“Stay with your loser team of jackasses and poor business managers. We don’t need ungrateful, marginally talented bitches fucking up our dynamics, anyway.” Terrance turns away, satisfied with his parting comments, thinking he’s had the last word.
I let him go. I know he’s not worth my time or energy to engage further. And that’s a mark of maturity on my part, because so much of me wants to grab him by the shirt, punch him in the throat, and let him know he’s a dickwad with a dirty reputation. I flip him off with both hands and mouth obscenities in an immature display of passive aggression instead.
Grumbling, I turn back to our booth and find Griffin leaning against the truck, mostly out of sight of the front of the booth. I stop short, my mouth forming an O of surprise that he was privy to at least part of that conversation. I pull my shoulders back and walk over to him. “How long have you been standing here?”
“Long enough,” he says, reaching out to smooth a piece of hair away from my face, his fingers softly scraping across my cheek. “I think you got his panties in a real good bunch. He’s gonna have a hard time pulling them out of his ass.”
I smile and shake my head. Nearly all of my frustration and anger is forgotten just by being in Griffin’s presence.
“Thank you.”
I reach up and gently kiss his cheek. He may not know how much his simple and unassuming words just made my day or how much he just did for me by taking my side. It’s more than the words he has said. He’s engaging with me in a way that is friendly and not pushing me away. This is gold after a week of forcing him to barely tolerate me.
He nods and pushes off the truck, turning to head to the trailer. “I’m kinda glad you’re back. It was getting too boring without you around,” he says as he walks away without looking at me.
I throw both my fists into the air in celebration, because that tiny, innocent statement is the biggest win I could imagine right now.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Griffin and Wyatt both advanced from the sweet sixteen, to the top eight, and then the final four without having to compete against each other. When they were paired up for the last two rounds, our whole team was a little on edge. It was inevitable that this would happen eventually, but for some reason this scenario had not come into play during the California Circuit. I guess with both of our drivers doing so well and advancing into the top ranks at each race, it would eventually become the norm.
Of course, Charlie Sweeten and Mason Bauer had to be the drivers that rounded out the rest of the final four. Thankfully, they raced before Griffin and Wyatt, and Mason came out on top. It gives me endless amounts of satisfaction that Charlie won’t be going against either of our guys. Mason, however, is a phenomenal driver and a good dude from what I can tell. Griffin having competed against him previously makes me a little more comfortable, so I’m definitely playing favorites for the S&M matchup to get the winner I think will do best. I want Griffin and the Black Sheep to come out ahead. It sucks to hope that Wyatt loses, so I keep myself away from the race track and stay by our booth during their rounds.
There is really not much happening in the booth area with the final four races happening, so I pace and wait for someone—anyone—to come back to our booth and relieve me of my tension. I am just far enough away from the race track to not really be able to make out the announcer’s comments over the revving engines and squealing tires. This has got to be the worst half hour of my life as I tie lanyards in knots and go over all the possible scenarios for the final matchups. I about throw myself on the hood of the Nissan as Wyatt drives back to our pit area, already launching questions and demanding answers before he has even parked.
I slap my hands against the doorframe and lean my head into the window to get close to Wyatt. “What happened? Are the cars okay? Did you win?”
“Griff got it. He’s up against Mason right now. You should go—”
I don’t let him finish, already making a run for the track as fast as my heels will allow. Maybe I was a little insensitive to Wyatt, but I will try to fix that later. Accessing the packed general grandstand area, I scan the track and see Mason and Griffin lined up to start.
“Have they already had their first round?” I ask someone in the stands behind me.
“Yeah, Bauer led. He did real well, but that beast of a Mustang McGregor is driving is killing it.”
I nod my thanks and move to the railing by the stairway, making sure I am not obstructing anyone’s view. The lights count down to the start of the second heat, and they are off with Griffin leading and Mason chasing. They initiate drift in the first corner, Griffin pulling ahead and getting an angle that is hard for Mason to follow. Mason can’t be dropped, though, sticking to Griffin’s bumper through the next turn. Despite staying close, he is unable to perfectly match the angles Griffin is throwing down, and it shows in his driving. Reaching a straightaway, Griffin guns the engine, roaring past the stands and raising goosebumps on my arms as he hits the chicane S-turn that scrubs off the speed they just picked up to make it into the next series of turns. Mason falls behind and isn’t able to close the gap before they finish the run, which gives me confidence that Griffin just took this round. I really hope this is Sacramento all over again, and not San Jose where he came in second.
The announcers are giving the crowd a recap of how they think things went down while the judges’ scores are tallied and the drivers make it back to the track for the final score presentation. Griffin pulls up nose first to the stands and nods at me when he steps out. It’s almost a shock when he walks over to Mason and extends his hand. I see Mason hesitate before he takes it, and they clap each other on the back.
What the hell? Griffin is showing mature sportsmanship? Looking around, I notice Wyatt has not come back to the track, so his points must have been lower than Charlie’s, and he took fourth place. Well, it’s a real bummer when Charlie Sweeten hits the podium, even on the last step, but whatever. He’s definitely been the worst part of the actual competition this season.
