Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Voigt wasn’t insulted. He was too rational to be insulted. Too literal.

  And what I’d said was the truth.

  He had no wife. No family. No hobbies. He had nothing except for the car and the race.

  “I know, G, because I’m living it. I’m an engine built of a single part. And I’m old.” He pointed a finger at me. “Old enough—keen enough—to see I’ve been shaping and polishing this single part for my entire life and, looking back over my straight stretch of years, it hasn’t gotten me far.”

  I huffed and shook my head.

  “Sure, it made me a name. It made me some money. But it didn’t move my life forward,” he pressed on, taking no social cue that I didn’t want to continue this conversation. “When Danny died and Janet found out she was pregnant, you gutted your life. Completely. I know. I watched you do it.”

  My stomach tightened as though he threw a punch with each of his words.

  “And you’ve rebuilt it with a single part, G. An admirable, honorable single part,” he said gruffly. “But it’s still only one part.”

  I spun on him, determined to make the end of this conversation very clear.

  “Look ‘ere, Voigt. Ye don’t know shit about me nor my life. All ye know are skeletons. It’s my fault Danny’s gone. I owe him this. I owe him a life spent carin’ for his daughter because he can’t. And I owe her that, too.”

  The words lacked the vigor with which I’d unleashed them on Kacey last week, an inkling spooling in my gut that her response, like another root of that damn seed, had begun to affect my own.

  I spun on him and charged, “Let me remind ye of something, Voigt. Ye hired me because I’m the best goddamn engine builder in this world. So if anyone can build somethin’ worthwhile out of a single part, it’s goin’ ta be me.”

  With a growl, I turned and walked angrily back toward the trailer, my footsteps cracking into the asphalt with each step.

  I could build a life with a single focus—a single purpose.

  But, as I threw open the door and came face-to-face with Kacey’s startled face, I realized the unavoidable truth.

  Just because I could, didna mean I wanted to.

  “Garret?” My name exhaled from her lips in a worried rush.

  I halted, my hands on the doorframe, the urge to reach for her overwhelming.

  There was something insatiable about Kacey Snyder. Insatiable and inescapable.

  Somethin’ I’d deny feelin’ with my very last breath even as it killed me.

  Every moment in her presence was like tryin’ to pull a train off its tracks—impossible to stop myself from barrelin’ toward her, the hottest coals of lust drivin’ me forward. But it was the momentum of something deeper—a larger feelin’ much more powerful—that made stoppin’ impossible.

  “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Didn’t know ye were in here.”

  “Everything okay?” Her gaze narrowed. “Is Claire okay?”

  She always asked about Claire. Even after I told her that Claire was the reason I couldna be with her, she still asked about my niece like she’d do anything to help her.

  “It’s no’ been a good week,” I confessed raggedly, letting my weight sag a little against the frame of the door. “No, that’s no’ true. It’s been a good week. She’s still here. She still smiles.”

  “But…” she prompted, knowing there was more—more that I shouldn’t be talking about. Not right now. Not to her.

  But the ache in her eyes, wanting to bear some of this weight with me, was more than I could bear. And being apart from her, after sharing so much, was like tryin’ ta put water back through a dam that’d already flooded.

  “It’s been good because the drugs are workin’—workin’ better than before,” I rasped, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But it’s been worse on her. Eatin’ away at her and her spirit.”

  Claire’s tired eyes flashed in my mind. Her smile, never failing, the only muscle she had the strength to use.

  My head ducked, lips tightening as I cleared my throat. “It’s the hardest thing to do… hardest thing to watch. To see it break her down to nothin’, with nothin’ more than a prayer it’ll build her up again.”

  And then a pale white palm appeared and flattened over the heavy thump in my chest.

  I snapped my gaze up, Kacey standing right in front of me, tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

  “Garret, usually the hardest thing and the right thing are the same,” she murmured, her fingers pressing warmly against me as I felt something swell inside my chest.

  The worst part was that she didn’t say it with any other intention except to ease the sense of helplessness inside me, but when my eyes locked with hers, the only thought between us was that this—what we had—was the hardest thing.

  To want someone whose hands were tied. Who didn’t have all of themselves to give.

  It was easy to justify walking away from her.

  Easy to say she deserved more.

  Easy to say I had nothing to give.

  It was hard to take the risk of staying.

  Hard to confess that no one would ever regard her the way I did.

  Hard to confess that I wanted to give her everything.

  “Kacey, lass—”

  “What can I do?” she broke in and murmured, a sharp bite of pain pinching my pulse. This was what I wanted. This was what I asked her for. “I know you don’t want me there—”

  “What?” I broke in with a growl.

  Her eyes widened. “After the other night, I assumed that was even more true.”

  “Christ.” I squeezed my eyes shut, Claire’s voice bouncing around in my head, wondering when Kacey was coming back to see her, worried that she’d gotten too sick for her to be able to come.

  Meanwhile, I’d tried to be everythin’ she needed—everything but brave. I’d been too cowardly, too guilty, to ask the woman for more when she’d given me everything and I’d turned her away.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” I rasped, shaking my head. “That’s no’ how I meant it, and it’s no’ that I don’t want ye there now. I just… I couldna ask ye. It didna feel right.”

