by Jim Cangany
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Contents
Cover
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Guide
Contents
Start of content
Start Your Engines
Racing Hearts Book 1
Jim Cangany
Avon, Massachusetts
With great admiration, this book is dedicated to the fearless women who have raced in the Indianapolis 500, and in particular Pippa Mann, an amazing driver and a shining light of kindness and determination, who kept me going with Start Your Engines on days I was ready to give up. Thanks, Pippa!
Chapter One
When you raced a car, especially at over two hundred miles per hour, walls were unforgiving. Brad Thomas knew this. The limp caused by his surgically repaired hip and knee reminded him every morning.
The mess in front of him was the latest reminder.
“How bad is it?” He crossed his arms and paced around the mangled jumble of carbon fiber. The opening race of the season, the Tampa Grand Prix, was only twenty-four hours away, and his team’s rookie driver, Chas Thornton, had just put the car into the concrete retaining wall in turn three.
“If the guys work all night, we can have it back in one piece by tomorrow morning.” Scott Remington, the team’s chief engineer, removed the steering wheel from the cockpit and ran his finger along the piece of tape with the name Thornton printed on it. “How’s Chas?”
“He’s getting checked for an injured wrist and a concussion. Between you and me, if he were here right now, I’d give him a concussion trying to knock some sense into him.”
“He’s only twenty. Sure, he’s aggressive, but that’s how he won the junior series last year.” Scott sat on the one tire that hadn’t flattened during the crash. “The kid’s got potential. He could take us all the way from tiny start-up in Fleetwood, Indiana, to the top of the heap in the racing world.”
“He’s a prima donna who’s only in this series because his grandfather worships Mario Andretti and wants his little Chas to grow up to drive in the A-1 circuit.”
“The fact that his grandfather’s sponsoring the team doesn’t change the fact the kid can drive.”
Brad put his hand on the rear wing, which was at a forty-five-degree angle instead of its normal horizontal orientation. “Right now, I have my doubts.”
“Doubts about what, gentlemen?” Barbara Sawyer, legendary sports reporter turned racing team owner, appeared in the open doorway. Her black stilettos clicked on the concrete as she made her way to the wreckage. “I asked you a question, Mr. Thomas. Do I need to ask it again?”
Her reputation as a barracuda-like interviewer was only exceeded by her business acumen. The team had merely been in existence since October, but in his six months overseeing all of the on-track operations as team director, he’d learned one thing above all—don’t lie to the boss. Well, he had a two-year contract with a nice payout if he got fired.
“Doubts that Thornton can drive this car,” Brad said. The crew was top-notch. He had no doubt in the world they could rebuild the car overnight. Then again, without a backup car like the bigger, more established teams had, a rebuild was the only option.
“I need to fill in the guys on our repair plans. Why don’t you two just . . . ” Scott looked around and made for the door. He was no fool.
Barbara circled the car, her focus on the deformed and damaged body. “Tsk, tsk. Can’t even see the Thornton Industries logo on the side pod anymore.” She came to a stop next to Brad and put her arms behind her back. “I assume this is exhibit A in support of your position.”
“Actually, it’s exhibit C. He crashed in oval testing at Desert Raceway in January. He crashed again in road course testing at Gulf Coast. Now this. He won’t listen to constructive criticism, and he refuses to accept responsibility for his mistakes. I’m sorry, Barbara. It’s your decision, but if you keep him, be prepared to increase your repair budget line by about 1,000 percent.”
“What do you suggest as an alternative?”
As a boss, Barbara didn’t want Brad coming to her with problems. She wanted solutions. The elephant in the room was that Thornton’s grandfather was bankrolling the team. If Brad suggested firing Chas, that meant their financial support would go away—and the entire team would be out of work. Chas’s presence on a team meant sponsorship dollars. The Thornton Industries money would follow him wherever he went.
A bead of sweat trickled down his back. Oh, what the hell. “Release him from his contract. He’s simply not mature enough to race at this level.”
“And replace him with whom?”
Brad gave her a long look. That wasn’t the response he’d expected. His hopes for the season began to perk up again. “I can get you the resumes of half a dozen drivers this afternoon. Off the top of my head, the Gilbert kid is pretty quick, and—”
“How many of these drivers can provide us with a budget?”
His hopes fell right back to the floor with a splat. “None.”
The reality in racing, though never spoken, was that every year the last few seats in the field were filled by drivers who had the connections to basically “buy” themselves the ride. The vast majority of the drivers in the Open Wheel Racing Continental Series were talented athletes who deserved to be there, but racing wasn’t cheap, and if the only way for a new team like Brad’s to make the field was by hiring a kid because of his or her deep pockets, the team made the offer.
