Kacey Snyder, I was startin’ to realize the kind of man I was was the kind that’d do anythin’ to protect her.

  Even if it meant pushin’ her away.

  “You care about her.”

  I quickly converted my choke into a cough and replied with a lying shake of my head. “I care about Claire, which means I care about winnin’. And that means I have some care about the person necessary to make that happen.”

  “Bullshit.”

  This time, I wasn’t caught off guard by his crass bluntness. But neither was I willing to admit to him what I wouldn’t even admit to myself.

  It was easy to stay silent. My skill at pushing people away had been perfected long ago.

  “Can you run an engine with oil?”

  “Excuse me?” I balked, sure I hadn’t heard him ask such a ridiculous question.

  “What about a timing belt?” he went on blithely. “Spark plugs?”

  “What’s yer point, Voigt? ‘Course an engine can’t run without any of those things,” I growled.

  “My point is that you seem to be trying to run your engine, G, on a single, solitary part,” he charged. “And of all people, I thought you’d know better.”

  My jaw ticked, his claim dragging my focus from the track.

  “Claire’s important, Garret. But so are other things.”

  “Yeah? And what do ye know?” I accused the older man. “Ye only live fer one thing and that’s the race.”