Revolution: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Pretending like his last-minute appearance didn’t affect me, I climbed into my seat, releasing his hand as soon as I was able.

  He didn’t leave though.

  Gripping the edge of the front screen, he bent over, staring at me through the clear shield.

  “Claire says you’ve got this, lass,” he rasped, and somehow, I heard him louder than all the commotion going on around us as the team prepared for my qualifying laps. “And I know ye do.”

  Goosebumps rattled up my spine like an old engine coming back to life. The mention of Claire made my eyes wet, but it was his confidence that made my heart flutter, eager to believe him.

  He disappeared to the back of the car and started it, the breath his presence had locked up in my chest rushed out with hot fury and fogged my helmet for a second.

  I wasn’t going to be able to escape Garret Gallagher.

  I wasn’t going to be able to outrun how I felt about him.

  But that was a problem for a different track.

  Right now, I had a time to beat and a speed to catch.

  Two laps before the green flag dropped.

  Two laps before time and speed were everything.

  My heart thumped heavily in my chest.

  Two beats.

  Thump. Thump.

  Two beats before I felt every ounce of pain and longing that seeing him brought back.

  Two laps. Two beats. Two dreams.

  One future.

  I caught the wave of green clearly through the screen and floored it. The dash on the steering wheel lighting up as it read the various pieces to the racing puzzle.

  Second nature took over when I caught the light to shift. Upping gears and miles per hour.

  The buzz and whirl of the engine grew louder, drowning out the everything as it cheered me on to seven-thousand RPMs.

  The numbers ticked up.

  One-ninety.

  Two-hundred.

  Two-twenty.

  Seven-thousand RPMs. Shift.

  I was almost there.

  Even with the helmet and the suit and the padding and the new screen and the metal box, I felt like I was sitting on the hood of the car as I came around the last curve onto the straightaway. I felt the asphalt underneath me, cooled by the shadows of the setting sun. I felt the wind against me, greeting me as I forged against its invisible barrier. And I felt every powerful vibration of the engine behind me as it thrust me forward.

  Two-twenty-six.

  I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about Puglisi. But I couldn’t help it.

  He’d qualified early in the morning with an average speed of two-hundred-twenty-six miles per hour across his four qualifying laps.

  Two-twenty-nine. My RPMs hit six-thousand as I came into the straightaway and my pulse skyrocketed.

  I’d hit a consistent two-twenty-six on each straightaway. But I needed more. I needed more speed to bump my average up where it needed to be.

  Two-thirty.

  I held my breath.

  Two-thirty-two.

  Could that be right? Could the dash be right? The top speed for Dixon’s IndyCar in two-thousand-seventeen.

  Seconds slowed—like they always did for monumental moments.

  Two-thirty-three.

  Seven-thousand RPMs.

  It was enough to qualify. More than enough. And there was a second pass tomorrow in the Fast Nine Shootout.

  But there was something inside me. A driver I couldn’t stop.

  A force that pulled me like it did around Garret. In spite of everything I knew about him—everything that happened between us. It still pulled me forward.

  Lights flashed between my hands, telling me to shift.

  Demanding.

  But I didn’t listen.

  My foot sank to the ground, pushing through seven-thousand RPMs.

  And through to two-hundred-and-thirty-four mph.

  Air burst from my smiling lips as the flag waved, indicating the end of my qualifier—and the speed I’d set.

  Two-thirty-four.

  The highest speed recorded for an IndyCar was two-thirty-six back in the nineties.

  I’d beat him. And I was the pole sitter.

  The elation I felt in that instant sprung a leak as I let off the gas, the indicators on the wheel going haywire in a fashion that fit with the sounds coming from the car.

  Shit.

  Downshifting quickly, I slowed the car, my fingers gripping into the wheel like they were holding onto a prayer that I hadn’t done major damage.

  It seemed like I only blinked a few times before I was pulling back down pit lane, Voigt’s entire crew waiting with Garret in the front, his expression drawn and concerned.

  No, no, no.

  God, no.

  They swarmed around the car as I stopped, Garret immediately heading for the engine while I unbuckled and pulled myself up from the seat.

  “Something happened,” I yelled, cursing under my breath as I fumbled to undo my helmet and pull it off.

  I climbed out as he cut the engine and began to pull the back paneling off to get to the guts underneath.

  “I let off the gas and—”

  “Fuck.”

  He swore with hardly any volume at all, but I was sure the person standing in the very top corner of the farthest grandstand heard his piercing expletive. Not because it was loud. But because it was ominous.

  Eerily effusive.

  And my heart dropped like lead into my stomach.

  “What is it?” Jack took the panel from Garret and handed it to Matt, peering next to Garret, trying to see what he saw.

  “Fifth.” Garret gripped the wing of the car, the word erupting like an expletive.

  “Garret, what is it?” Renner appeared, looking frazzled for the first time since I’d met him. His hand adjusted his glasses every couple of seconds, as though the problem might disappear one of the times.

  “Fifth is gone,” he said with a low, tight voice and the silence that followed might as well have been to honor a person dying. He pointed to the transmission. “Completely shot.”