“That’s what I thought.” She strolled to the back of the work area and leaned against the gleaming toolboxes.
Brad took pride in his operation. He insisted the work area, whether a garage at a permanent racecourse or a temporary paddock setup for street circuits like they had at the moment, be kept in pristine condition. The fact that Barbara was willing to let her high-end linen suit come in contact with his equipment was proof she approved of his efforts.
“I’m hardly penniless, Brad, but I have no interest in going into debt to finance this team. When you approached me about this enterprise, you assured me we wouldn’t have a problem like this.”
“I know. Securing sponsorship turned out to be harder than I thought.”
“Which is why you recommended hiring Chas.”
“I was getting desperate. Recommending him was a mistake.”
“Yes. Be that as it may, I might have a way out of this pickle we find ourselves in.” She brushed a few strands of
blond hair behind her right ear.
“We?”
“Yes, we. You’ve come to despise Chas. Correct?” When he nodded, she gave him a half-smile. “Well, I’ve come to despise his grandfather and the man’s incessant meddling. So much so I’ve been working for a few days to find us a solution.”
Brad was at her side in a flash. “You have a new driver? Who is it?”
“I may have a driver, but before we go down this path, which will make me endure an unpleasant conversation with the elder Mr. Thornton, I want assurances from you.”
“Anything. You name it.” After the Chas disaster, Brad was willing to give just about any driver a try.
“You will give one hundred fifty percent to this driver. You will work with this driver in good faith. Lastly, any concerns you may have about this driver will be addressed to me only, and that will be behind closed doors.”
“Sure.” Brad nodded. He wanted to compete. He wanted to win. He wanted to get back to the International Series, the top rung of Open Wheel Racing. He couldn’t do it without a driver he could trust. “I promise. Whatever you say.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She tapped away at her phone for a minute. “Come with me, please.”
The drivers looking for a ride were usually found hanging around the area where the team transport haulers and motorhomes were parked. Barbara was headed in a different direction.
“Um, are you sure—”
“We’re headed for my suite above the grandstand, Mr. Thomas. Your new driver is waiting for us there.”
Images of following his older brother, Greg, down the ravine to the dirt go-kart track back on the family farm came to mind. It was his tenth birthday, and he was finally going to race his own kart. Over the course of the afternoon, he killed the engine twice, spun out three times, and was passed by both of his older brothers more times than he could count.
And it had been beyond epic.
It took his muscles a week to recover from the beating, but he didn’t care. That birthday had been the best day of his life.
Back in the present, adrenaline surged through Brad’s veins like it had on the trip down the ravine twenty years before. He forced himself to keep still on the elevator ride to the suite.
As they walked down the carpeted hall decorated with portraits of past Tampa Grand Prix champions, names of potential drivers popped into his head—Stewart, Mann, Graham—all accomplished young drivers who had excelled on the junior circuit and could, with his guidance, take the step to the next level.
“And here we are.” Barbara swiped a key card in front of a door handle. “Don’t forget your pledge.”
He followed her into the suite. His new driver rose from the couch and extended her hand to shake. Her combination of ice-blue eyes and copper skin were unforgettable. At some point over the years, she’d added some gentle curls to her jet-black hair. There were a few more curves to her figure, too. The years had been kind to Gabrielle. No doubt about that.
Brad stopped, unable to move, much less talk. He had a long history with this driver. As teens, they’d been friends, brought together by their mutual goal of reaching the top of the open wheel racing mountain. Shoot, she was one of the few friends he’d had, thanks to his reserved demeanor. His life changed in too many ways to count, both good and bad, after they met.
In fact, she was the one who spun Brad’s life around one hundred eighty degrees.
She was the one who’d taken away his dream of becoming a championship race-car driver. Since the day that dream died, thanks to her recklessness, his top priorities, both for his team and for himself, were safety and predictability. The more predictable a driver was, the safer it became for everyone on the track.
Those priorities had also kept Brad safe away from the job. He’d suffered enough heartache. This new driver would only add more.
• • •
Gabrielle Marquez glanced at her hand hanging in the air and slipped it into her back pocket. Judging by the frigid stare Brad was giving her, he wasn’t a believer in forgiving and forgetting.
“Hello, Brad. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s been a long time.” His jaw clenched as he crossed his arms.
Barbara cleared her throat. “I’m going to make some drinks. Brad, why don’t you and Gabrielle take seats outside, and I’ll join you shortly?”
With trembling fingers, Gabrielle opened the sliding glass door and stepped from the cool air-conditioning into the Florida humidity. From the frying pan into the fire. She had to make this reunion with Brad work. The crash hadn’t been her fault. She’d cut a tire. It happened.
