Start Your Engines

by Jim Cangany

  Even though it was only a little after six when they pulled up to the farmhouse’s front door, the sun had set. The warm light emanating from the windows was a stark contrast to the cold March wind that buffeted Gabrielle as she double-timed it toward the house. It wasn’t until she’d opened the front door that she realized Brad was right behind her.

  “Thanks for walking me in, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  Brad’s cheeks were pink. She couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or from the wind. “Um . . . yeah, I have dinner with the folks every Wednesday.”

  “Oh.” For some reason, his answer left her deflated. It wasn’t like they were an item, or anything. But still.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.” Helen gave Brad a kiss on the cheek and Gabrielle a hug. “Dear, you’re an ice cube. We need to get you a heavier coat. You’re not in Florida anymore.” She slipped back to the kitchen after telling Gabrielle to put on a sweater and Brad to wash his hands.

  “Your mom hasn’t changed a bit, has she?”

  “Nope. To her, I’ll always be the kid with dirt and grease under my fingernails.” He smiled and, for the second time that day, her pulse quickened, in the best way.

  • • •

  Brad was in the middle of a new sketch. After the emotional whiplash of the previous day, from announcing the new partnership with AES and Gabrielle to responding to the Thornton Industries press release to his unsettling conversation with Gabrielle, he was beyond thankful it was his day off.

  The downtime was good for him from two perspectives. On the outside, he used the day the same way people with nine-to-five jobs used a weekend day. He ran errands, paid bills, and got caught up on his favorite shows, like Top Gear.

  He didn’t go out on dates very often. There were a few women he’d gotten close to over the years, but he’d always pulled back, favoring the security of solitude over the risk of getting hurt.

  On the inside, it was a day for tuning out his anxieties by sketching. He chuckled when he thought of how resistant he’d been to taking his first art-therapy class, convinced he’d never advance beyond drawing stick figures.

  My, oh my, how wrong he had been.

  He’d agreed to attend two sessions to get his mom off his back. When the second session ended, he shocked both of them when he asked if he could attend another. Over the years, he’d come to love sketching because it was so different from racing. It was quiet, it was solitary, and if he made a mistake, he could fix it with a few strokes of an eraser. At the same time, it required undivided concentration and precision. Those were things racing required of him, too.

  Sketching centered and calmed him. It was the perfect reminder that not every decision had large monetary, or even life-or-death, consequences. He wasn’t proud of his temper, but despite all his efforts, it had worsened in the last year. The sketching helped keep it under control.

  Mostly.

  As he was attempting to do justice to Lightning, in all of her long-haired feline glory, the doorbell buzzed. When Bridget replied over the intercom she’d brought him dinner, he let her in.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure this fine evening?”

  “Gabrielle and I went shopping, and I just dropped her off at the house. Figured I’d swing by while I’m in the neighborhood.” She helped herself to a bottled water from the fridge. “What are you working on these days?”

  “Lightning.” Brad offered the sketchpad to her. “Figured since I’ve done Thunder, I should do one of your cat before she coughs up her final fur ball.”

  Bridget brushed a few strands of her reddish-brown hair from her eyes and studied the work in progress from three different angles before returning it to him. “Not bad. You need to talk nice, though, or I’ll sneak her in here one night and have her leave a fur ball on your kitchen floor.”

  “You’d do that, too.” He got a bag of chips from a cabinet and poured them into a bowl. “So, how was shopping?”

  “We had a good time. It was nice to get caught up. I’m still amazed she spent time racing in both South America and Europe before she came back home.” She sighed. “I want to go to Europe someday.”

  “Maybe the two of you can go, and she can be your tour guide.”

  “No need to get all snippy about it.” Bridget threw a chip at him.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . . ” He shook his head. “I’m happy the two of you have been able to pick up where you left off. I wish I could do that, but . . . ”

  “Oh, right.” She stood. “You need to keep playing the martyr.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not—”

  “You’re not the only one who’s been hurting the last few years.” Bridget’s cheeks took on a crimson tint.

  “Not the only one hurting? Get real. You didn’t lose your career, or your best friend.” His raised voice trembled as he fought to keep his cool.

  “You’re right. I didn’t. But Gabrielle did.” She poked him in the chest, a move she made when she was furious with him.

  “You don’t see it, do you? You’ve spent all these years wearing your famous Brad Thomas stoicism like a suit of armor, never for a minute taking into account the consequences of your actions.”

  “Okay, I’m lost. Will you please clue me in?” He grabbed for the bowl but fumbled it, and scattered chips halfway across the room in the process.

  “Gabrielle won a race in Europe last year. When was it?”

  “I don’t know.” He swept his arm under the couch and produced half a dozen chips and an equal number of dust bunnies.

  “Yes, you do. Tell me.” Her voice was equal parts lava and venom. This version of Bridget was beginning to worry him.

  “Fine.” He closed his eyes and thought for a few seconds. “July ninth.”

  “And when did you punch out what’s his name?”

  “July fifteenth.” He didn’t need to think about that date. The ramifications were still hanging over his head.

