by Davida Lynn
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By
Dedication
Title Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
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Call To Action
About The Author
Racing Hearts
Copyright © 2017 by Davida Lynn. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Also By Davida Lynn:
Outlaw Country
Kitt Wade: Country Outlaw
The Rising Sons Universe:
Rising Sons - The Virtues Series:
Book One: Hope
Book Two: Faith
Book Three: Charity
The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club
Rising Sons - The Davis Chapter
Book One - Patience
Book Two - Temperance
Book Three - Reverence
Detroit Heat:
Book One: Kade’s Rescue
Book Two: Rico’s Recovery
Book Three: Jonah’s Rescue
Standalone Work:
Brutal
Visions of Tomorrow
With Elliott Kane:
Star
Thick Rick
Acknowledgements
To Fran and Penny, Donna and Jill, and all the ladies who just want their engines revved…
Racing Hearts
“The month of May. That might not mean much anywhere outside of Indianapolis, but for one month out of the year, Indiana is the racing capital of the world. The Indy 500 is quite possibly the most important race in all of motorsports. It is equal parts legend, future, and fantasy.
“There was a time when people could build a car out of scrap in their garage and bring it to the track. If it could qualify, it could race. If it could race, it could win and forever be remembered. That’s the embodiment of the American dream.
“In today's uber-corporate world where money it's far more important than talent, some say that the American dream is dead. I say no. It might be on life support, but it sure as hell ain’t dead.”
The reporter nodded along as Chance Pierce answered the question about why the Indy 500 was so damn special. He was pulled into Chance’s energy and passion, a wide grin appearing on his face, causing Chance to smile himself. Anybody who interacted with Chance got that look on their face. They knew they were talking to a future winner and champion.
“Just one more question, Chance.”
He shrugged and gave the camera a cocky, sensual look. “For you I’ve got all morning.”
“What’s the chance that you’ll be drinking the milk at the end of those two hundred laps?” The man gave Chance a wink and a nod. They loved making puns when it came to his name.
For a second, he didn’t answer. He knew the odds were slim to none, but reporters didn’t want to hear that. Thirty-two other racing drivers would be clawing their way around the oval at two hundred and thirty miles an hour, and that would only be if he qualified. Chance knew that if he could get a ride, he could qualify.
The interview wouldn’t just be on the local news that night, it would be all over the world. Chance did two things well: drive, and sell himself. “What are the chances? There’s only one Chance, and I will win the race.”
Silence. Utter silence, like the vast and empty grandstands sucked up all sounds they came in contact with. Come race day, they do the opposite, with a crowd pushing five hundred thousand cheering so loudly that the drivers can hear it over their engines. Eight hundred horsepower beasts that launch the cars around the track at nearly two hundred and fifty miles an hour, and the crowd can still overpower them.
The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was two and a half miles of history, legacy, and a shot at eternal glory. From above, the straights and four banked turns make the track look like a rectangle with curved corners. Just about every free spot along the track is skirted with grandstands, and just about ever seat is full on race day.
Chance stood looking down the more than half a mile front straight, his mind playing a rags-to-riches story out before him. His overconfidence in the interview was humbled as he stood on that hallowed track. He knew it was a million to one shot, but he stood and dreamed anyway.
Million to one if I can get a damn ride, that is.
“Y’ain’t supposed to be here.” A slow drawl made Chance spin around. The old man was not more than five feet tall, with more cracks scattered across his face than a long-dried riverbed. The yellow button-up only added to the caricature. Despite his fragile look, his eyes were hard. Chance saw a glint of light reflect off of the man’s badge. He was a senior member of the safety patrol. They may not have had much real power, but the old man did have a radio and the ability to get him banned from the track.
“Didja hear me? Y’ain’t supposed to be here.”
I sure as hell am, Chance thought, a smile creeping onto his face. Turning his attention back to the race track, Chance said, “Just getting in a little quiet time.”
“Well,” the old man chuckled like it was a joke, “Go on an’ get your quiet time somewhere else. Y’ain’t allowed out here. No official track activity today, anyway. Only engine’s you’ll hear are gonna be haulers.”
With a nod, Chance swung a foot over the low concrete wall that would separate the cars from the crew on race day. It looked barren and so spacious with no equipment or war wagons in place, but Chance knew that the place was worse than the 405 during the race.
Once the old man was satisfied and Chance was past some gate that was now locked, “Ain’t nothin’ to do but wait ’til things start up, now, ya hear?”
“What time do the haulers roll in?” Chance had plenty of work to do, and it all started with the haulers.
Annoyed at Chance’s question, the yellow-shirt pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He held it close to his face, squinting in the dim light. Chance pulled out his phone and fired up the flashlight app.