  “Fuck,” Jack growled—a sentiment that seemed to echo through the rest of the crew.

  “Can you fix it?” I stepped forward, shivering as Garret’s attention fell on me.

  “Definitely not fer tomorrow,” he clipped. “Probably not fer next weekend.”

  Qualifying attempts were split into two days. Today was the first day that determined initial ranks. Tomorrow the top seats of the pole would lap again to determine starting position, while other segments of drivers could try to gain themselves a better spot.

  It wasn’t the end of the world if I didn’t run the car again tomorrow, I’d just start at a different position for the race. But if he couldn’t fix it for the race…

  “Shit.” Jack wiped a hand over his mouth, staring in shock at the transmission.

  Garret’s eyes whipped to him. “What did you do?”

  All the color drained from the younger man’s face.

  “It was too long. The ratio for fifth was too long,” he stammered, and Garret’s face grew stonier with each word.

  “It’s my fault.” I stepped forward, drawing everyone’s attention. “I should’ve shifted. I shouldn’t have taken it so far in the red.”

  I wasn’t above taking responsibility for this. It was my fault. I was the one who’d pushed the engine too far—and for what? To qualify ahead of Puglisi?

  The thrill of that accomplishment faded. Crumbled and disintegrated with what it had cost me.

  Unless Garret’s hands could really work magic, there was no way to repair that engine for next week. Our only other option was a replacement. But we didn’t have a replacement—not with the kind of lease Renner signed with Chevy. Even just the one-engine option cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. I didn’t even know if it was possible to ask for a second one now or get the parts to repair it.

  I shook my head, my feet carrying me backward
away from the reality that there were no other options.

  Never show your weakness. Not where they can see you.

  Something my father had told me my first time on the track. I wasn’t even with a team then.

  “Maybe—hopefully—it’s not today, Speedy, but there will be days when things happen to define who you are. But on the track, who you are is part of a team. As the driver, they’re all looking to you—trying to help you.”

  “Kacey…”

  My name broke apart on the breeze as I turned and walked away. Faster and farther down Gasoline Alley toward my trailer.

  I needed to get away from there—from where they stood around the car arguing over the options.

  “If you’re struggling, don’t let them see. If you need to let it all out, find someplace to do it away from the team. They need you to stay strong.”

  I needed to think. I needed to find a way to make this right.

  And I needed to do it away from the man who’d only tell me how reckless I’d been.

  Again.

  “Kacey Snyder! Can we have an autograph?” The pleas from fans slowed me—distracted me.

  They had no idea.

  They saw the woman who’d just set a track record. Not the driver who’d just blown her engine.

  Never show your weakness.

  Stopping, I turned with a smile to the group calling me. A family of four with two young sons. It was the mother who’d called my name. Behind them was a group of college-looking girls and guys drinking and laughing, their attention settling on me when they realized who I was.

  “Of course.”

  Even though it felt like there was a fire inside me, threatening to burn me down from the inside out, I smiled and chatted with them like I was as cool as a cucumber.

  “That was such a great pass,” the woman told me, beaming as I signed her sons’ hats.

  “You went crazy fast!” The taller one exclaimed, and I laughed.

  “That’s one word for it.” I handed them back their things and agreed to a quick photo with the boys.

  The family stepped aside and the other group came forward. Six, large burly guys and three girls.

  “That was a fuckin’ good pass, ma’am,” the guy in the front wearing a Alabama University tee said.

  I grinned. “Thanks. And it’s just Kacey.”

  The other guy took off his Alabama hat reverently as I signed his mug. “We came all the way up from Alabama. We’re on the football team, but damn if we don’t love racin’.”

  “Can’t argue with you there.” I tapped the marker on the third guy’s “A” hat. “And Talladega is one hell of a track.”

  “You think you’ll race there?”

  Another track I’d been shorted because of my suspension. “I’d love to.”

  “Were you scared?” one of the girls with them stepped forward and asked.

  I chuckled. “I think I was going too fast to be scared, if I’m being honest.”

  We all laughed.

  “You think you’ll win?”

  My head turned to the side where two other guys approached us, clearly not part of the Alabama college crowd.

  The gaze I met was cold and made me unsettled. The man who’d asked was a little older, his beer belly stretching his Indy tee, and the can he dragged to his lips, taking a healthy gulp only added to the strain.

  Still, I smiled, albeit less enthusiastically, and replied, “I hope so.”

  Though I knew how unlikely it was at the moment.

  He snickered and it felt like a bucket of ice over my head. “Well, we hope you crash in our corner,” he spat. “Cunts don’t belong in the cockpit. It’s in the fuckin’ name, bitch.”

  I recoiled at his violent words.

  “Hey, now.” The group of football players stepped in front of me protectively, and my anxious breath released slightly; there was no way Mr. Beer Belly was making it through five Alabama linemen.

  While the men argued, I saw one of the track’s security crew take notice of the argument and watch it carefully.

  There would always be just as much good in this world as there was bad. Unfortunately, sometimes the bad had the loudest voice.