“We’ve got the judges scores and have a winner for this absolutely fantastic Laguna Seca race series. With ninety-five points, Griffin McGregor of Smoke and Mirrors is our winner!”
I tune out after hearing that Griffin is the winner and frantically look down at the track where I catch Mason and Griffin hugging before Mason holds Griffin’s arm above his head. The roar of the crowd is deafening and already a surge of people are pushing out of the stands in a steady stream to leave for the night. Some people will stick around for the podium presentation, but the general consensus is to leave after they know the placing so you avoid getting stuck in parking lot traffic.
I feel the press of people behind me, wondering why they have stopped and are jamming up. I turn around to see a bottleneck was created at the narrow stairs to get out of the stands, and people are crowding an area that really can’t tolerate the strain.
I hear creaking as a great shudder rolls under my feet, throwing me off balance. I slam into the railing hip first, cringing and crying out. I try to wedge myself into the corner as more people press forward, trying to get out of the stands in a panic. The mass hysteria is getting to me, causing my heart to race and my palms to sweat while I try to keep my footing as people continue to jostle and bump into the crowded exit, blocking me further in my corner.
I look around and see Griffin getting back into his car. My heart drops as a metallic shriek rends the air as a portion of the stairway I am stuck on begins to shear away from the rest of the stands. Oh, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. Screams of frightened people mix with the crumpling aluminum as it lists over onto the concrete barriers that separate the spectators from the racetrack. I’m holding on for dear life as the metal settles and the weight of the people in front of me knocks the wind out of my lungs. The barriers provide just enough support to keep the stairway from completely falling, but now people are crushing each other as gravity forces them back in my direction.
My mouth opens a
nd closes like a fish as I gasp for air once my lungs finally open up. Getting my bearing, I work to pull myself out from under the people on top of me, feeling a dragging pain along my leg as I crawl over the railing. I jump down off the barriers, ignoring the momentary pain, instead reaching back to help the next person. I help a woman over the railing and onto the concrete barrier next to me, and reach for the man behind her. This is slow going work as each person has to deal with the weight of the person behind them pinning them in place.
It doesn’t look like anyone is seriously hurt, but every single one is frightened out of their minds and not thinking straight. I watch as one woman screams in panic and begins to climb over the people around her. I shake my head and look around for more help.
American Drift League and track employees are already rushing over, helping in the effort to get the people still stuck on the stairway out of the mess. I’m holding the hand of a scared teenage boy, helping him find footing to crawl off the stairway when I feel arms wrap around me. I lose grip on the boy as I am lifted off my feet and spun around toward the track where I am placed not so gently back on my feet.
“Hey, I need to help that kid, he’s stuck,” I say as my adrenaline surges and I claw my way back toward the stands.
The arms wrap around my waist and begin dragging me away from the chaos. I beat at the arms trying to get free. “Let me go, please, I have to help them!”
“Shelby, you need to calm down. He’s being helped and we need to get you looked at.”
“I’m fine, just a scratch. Now let me go back to helping those people.” I sound unusually shrill as I try to get around my would-be helper. Wait, he knows my name? I pause in my attempts to get away and look up, directly into the intensely blue eyes of Griffin. “What are you doing? You have to let me go. I need to help.”
“Baby, I’m not letting you go. Not right now, and not ever. Now calm the fuck down so I can get you some help.”
“I’m fine.”
The annoyance is evident in his face as he pushes a little away from me without letting go. “Does this feel fine?” he asks, using the toe of his shoe to press into my shin. Searing hot pain explodes along my leg and renders me breathless.
“Oh, fuck!” Gasping in air from the sudden and intense pain, I glare death rays at Griffin. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you, you fucking asshole? Shit, shit, shit, that fucking hurts.” I double over as pain blooms and a cold wave of sweat breaks out all over my body. Every curse word known to me becomes my only vocabulary. I guess I was scratched worse than I thought.
“See, you’re not okay and you need to come with me. We have a first aid kit we can use before we get you to the hospital. You will probably need stitches, or at least a tetanus shot.”
I look down and see a smeared trail of blood running down to my foot from a jagged gash that runs along the front of my left shin just under my knee. The pain that was a moment ago barely noticeable is suddenly pulsing hot and very real. It’s funny how you barely notice the pain until you have seen the injury. My vision blurs as I sag against Griffin. He wraps his arms around me, holding me upright and strokes my hair as I try not to freak out. Breathing shallowly, I take a minute to get it together and finally straighten up.
“Okay, I can do this. Let’s walk.” Before I can take a step away, Griffin has bent slightly to scoop me up and hugs me against his chest.
“Yeah, I don’t think you’re going to like walking now that the pain has set in. That looks nasty.”
“Thanks for the kind assessment, doctor. I’m totally fine, you can put me down.” I sigh at him as he ignores my request and bumps us through the crowd of people all streaming away from the stands and into the pit and vendor area on their way out of the raceway.
Wyatt is standing at our disassembled booth, his hands on his hips as he scans the crowd. When he sees us, the relief that floods over him is like a shock wave that resonates all the way to me.