“Christ, son. I’m near-sighted, not blind. Get that shit outta my eyes.” The old man turned away, his annoyance growing into something closer to disgust.
Chance remembered being in awe of the yellow-shirts when he was a kid. They practically ran the track. A friend of his dad’s had brought him to the 500 when he was six, and it had blown his young mind. They walked through the garage area, seeing drivers up close, just like they were real people. His favorite driver had won the race, and from that day on, racing was the only thing on Chance’s mind. He got older and made just enough room in his life for women, but gasoline ran through his veins.
“Six thirty. That’s when the haulers start rolling in. Now, get on outta here until then. I ain’t gonna walk you all the way to the museum, but that’s where I expect you to head, y’understand?” The words were stern, but Chance saw a bit of the devil in the old man’s eyes.
With a chuckle, he nodded. “I’ll head straight for the museum, sir.”
“You’re damn r
ight, sir.”
With that, the old man shuffled off towards the dimly lit pagoda that stood eleven stories tall at the start finish line. Chance shook his head. The track was filled with characters, men and women who remembered the old days, when it was dangerous and a sport for heroes.
A question from the interview the night before gave Chance pause.
“We all know you don’t have a ride, so what’s the plan?” It haunted him as he watched the sun start to paint the eastern sky.
He had been a rookie, as green as they come when he first slid into the cockpit of his first IndyCar. The first practice session ended with Chance’s car slamming hard into one of Pocono’s three banked turns. The team managed to put the car back together, working long into the night to get it ready for the race. He started dead last.
His race engineer gave him a simple strategy. “Only drive fast enough to keep from getting disqualified. I don’t care how many times the leader laps you, I don’t care who wants to race with you, and I don’t give a god damn how much talent you think you have. If you wreck this car, you’re done. Not just with this team, not just with this season, but with this sport. You are the risk that no one wanted to take. Got that, Chance?”
Loud and clear.
He finished the race dead last, which was just out of the top ten because of attrition and one major wreck that took out seven cars. Chance knew that he could push the car faster. He liked the setup, and it felt good beneath him. In some ways, he felt like a boxer paid to throw the fight. He didn’t talk to anyone after the race, not his engineer, not the owner, not the media. After everything he had done to get into the sport, part of him felt cheated.
A smarter man might have understood the opportunity he was getting. A smarter man might have towed the line. Chance wasn’t those men.
The second-to-last race of the season was a brand new street circuit that wound through South Boston. Chance wasn’t well-known for making anything but left-hand turns. He made it his mission to prove them wrong. It was a brand new course, so for the most part, all the racers were equal.
He pushed through from start to finish, ending up sixth. Lentz Brothers Racing scored their first points of the season, Chance his first ever, and his name was all over the racing world overnight.
It took me fifteen years to become an overnight sensation…
It didn’t last for Chance, though. Everyone had high expectations going into Sonoma, the last race of the season, a race where the points scored were doubled. After tangling with another rookie at the start, Chance struggled with an ill-handling race car for nearly two hours.
Lentz Brothers lost their title sponsor, and they pulled out IndyCar over the off-season, leaving Chance without a ride. He hoped his hard charge in Boston would be enough to secure a ride with someone. Hell, Team Kedzie had four cars running, but no other teams could scrape together the cash for one?
The first race of the season came and went, with Chance nowhere to be found. An announcer mentioned him once or twice, but the name faded into obscurity fast. Chance wouldn’t let that happen.
Chance leaned against the cinderblock wall of the bathroom. Even from there, he’d hear the haulers rolling into the infield. Laying his bag on the sink, he pulled out a toothbrush and a disposable razor. Brushing his teeth was uneventful, but the cold water and empty soap dispenser did nothing to help him out shaving the two days of scruff from his face.
After checking his face for missed spots, Chance decided his skin couldn’t take any more abuse, so he gave up. A splash of cold water on his face, and he grabbed for his white t-shirt. His hair dripped water down onto his face, and he ran his fingers through, wishing he’d grabbed a comb before heading to the track, wishing he had a comb in the first place.
One last check in the mirror, and then Chance loaded all of his possessions back into his duffel bag. He wedged the previous day’s shirt into the side, over the small lock box.
As the deep sound of eighteen-wheel haulers rumbled up through the concrete floor, Chance zipped up his bag, containing everything he owned along with fifty-five thousand dollars in cash - maybe enough to buy himself a seat.
It had to be enough.
The shirt was far too big for her. Heather already thought she was going to look like a banana, but at least a fit banana that worked out and ran half marathons. Heather kept reminding herself that it was just a one-month gig, and none of her friends came to the racetrack, anyway. Once the Indy 500 was over, she’d have enough money saved up to make it through the summer until grad school and her grant money began.