  Her lips parted as a shudder worked its way through her. Without her fire suit on, I caught the way the hairs on her arm stood on end.

  “She’d love to see ye, she would,” I went on firmly. “Ye give her this sense of hope—a sense of strength that she can do anythin’ because you’ve done it. Because ye are strong.”

  A small laugh spilled from her. “I’m really not,” she insisted. “I’m just me—just stubborn.”

  “Dinna come if ye can’t see yerself the way she does.” My hand snaked up around her wrist, pulling it off my chest and dropping my face close to hers, imprisoning her surprised stare with my determined one. “Ye are the second strongest woman I know, Kacey Snyder. And I know no one is strong all the time, but Claire needs ta see the woman who fights against the odds—the woman who shows up with a damned broken ankle to drive a race car because she needs ta beat the odds. That’s the woman Claire needs to see because that’s the kind o’ determination she needs right now.”

  Only once the last word was free from my lips did I realized how close I was—how close we were. And desire cracked like heat lightning in the air.

  Her eyes drifted down to my lips and I saw the ache in them that mirrored the well of it inside me. The pink tip of her tongue slid out and wet over her lips, an open invitation if I ever saw.

  I didn’t even hear the low groan that rumbled from my chest, I only saw Kacey’s reaction when she heard it—and when she stepped away.

  “Tomorrow then?” she asked, her expression a crystal-clear reminder that this was what I’d wanted.

  “Are ye sure?” I rasped, searching her eyes for the hurt I knew she felt.

  Her chin dipped and she turned to gather her bag, shoving her checkered driving gloves on top and zipping it closed.

  I stepped back as she approached, offering her a hand as sh
e stepped down from the trailer and into the sun.

  Pulling her hair free from the braid it had been tangled in underneath her helmet, she finally looked up at me, her red locks searing the image of her face in my mind.

  “Sometimes, the hardest thing and the right thing are the same,” she repeated.

  I didna know what it was about this woman, insistin’ on doin’ the damned right then even when a part of her was broken.

  She continued to stand tall when the world broke her reputation.

  She came here to race even when her body was broken.

  And she continued to give me her kindness—her compassion—even when I’d broken her heart.

  My jaw clenched and I nodded. “I’ll pick ye up at eight.”

  And as she walked away, I allowed myself to wander down the path of wondering… wondering if I’d done the wrong thing.

  Kacey

  “YER SURE ABOUT THIS?” HE said roughly beside me.

  We’d almost made it to the hospital with nothing except the car and the race being the focus of the conversation.

  The only way to describe Garret and me after what happened was like we’d been driving pace laps around the track after our crash. Waiting for the mess to be cleared. Waiting for the go-ahead to return to full-throttle.

  Garret thought he could keep at this pace forever. Measured. Restrained. Steady.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  And I tried to believe him. I tried to take that one night and tuck it away as a memory—as a moment that let me experience something I never had before.

  Like the first time I hit two-hundred miles per hour—and the first time I crashed.

  It was exhilarating almost as violently as it was scary. And when I got out of the car, my mom pulled me into her arms, bawling but convinced it was the end of my career. That the crash had shocked some reason back into my brain.

  When she finally let go and it was my dad’s turn to hug me, he examined my face—the wide eyes and speechless lips I sported—and gave me that knowing half-smile.

  “Don’t know how to tell her, do you, Speedy?” he asked.

  “Tell her what?” I gulped.

  “That you want to do it again. That you can’t give this up.”

  I thought I’d feel shock at the statement. Instead, my shoulder sagged with relief because he knew. He knew that the hurt I felt, the fear I felt… none of it compared to the need I had to find that high again.

  And it was that feeling I recognized again now—no matter the hurt, no matter his reasons, I needed Garret in a way I couldn’t describe as anything other than absolutely essential.

  And after feeling that, this interim of half-measures couldn’t last.

  You couldn’t pace for the entire race.

  “She could be pretty tired,” he warned. “She has been for the most part this week, but she doesna like when ye mention it.”

  “Hmm, a woman who doesn’t like when you mention she looks tired. Imagine that.” The wry joke slipped from my lips unencumbered. I hazarded a glance at him, surprise cracking the stone lines of his face just enough for a smile to break free—a smile that dominoed into one of my own.

  And then we were both laughing. Easily. Freely.

  In spite of the ‘look but don’t touch’ tension, the line we’d crossed and then steered clear from, I realized we couldn’t retreat from the intimacy we’d created by revealing the most broken parts of ourselves.

  We’d glimpsed the very depths of each other souls in a harsh, ragged glance. But no matter how many times we swore we’d never look again, it couldn’t erase what was already seen.

  I thought being friendly and maintaining this cordial composure, rather than avoiding him, proved we could both move on from that night without any lasting effect. But yesterday, being on the track distilled my focus.

  Objects once set in motion will remain in motion.

  And Garret and me, we’d been set in motion.