“Hey, guys, they’re back! Bring the first aid kit, looks like she’s hurt,” he calls to the trailers behind him. He strides forward and meets us before we can make it to the trucks. “Shelby, what happened? Were you caught in the stands that fell?” He searches my face and quickly scans my body, still in Griffin’s arms. “All hell broke loose when we heard that happen. People were running from the grandstands as EMS were fighting their way toward it. We were told to stay here, out of the way.”
“We have been losing our goddamn minds waiting to find out what happened to you,” Ryan says as Griffin sets me down in a chair by the truck.
“Yeah, we made it back here but don’t know what has happened other than something collapsed. Were you there?” Paul asks, holding out the kit to Griffin, who is kneeling at my feet next to my shoes that he has removed.
I flex my toes and shudder as my left leg twinges and pain lances through me. “I’m fine. I was waiting on the stairway when the winner was announced. I guess everyone rushed to get out of the stands to beat the crowd. I think it was too much weight all in one spot or something failed, because the stairway broke away from the stands and fell onto the track barriers. I think I was lucky being in a corner and was able to get out right away, but the rest weren’t as lucky. I don’t think there were too many serious injuries, the stands were barely four feet in the air, but that was scary as fuck and I am sure there are some very freaked out people—” I hiss as Griffin swabs my leg with an alcohol pad, scrubbing the cut. “Fuck my life! Do you have to scrub so hard?”
“Sorry, baby,” he says without looking up.
“Oh, don’t pretend like you are not enjoying every second putting me through this. It probably gives you so much satisfaction,” I grumble, pissed off and unhappy to be in pain.
Griffin pauses, rests my heel on his thigh, and looks up at me. In a low, steely voice he says, “There is nothing about this I enjoy. Seeing you hurt and knowing I’m only making it worse is probably the most horrible thing I have felt in years. I’m just trying to make it better, so sorry if I’m doing a shit job of things. It’s not really my area of expertise. I’m usually the one fucking things up.”
His honesty shatters me and manages to give me hope that he’s not completely over me after all. I reach out and cup his jaw, stroking my fingers over the stubble.
“Thank you. I’ll put on my big girl panties and stop whining now.” I smile at him, hoping to ease the tension that strains his eyes.
“I would rather you take them off,” he says so quietly only I can hear. With a small and welcome smirk, he lifts my leg and returns to cleaning my wound as I try not to be a big baby.
“Dude, where’s the Black Sheep?” Cole asks. I whip my head around to glare at him, and then scan our pit area. Oh, crap.
“I left it on the track. I figured it would be easier to walk through the crowd than try to drive. I had more important things to worry about.” He looks me in the eye as he reaches into his fire suit and pulls out the key and tosses it to Ezra. “Maybe it will be easier to drive back now that things are thinning out.”
Ezra jogs off toward the track, easily cutting through the much smaller crowd that is lingering. I follow his progress until he’s swallowed up. I hope everyone is okay. I can’t even imagine the PR nightmare the ADL will have to face after this accident. People will be all over social media talking about this. I don’t think it was the ADL’s fault; it was a freak accident, but everyone’s stories will vary on who is to blame and what exactly happened. I would not want to be in their position right now.
“That should hold you for now. It’s not as deep as I thought, so unless you want to go to the ER, I don’t think you need to,” Griffin says, smoothing the edges of a large bandage on the front of my shin. His hand wanders up to cup the back of my knee, his thumb tracing a light path along my thigh. He can’t stop touching me. It sends warm shivers through my whole body, momentarily replacing the pain.
“Where should we go out to now? Anyone feel like dancing?” I ask, looking around me at
the team.
Paul glances up from his phone, probably texting Marny, and studies me for a second before shaking his head no. I look at Ryan and Cole, who are leaning against the truck nearby. They both shrug their shoulders without committing either way. I look for Wyatt, but don’t see him around. Movement catches my eye behind the trailer, so I lean forward and see him talking to a very familiar, very scary bald man. Mike Alves is here. Shit. I never figured out what to do about his debt. I grit my teeth and get ready to march over there to make sure he’s not threatening Wyatt again. Griffin places his hands on the tops of my thighs to hold me in place as he catches me staring.
“We should get you back to the hotel to rest. No dancing for you tonight with that cut.” There is a finality to his statement that refuses argument. His eyes tell me he knows exactly why I wanted to get up just now and warn me to stay put.
I widen my eyes at him as my mouth clamps shut. I hope he’s good at reading the unspoken “What the fuck?” I’m sending him. He knows better than to tell me what to do, and I kind of need to make sure things are settled with Wyatt after neglecting this issue.
The stare-down Griffin and I are in is broken by Ezra as he rumbles up in the Black Sheep. That seems to snap everyone out of their hovering, the team bursting into action to get it on the trailer and packed up for the night. Griffin helps me to the cab of the truck and gets me settled inside. I wave off his help several times, but he refuses to let me walk without aid.
“I need to check on Wyatt. I saw him talking to a bad dude. I’m afraid he’s in trouble again, or there’s more he didn’t tell us about last week.”
“Everything was settled last week. There’s no need for you to go anywhere near that guy. He’s dangerous. I’ll talk to Wyatt and see what’s up.”
Drift Heat Page 26