  Turning back to my intended destination, I bumped into the well-built shoulder of a man walking in the opposite direction

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, catching a glimpse of thick brown hair and a sliver of an attractive face. But ultimately, it was watered down and murky from the tears collecting in my eyes.

  Not yet, Kacey. Not now.

  “Are you—”

  Ducking my head, I pretended like I didn’t hear him as I powered on even faster, desperate to avoid anyone else noticing me, especially anyone from the press.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Miss Ace.”

  My steps faltered. My trailer was in sight. So close. But not close enough to let me escape this. Again.

  Puglisi’s chuckle sent a shiver of dread down my spine as I quickly wiped my eyes and spun to face him, channeling all of my anger into my expression.

  “You’re in a rush,” he remarked, blithely, dragging a hand through his hair like his presence right now was a gift to me.

  “I’d think you’d be used to seeing women rush away from you by now, Puglisi,” I returned with a hard smirk. “That usually happens after you grope someone.”

  His eyes glinted and the lightness disappeared from his face.

  He stepped toward me but I refused to move. I didn’t care. I’d punch him again if I had to before I ran.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it, Ace.”

  “I didn’t like it, Ass.”

  “You like to be in places you don’t belong,” he charged, his grin sickening me. “So do I.”

  “Ye say another word, Puglisi, and I’ll put ye right where ye do belong.”

  My chest heaved in relief as the other driver moved back and turned, revealing Garret who looked like it had taken every ounce of strength not to rip the other man away from me.

  “And where’s that, Gallagher? In the ground where you put Dyson?” I couldn’t stop my hand from flying to cover my mouth. “Don’t worry, my team knows not to let you within ten feet of my car.”

  “You have a lot to say for someone who I almost just bumped completely from the pole,” I broke in, no longer caring about myself. I couldn’t stand to see him say those things to Garret. Not here. Not now.

  His head whipped in my direction, my comment hitting a raw spot. Good. His lip curled for a second, and it felt so good to sink that knife into the man who was so smug, hardly caring to cover up his disgusting disrespect with a charming smile.

  I shuddered as his eyes raked a disrespectful path down my body. I was grateful my fire suit was still on—still covering me. Though those protective layers didn’t do enough to stop the smear of insolence.

  “More than fine watching you work your magic on the pole,” he sneered and leaned closer to me. “But we all know what’ll happen at the race next week, Ace.”

  He chuckled and then walked off as though he’d won something. As though he’d already beat me.

  But as soon as he left my periphery, I forgot about Joey Puglisi. About his comments. About his threats.

  Because Garret was standing in front of me.

  “We need to talk, lass.”

  Sadness washed over me.

  I’d lost fifth. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew I’d lost the race.

  And looking at Garret, I had to accept that I’d lost him, too.

  “I think you said everything you needed to say, G.”

  Kacey

  “NO, DAMMIT.” GARRET’S GROWL FOLLOWED me inside the trailer just before he did. “I said everythin’ I didn’t mean, Kacey.”

  Foolish hope made my heart speed and my body heat. I unzipped the front of my suit and faced him.

  “It doesn’t matter, Garret—”

  “It does goddamn matter!” he broke in harshly, digging his hands into his hips.
/>   Air rushed from my lungs as the urge to go to him felt like a G-force I had to resist.

  G-force.

  To crash into him.

  But I couldn’t.

  “Dammit, lass, ye need ta stop sacrificin’ yerself fer someone else’s mistakes,” he bit out.

  I shook my head. “I’m not sacrificing myself. It is my fault that fifth blew. I pushed it to the limit, G—past its limit. I pushed the car too damn far just to beat that smug asshole. To prove that I could.”

  His shoulders slumped with a rough laugh. “First off. Ye didn’t push it too far.” My eyes widened. “I lengthened the ratio fer fifth because I knew ye’d push through fifth to finish. I know how ye drive, lass—I know what drives ye.”

  I felt my lips part but it did nothing to ease the vacant space in my lungs.

  I know what drives you.

  Distantly, I recalled what Jack had told me on the way to the car earlier—that he’d adjusted the ratio because it seemed too long in practice.

  It was too long.

  It was too long on purpose.

  “These races, lass. They get won when the car is an extension of the driver. When the car knows yer habits. Yer preferences.” He shuffled his feet as his tone took on a deeper quality.

  The trailer felt like it was over a hundred degrees. Each heavy beat of my heart ticking up the temperature in my body.

  “The way yer going ta act, the choices ye want to make before ye make them. The race is won when ye work as one.”

  Was he still talking about the car?

  I swallowed hard, pushing down the heartbreak back where it belonged. I knew better this time. I’d crashed into Garret Gallagher once, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “It’s blown. It’s over.”

  He wasn’t the only one talking about more than the race car.

  But then it hit me.

  I’d just blown my shot at Indy—my shot at racing this season. But the only thing my heart could feel was the end of us.

  That we were over.

  And I realized I’d shifted.

  Somewhere over the last weeks…months…the importance of the race had nothing to do with the race. It had everything to do with him.