  We could swerve. We could slow. We could continue to keep pace. But we couldn’t stop.

  And soon, the caution flag that flew each time we were together was going to drop because it had no choice. Because you couldn’t pace your way through life.

  And when it did, I would either crash heart-first into Garret Gallagher or break away and leave him behind.

  “What do you think?” Claire asked as I examined her latest drawing—a red race car sitting at the checkered finish line, a distinct number ‘one’ front and center on her helmet signifying it was me driving it.

  She’d been sleeping when Garret and I arrived, so we shared burned cups of coffee in the cafeteria, neither of us minding the taste in favor of the energizing effect. He told me in more detail about the changes to her chemotherapy and what the last few days had really been like for her—a rollercoaster of exhaustion interspersed with varied mood-swings that left her defeated at the end of the day.

  When we got back to her room—with a chocolate chip cookie in tow—Claire’s little face lit up when she saw me with her uncle, and proceeded to ramble something about log sleeping that first made me feel like I missed an inside joke, right before it made me miss him.

  He thought the needs of his niece made him not enough for me. The reality was, seeing the rough and gruff Garret Gallagher melt at the hands of a seven-year-old, made him feel like everything I needed.

  “I think that you have some real talent here, missy,” I murmured, tapping on the paper.

  It was just the two of us in the room. Claire kicked Garret out almost immediately with instruction to go back to the shop and work for a few hours while us girls hung out.

  “But I want to know why I’m the one driving the car in all these pictures?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Who else would be the driver?” she asked in the way that made you feel dumb but not insulted like only a child could.

  “You,” I retorted, giving her an expectant eye and a soft poke to the shoulder. “You’re the one who wants to become a race car driver. You should be the one in these drawings.”

  Her head fell, the thin paper-like cap dipping low on her forehead, but she made no move to fix it.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a driver.” She huffed, pushing the markers strewn across her lap away.

  “Hey.” My heart contracted painfully, and I reached out for her hand. “What’s that all about?”

  “I’m not a driver.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes nor take my hand, instead fussing with her teddy bear. “What does it feel like? To go that fast?”

  My lips tightened, unsure if I should follow her lead into a change of topic or if I should push to figure out what was bothering her.

  “I thought you wanted to be a driver.” I didn’t bend easily. “You should put yourself in the picture not me.”

  “I can’t! I can’t be a driver!”

  I balked at the sudden shift in her mood. Garret had warned me, but I hadn’t expected her to downshift into this angry despair so quickly—so angrily.

  I took a deep breath and stared down at the crude drawing, knowing I never would’ve put myself in the driver’s seat either.

  “They told me that, too,” I responded softly.

  A few seconds later, I felt her inquisitive stare peek over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  I waited before answering… waited until she began to inch back in my direction.

  “They told me I couldn’t be a driver, too,” I repeated, adding wryly, “They still do.”

  Her eyebrows squished together and, in another flash of frustration, she yanked her chemo cap off of her head and slammed it onto the bed in front of her. “Why? You’re not sick.” Her lip quivered.

  The ball in my throat ballooned. “Because they don’t think girls should be drivers.”

  Her blank stare was so comical I had to cough so I didn’t laugh.

  I wished I could replay her face as some kind of video clip every time someone t
old me I didn’t belong, or every time someone asked me some dumb question—like if my period affected my driving.

  “That’s stupid.”

  “It is.” I nodded in agreement as my hand reached out for the hat that was made out of a thin fabric, rubbing it between my fingers.

  “They can’t stop you, can they?” Fear washed over her face.

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “Only if I let them.” She settled again with my answer. “And being sick doesn’t mean you can’t race.”

  Claire’s eyes glazed over.

  “I c-can’t even stay awake the whole day. My tummy hurts a lot of the time.” A tear dripped off her cheek. Then, looking side to side, she pushed herself just an inch closer to me and whispered, “I’m not just sick, Kacey… I have cancer.”

  My throat tightened. She said it sincerely. Softly. Painfully. As though I didn’t already know.

  “That still doesn’t mean you can’t be a driver,” I said thickly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes, it’s all I think about,” she confessed quietly. “All the things I can’t do.” Her nose sniffled. “How do you not think about them?”

  How did I not let my doubts consume me?

  I thought for a minute, wondering how it was always children who asked the simplest yet hardest questions.

  “It’s not that I don’t think about them, but when you love something—like really love it,” I began, tapping on the paper to indicate we were talking about racing. “There’s a place where the rubber meets the road.”

  Her brow scrunched, unfamiliar with the phrase. “You mean the tires?”

  “Yeah, technically.” I smiled and nodded. “But you know how race tires are really big and smooth so they stick to the track and make it easier to go faster?” She nodded in confirmation. “Well, they stick so well because there’s no space left.” I pressed my palms flat together to illustrate. “So, where the rubber meets the road is the spot where what you want is put to the test. And for me, that spot is where there’s no room for doubt. Or fear. Or can’ts. Because there’s no space between that rubber and road.” I told her. “There’s just me and the thing I love, and I’m stuck so hard to it that nothing can stand in my way.”