DECLINE
DECLAN REEDE: THE UNTOLD STORY
(Book 1)
Michelle Irwin
COPYright
Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Irwin
First Edition August 2015
Published in Australia
Digital ISBN: 978-0-9941746-8-0
Also available in paperback:
Print ISBN: 978-0-9941746-9-7 and
Cover Artist: Soxsationalcoverart
Cover content used for illustrative purposes only, and any person depicted is a model. Photography by: NSP Studios.
Cover models: Ashleigh Johnson and Jarah Armstrong.
Make-up by Al’4beauty by Carein.
Editing by: Hot Tree Editing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The following story is set in Australia and therefore has been written in UK/Australian English. The spelling and usage reflect that.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact:
Michelle Irwin P O Box 671 MORAYFIELD QLD 4506 AUSTRALIA
www.michelle-irwin.com
[email protected]
DEDICATION:
To those who’ve been with me since the beginning and have supported my books whether paranormal, contemporary, or anything in between.
Jenny, Jacky, Christy, Clare, Siobhan, Belinda, Jennifer, Amanda, Mandy, Donna, and everyone else in my (Para)normals.
To my husband for letting me live the dream and to my daughter for teaching me to follow my heart.
To the CS Crew, you know who you are and that you take support to the next level.
To everyone who came out swinging in support for Declan. Who wanted to see the results of his decision.
And finally, to those who like their hero with a potty mouth and dirty mind, I deliver to you Declan Reede.
Click here to get started: http://www.michelle-irwin.com/
CONTENTS:
GLOSSARY
CHAPTER ONE: BATTLE AT THE MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER TWO: ON REPORT
CHAPTER THREE: HAUNTED
CHAPTER FOUR: GETTING AWAY
CHAPTER FIVE: SURPRISE ENDINGS
CHAPTER SIX: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
CHAPTER SEVEN: UNDISCOVERED TERRITORY
CHAPTER EIGHT: REVELATIONS
CHAPTER NINE: PANICKED
CHAPTER TEN: NO COMPLICATIONS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WHISKEY AND ICE
CHAPTER TWELVE: NO STRINGS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A BIG EFFING COMPLICATION
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: REGRET
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: WAKE-UP CALL
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: IT’S IN THE PAST
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: LONDON
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MURPHY’S LAW
CHAPTER NINETEEN: DESTINATION
CHAPTER TWENTY: HOMECOMING
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CASTOR AND POLLUX
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: JUST A FACT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: TOMORROW
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: LET’S RIDE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SHRINK
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: TWO ON ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: UNFORGIVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: SPIRAL
ALSO BY MICHELLE IRWIN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GLOSSARY:
Note: This book is set in Australia, as such it uses Australian/UK spelling and some Australian slang. Although you should be able to understand the novella without a glossary, there is always fun to be had in learning new words. Temperatures are in Celsius, weight is in kilograms, and distance is (generally) in kilometres (although we still have some slang which uses miles).
Arse: Ass.
Bench: Counter.
Bitumen: Asphalt.
Bonnet: Hood.
Bottle-o: Bottle shop/liquor store.
Buggery: Multiple meanings. Technically bugger/buggery is sodomy/anal sex, but in Australia, the use is more varied. Bugger is a common expression of disbelief/disapproval.
Cock-ups: Fuck-ups/mistakes.
Diamante: Rhinestone.
Dipper: See S Bends below.
Formal: Prom.
Fours: Cars with a four-cylinder engine.
Mirena: An IUD that contains and releases a small amount of a progesterone hormone directly into the uterus.
Necked: Drank from.
Newsagency: A shop which sells newspapers/magazines/lotto tickets. Similar to a convenience store, but without the food.
Pap: Paparazzi.
Paracetamol: Active ingredient in pain-relievers like Tylenol and Panadol.
Phone/Mobile Phone/Mobile Number: Cell/cell phone/cell number.
Ricer: Someone who drives a hotted up four-cylinder (usually imported) car, and makes modifications to make it (and make it look) faster.
Rugby League: One of the codes of football played in Australia.