  “This is what I think.” Bridget took him by the arm and made him sit on the couch with her. “Despite everyone’s efforts, you’ve never talked about the crash in any meaningful way. You’ve kept it bottled up, and since Gabrielle’s come up on your radar, all that anger, all that hurt, is bubbling over.”

  “Seriously? And now you’re a psychologist?” Despite his protest, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “No, but as a teacher, I know the difference between positive and negative behavior. I’m worried about you, Brad. While I’m thrilled you and Gabrielle are working together, I’m also scared something bad might happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I just think it would help if you finally talked to someone. You can’t keep carrying that emotional baggage around with you. More importantly, you don’t need to.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  She hung her head. If there was more to be said, evidently it would have to wait. “Sorry about flipping out on you. Let me help you clean up your mess.” She gave him a smile. Her eyes were sad, though.

  “My mess? You’re the one who went She-Hulk on the chip bowl.”

  “Yes, and I wouldn’t have had to do that, but I needed to get your attention, so yes, your mess.”

  Maybe it was because Bridget was his little sister, or maybe it was because deep down there was truth to her concerns. Regardless, Brad couldn’t stay mad at his Queen B, no matter how aggravating she could be.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sullivan.” He said it like he imagined one of her students would respond to a directive. Then he hugged her.

  After they’d cleaned up, Brad walked Bridget to her car. She opened the door but closed it again and faced him.

  “It’s like this. Gabrielle is beyond excited to be racing in America again, especially since she’s driving for you. At the same time, I think she’s a little scared of you.”

  Brad bit his tongue and nodded. “Go on.”

  “It’s like she’s walking on eggshells.
She’s afraid to talk to you about the past and, because of that, she’s afraid of making a mistake on the track.”

  “She told you this?” They weren’t teenagers anymore. If Gabrielle had a concern about working with him, there had been plenty of opportunities for her to express it.

  “Not in so many words, but I don’t think I’m wrong. She did tell me she was diagnosed with PTSD a few months after the accident. The symptoms she described reminded me of you.” She opened the door again. “Promise me you’ll talk to someone. Please?”

  As a chilly breeze blew across the yard, Bridget got in her car and fired up the engine. She gave him a wave and headed out to get Amy.

  Brad, on the other hand, was headed to . . . what? His sketches? His shows? There wasn’t much he was returning to, and it sure as hell didn’t involve family.

  Chapter Seven

  One of the challenges of running a race team in the Continental Series was that once the season started, the only times drivers were allowed to race in their cars were the weekends of races. To overcome this, Brad sent Gabrielle on a few trips to the local karting venue with Scott and a few of the other team members as a way to talk racing and build team camaraderie. He also made sure she spent at least an hour per day in a racing simulator. The pricey piece of technology raised eyebrows when Barbara presented it to the team during a surprise unveiling, but it had been used daily ever since.

  Regardless of the amount of time spent in a simulator or on a go-kart track, there was no replacement for actual seat-time, though. The switch to Gabrielle would pay long-term dividends, but right now, Gale Force Racing was a few steps behind the rest of the field. Shoot, even Chas, now in the Team Thornton garage, had participated in pre-season testing and one practice session in Florida before he crashed.

  If someone asked him, Brad would be forced to admit his team’s impressive performance in Tampa was the result of ninety percent adrenaline and ten percent preparation. Somehow, Gabrielle had taken the lousy poker hand they’d been dealt and transformed it into a jackpot winner by using guts and her ability as a driver.

  Nerves of steel and raw ability could take them only so far, though. With Gabrielle part of the team for two full weeks now, the expectations would be higher, along with attention from the rest of the field, especially the Thornton boys. No matter: Now was Brad’s chance to see how much the crew could accomplish in a short period of time.

  It was Wednesday evening, and the crew wasn’t due to arrive until the following morning. Brad turned to his passenger. “We’ve got the night to ourselves, short stuff. Ready for a study session?”

  “If the study session includes a walk around the course . . . one bite.” Gabrielle gave him a wink and got out of the rental car.

  They were getting along. He was even able to look Gabrielle in the eye without becoming filled with despair. Tough moments would pop up, like when a song on the radio reminded him of J.P. But, man, there was something about her. Some indefinable quality beyond her head-turning looks that was beginning to make seeing her every day a good thing, not a painful one.

  Would the tough moments go away? Probably not, but Gabrielle seemed to be trying to make things right between them. The least he could do was reciprocate.

  He took his time getting out of the car and made an exaggerated affair of limping and rubbing his fake hip. “The course is two point one miles. I don’t know if I can hack it.”

  “Don’t make us ride scooters again. You know I’ll just embarrass you.”

  He let out a long laugh and pointed toward an opening to the course. “In that case, shall we?”

  The L.A. Grand Prix was a huge event on the season schedule, falling below only the Crossroads Five Hundred in prestige. The glitz and glamour of the Hollywood scene could make for a disastrous weekend if a team wasn’t able to block out the distractions. Brad had a suspicion Chase and his minions would throw distractions their way all weekend long.