“Name?”
Heather yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth in time. The woman behind the check-in counter gave her a sour look.
“Heather Vaughn.” Another one came, and Heather caught it in time to cover her mouth.
“Get used to it, sweetheart. If you’re working the parking lot, your mornings are only going to get earlier.” The woman had a smoker’s voice, and a pessimist’s smirk.
It’s not that Heather wasn’t a morning person, but four thirty wasn’t morning. That might as well have been in the middle of the night.
Giving the best smile she could manage in the pre-dawn hours, Heather said, “I’ll survive. Is there some coffee, though?”
The woman tilted her head, directing Heather to a small, worn and torn coffeemaker sitting on the cracked laminate counter by her side. “The makings are underneath. Don’t be expecting Starbucks quality or nothing.”
Oh, don’t worry. Heather tried to keep a positive attitude, but all of her mental energy was focused on keeping her eyes open. She reminded herself that a job is a job, and every hour was more money going into the graduate school fund. She would look back on the random jobs with a sense of whimsy as she laid beside her Olympic-sized pool. Or, if she played her cards right, one day she might be able to move into an apartment complex with a communal pool. Even that would be the life.
Heather brewed the coffee, and even though she could smell the bitter scent of every pot that had come before, the caffeine was better than nothing. After a healthy dose of powdered creamer, she took her Styrofoam cup and waited for the first day briefing to begin.
Heather insisted on being early, even if it was pre-dawn. Finally, the multitude of other yellow-shirts began to trickle in. Heather looked for someone, anyone, close to her age, but everyone looked either older or younger. She didn’t feel like spending much time with eighteen year-olds, especially the crowd of three squawking girls that came in, headphones around their necks.
A few guys looked to be about her age, good-looking ones, too. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad waking up extra early if she got to meet a cute guy or two along the way. Her friend Josie always joked that the best way to save money was have a guy take you out for dinner every night of the week.
One in particular caught her eye. He had sharp blue eyes that cut right through the room. As he turned to fish a yellow shirt from the long Z rack, Heather got a good look at his body. He had tattoos up and down his toned arms. She also got a good glimpse of his tight ass in his jeans. His hair was slicked back, and he had a beard that made her picture him as a lumberjack. It was sad to see him throw the frumpy yellow button-up over the tight white wife-beater that showed off his muscles and tattoos, but at least they could suffer in yellow silence together. He didn’t look nearly as forlorn about it as Heather.
She wasn’t a fan of making the first move, but sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. She pulled an empty Styrofoam cup from the stack and was about to offer him a cup of black gold when the cranking woman behind the counter spoke up.
“Alright, I think everyone is here, so we’ll get started.” She looked around the room with an eyebrow raised, as if she was already disappointed in what she saw. The woman pulled off her glasses and let the drop around her neck, held there by a multi-colored, beaded chain.
She gave everyone a last withering look, like a school marm daring them to speak. “You’re all
on parking enforcement, right? Right.” She didn’t pause a second. “We’re going to be directing cars to park. Sounds easy? Not when there’s no lines and the fields are bumpy as hell. God only gives us challenges we can handle.” She gave a laugh bitter enough to curdle that powdered creamer. “If your last name is A through K, report to Evan Kleeve after the meeting.”
A man to the left of chain-glasses woman raised his hand.
“L through S see me, and T through Z, you’re with Rob Martelli.”
Heather scanned the front of the room, but Rob Pickford was nowhere to near as eager to be identified. Heather looked around her, but didn’t see a hand in the air.
Even before Heather turned around, she knew it would be him. Good luck? Bad luck? That was Heather's kind of luck, the kind you couldn't really nail down. Of course she'd be working with the hot guy. No, not working with, working under.
She clenched her jaw. Any ideas about making the first move just flew out the window. The temperature dropped ten degrees.It was like a cloud drifting over the Sun. He was a supervisor.
You're not here for a hookup. You're here to put money away. Don't forget that. She did try not to forget, but after getting a good look at him, it was going to be hard for her to resist. Not only was he hot, but he was going to be her boss? Now that was a bad combo. Heather always had a thing for authority figures. It was undergrad all over again.
Forcing her eyes from Rob, Heather turned back to the chain-glasses woman who apparently continued to run the meeting for who-knew-how-long. If she couldn’t keep her mind off of him, Heather was doomed to repeat history, and that was something she couldn’t afford. Her financial plan was only one part of the grander one, and a relationship burning down in flames wasn’t in the plan. Even still, Heather’s mind danced with the fantasies. He had muscles, he had tattoos, and he had that mouthwatering power that Heather had craved in the past.