But a driver had still died.
And another’s career was cut short. Now, here she was, ten long years later, seated next to the man who, from the looks of things, still blamed her for his injuries and his best friend’s death. How was she supposed to rebuild a relationship with a man who’d turned his back on her when she tried to make amends? Well, she’d come too far to give up now.
“You look good.” Actually, he looked fantastic. His brown hair was cut short, which was a much better look than the shaggy style he’d sported when he was behind the wheel. He’d added some muscle to his frame and looked like he’d fit right in on a hockey team. It was quite the change from the rail-thin man of their youth.
Their youth.
God, they’d had such good times the two seasons they’d raced together as teens on the junior circuit. Brad had been so accepting and kind from the first time they met. Not all the drivers had treated her like he did. As an equal. As a friend. How could she not fall for him?
And then the crash happened. She pushed the frightening image from her mind. The life-changing nightmare happened ten years ago. Today it was all about focusing on the present, not dwelling on the past.
“Some days are better than others.” His hand went to his hip, the one that had been replaced. Whether he’d done it on purpose or not, the message was loud and clear. Rebuilding the friendship, the trust they’d once shared, was going to be a marathon, not a sprint.
“I’m looking forward to working with you this season.”
“Is that so?” He propped his feet on the seat in front of him and stared at the blue sky.
“Yes. I can’t change the past, and I can’t pretend to know how hard it was to lose your ride and Jean-Pierre all at the same time.” He was my friend, too, dammit. “What I can do is spend this year proving I’m a good driver who, working alongside you, can make this team a championship contender.”
“How are you going to make that happen?”
“I’ve spent the last five years racing in Europe and South America. Last season I finished third in the Open Wheel Electric Series championship with two wins. I’ve improved as a driver, both on the track and in the garage. I can give your engineers the feedback they need in their language.”
Two cars on the track below them, one a blur of orange, the other of black, flashed across the finish line at one hundred seventy miles per hour. The high-pitched song of the engines dropped an octave as the cars dove into turn one of the thirteen-turn road course.
With reflective sunglasses covering his eyes, it was impossible to get an accurate read on Brad. He couldn’t refuse to work with her. Barbara had made that clear before she’d left to get him. That was the last card she wanted to play, though.
“I hear you have sponsorship backing. Is that correct? If so, how much?”
“Two point five million.”
He tapped his index finger to his chin. Now she had his attention.
“This is real money, not just a promise. Half of it’s already been deposited in the team’s account. The sponsor is an alternative energy firm based in Europe. They’re friends of mine entering the North American market and like Open Wheel Racing’s use of leading-edge technology.”
Barbara emerged with a tray of drinks. Once they were distributed, she took a seat between them. “Cheers.”
They drank in
silence, the quiet interrupted by the roar of engines as cars taking laps in the practice session shot past and the public address announcer relayed lap times. The times were all slower than Gabrielle could produce; she knew it like she knew it was Friday afternoon.
“Now then, Brad. I’ll rely on you to inform Chas he won’t be driving this weekend. If he argues, tell him the concussion protocol gives us no choice. When you’re finished, call a team meeting.” Barbara brushed a speck of dust from her lapel. “I want everybody there.”
“I’ll do it as soon as we’re finished here.” He smiled. It was a smile that contained equal parts menace directed at Chas and pleasure at starting with a new driver. It was also a smile that made Gabrielle’s heart skip a beat.
Brad’s smile had always gotten her motor running. Back then, when her crush became impossible to ignore, she decided to share her feelings with him after the season ended. He wasn’t involved with anyone at the time, so waiting until they could talk free of on-track distractions seemed so grown up—so adult. But her chance to talk to him never came.
Now, ten years later, he still had the same effect on her. Evidently, some things and some people, she simply couldn’t get over.
“Good. I’ll give his grandfather the same information and let him know we’ve hired a replacement driver for the weekend.” Barbara turned her attention to Gabrielle. “You’ll accompany me to the team meeting, at which time I’ll introduce you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Barbara was a force of nature, but Gabrielle hadn’t made it back from the abyss without developing some steel in her spine. She waited a moment as three cars came by in a nose-to-tail formation, all of them piloted by drivers Gabrielle could beat driving with both eyes closed. “Our agreement was for the entire season, not just one race.”
“I’m getting to that. It appears you need to apply the patience you’ve learned on-track to situations off-track. I’ll make the announcement of a permanent driver change next week. The two of you, with the history you have, don’t need the added pressure news like this will bring. You’ll be on the receiving end of enough questions regarding what appears to be a one-off deal for the weekend.”