  They came to a stop in the middle of turn four to take a close look at a manhole cover. One of the challenges of racing on a street circuit like this event was being aware of abrupt changes in the racing surface. Both Brad and Gabrielle needed to know when there was a change from asphalt to concrete, where the surface got rough, and where there were painted areas that could get slippery.

  “What do you think?” Brad took a picture of the manhole cover and dictated a note into his phone. He would do the same when they came across other interesting or troublesome course features. The information would be shared with the team as they worked on getting the car just right for qualifying and the race.

  “Shouldn’t be an issue.” She turned around to survey the portion of the circuit in view. “I won’t have a ton of speed built up coming out of turn three yet, so there shouldn’t be any worry about bouncing over this and losing grip while I’m braking.”

  “All right then.” They resumed their walk. Brad stopped to take a few more pictures and dictated a handful of notes at Gabrielle’s request. Tire wear and wind conditions were her main concerns.

  Those concerns came to fruition as a front moved through during the night and brought with it humid, windy weather. Given the challenging conditions, Gabrielle spent an hour behind closed doors with Scott Thursday evening discussing setup options for the car.

  Brad forced himself to stay out of the discussion. He needed to trust that his chief engineer and his driver could work together and communicate effectively. This was their first test. The entire series would know whether or not they passed during the Friday morning practice session.

  They didn’t pass the test. They aced it.

  Brad gathered the team together at the conclusion of Friday’s activities. “Well done, lady and gentlemen. Quick time in the morning session and third quick in the afternoon session. Pit stops were good, too. Overall, an outstanding day. Great work, people. Dinner’s on me.”

  A boisterous cheer reverberated throughout the garage at the news. Even a smiling Barbara joined in the celebration.

  The good times, both literal and figurative, continued during Saturday’s morning practice session. Ten laps in, Gabrielle radioed in that the car felt a touch slow, and she wanted less downforce. After a few back and forth exchanges with Scott, they agreed on an adjustment to the front wing.

  She brought the car in, the two front-tire changers made the fix, and she was back out on the circuit in the blink of an eye. The change in the car’s performance was immediate, as Gabrielle shaved a full second off her previous best lap time.

  “Is that number right?” Brad elbowed Scott and pointed to the eye-popping lap time on his computer screen.

  “Yep. Gabrielle and I talked last night. We both thought we could get more out of the car today.” They watched the iridescent AES machine flash by and checked the screen. She was another half-second faster.

  “That’s front row material.”

  Scott grinned. “You were right. Gabrielle’s good.”

  Gabrielle was even more impressive in the qualifying session, not only communicating her needs to Scott, but also heaping effusive praise on the entire crew. While the team was ecstatic with her final P four spot, she deflected all positive comments directed toward her and said it was the result of the outstanding machine her team had prepared.

  Now, if they could keep the momentum going through the race and bring home a quality finish, Brad would feel like they’d caught the other teams.

  And were primed to move ahead of them.

  • • •

  Gabrielle adjusted her fireproof racing gloves and recited the Serenity Prayer while she waited for the signal from the race steward for the parade lap to begin. She was thrilled with her starting position and over the moon from the high fives the team gave her after qualifying.

  Moments after the last race, she dashed off to a restroom, where she got sick. A simple reaction to a pressure cooker of a weekend, she’d told herself at the time. It couldn’t be her anxiety returning. Her therapist Bonnie h
ad warned her some PTSD-related symptoms might resurface if she returned to racing on American soil. Today, she’d prove the warning was much ado about nothing.

  She glanced at her mirrors. Behind her loomed the familiar royal blue of the Thornton Industries car. She chuckled when she heard about Chas whining he would have qualified on the front row if Gabrielle hadn’t slowed him down during his best lap.

  As the cars pulled away, Brad’s voice crackled in her ear. “Remember, you can’t win the race on the first lap, but you can lose it. Keep your cool and follow the car in front of you. Chas will probably try something stupid, so keep one eye on him.”

  “So you want one eye on Jacobsen ahead of me and the other on Chas behind me. Do you want a tap dance routine, too?” The parade lap was slow enough to let the tires warm up and get the drivers settled in. She could afford to joke now. From the pace lap on, it would be all business.

  “I was thinking more of a salsa or tango. Go get ‘em, short stuff.”

  Brad’s use of her old nickname made her smile. Sure it was juvenile, but it also brought to mind memories of good times before the crash. If Brad was thinking about her and those fun-filled days, that had to be a good sign, right?

  The speed of the field increased through the pace lap, and by the time the green flag waved, all eighteen cars were going flat out. Gabrielle followed the car ahead of her through a wide turn one and a narrow turn two to slot into third position. As she emerged from turn nine, Chas attempted to overtake her, but she shut the door on him at the next turn and kept him there until lap twenty-one, when Brad instructed her to pit.

  The split-second she stopped, the car’s hydraulic air jacks lifted the machine high enough to remove the tires. A few seconds later, after the tires had been replaced, the car dropped back to the surface. The wait for Scott to wave her forward seemed to take eons, as other cars that had pitted were returning to the circuit. Finally, Scott waved her forward, and she burned rubber to get back into the action.