S bends (and into the dipper): Part of the racetrack shaped into an S shape. On Bathurst track, the dipper is the biggest of the S bends, so called because there used to be a dip in the road there before track resurfacing made it safer.
Sandwich with the lot: Sandwich with the works.
Schoolies: Week-long (or more) celebration for year twelves graduating school. Similar to spring break. The Gold Coast is a popular destination for school leavers from all around the country, and they usually have a number of organised events, including alcohol-free events as a percentage of school leavers are usually under eighteen (the legal drinking age in Australia).
Scrag: Whore/slut.
Slicks: A special type of racing tyre with no tread. They’re designed to get the maximum amount of surface on the road at all times. Wet weather tyres have chunky tread to displace the water from the track.
Skulled: (can also be spelled sculled and skolled) Chugged/Drank everything in the bottle/glass.
Sunnies: Sunglasses.
Taxi: Cab.
Thrummed: Hummed/vibrated.
Titbit: Tidbit.
Tossers: Pricks/assholes/jerks.
Tyres: Tires.
Year Twelve: Senior.
Wag: Ditch school.
Whinge: Whine/complain.
Uni: University/college.
CHAPTER ONE: BATTLE AT THE MOUNTAIN
MY CAR THRUMMED to the tune of the V8 under the bonnet. Each time my foot grazed the accelerator, an angry growl reverberated around me. The sound coursed through my body like fuel burning through my veins and sent exhilaration rushing through me. Black bitumen stretched out as far as I could see, filling my narrow field of vision with the only sight I needed to truly feel alive. The track, and my place on it, was all I cared about.
In the distance, crowds pressed against the fences, pushing each other and vying for the best position to see the start of the race. They would watch me leap from pole position and gain further advantage over all of those lined up behind me. There was no one in front of me. No one to come between me and my victory.
No one but me—my fucked-up mind.
Realistically, I should have been buzzing with confidence, like I had been the last time I’d lined up for this race, but I wasn’t. Instead, a constant loop of all the reasons I was going to fail ran through my mind, diminishing my
purpose and causing my hands to shake. I tightened my grip on the wheel and took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Another press of the accelerator—another roar from my beast—reminded me of the power I wielded. The whole scenario was almost achingly familiar. My last eight starts had been from pole position, but my last five races had ended in a DNF. Did. Not. Finish.
I couldn’t even get one damn car around a simple fucking racetrack in a series of clean laps. Not anymore. Not since Queensland Raceway. I couldn’t explain it exactly, but every time I’d felt close to victory, something clicked out of place in my mind and for a tiny moment everything fell down around me. It shouldn’t have been an issue; it was barely a lapse in concentration. It was a problem though, because it always happened when I was barrelling down a straight at speeds just shy of three hundred kilometres an hour. At that speed, even a fraction of a second was too long, especially if the straight ended with a sharp right corner.
This time, I was lined up for the fucking Bathurst 1000. A partnered endurance race. It wasn’t only my arse on the line this time. My co-driver Morgan McGuire’s championship hopes were resting on our joint performance. He’d already taken a moment before I’d climbed into the car to warn me of precisely what he would do to me if I managed to total the car this time. It involved a pair of rusty pliers and a part of my anatomy that I was particularly fond of.
I brushed my foot over the accelerator again, taking comfort in the snarl that issued. The car was the best it had ever been. No doubt that was partly in thanks to the complete rebuild it had needed after my last outing, but I chose to ignore that fact. I tried to focus on the roar of the engine and not on the fact that my team had informed me that I actually was close to getting one record this year.
According to Sinclair Racing’s bean counters, I was one wreck away from passing the all-time repair cost in a single season. Suffice it to say this wasn’t the record they, or I, wanted. In fact, Danny Sinclair and his board were so unhappy with me at the moment that it was highly possible one more wreck would see me lose not only the championship—which was all but out the window anyway—but also my career. And I fucking loved my job. I was living my dream.
It wasn’t just the fast cars and loose women that excited me, although they were a benefit. A distinct benefit. My mind wandered to replay the previous night’s activities with a pair of girls. There was nothing they hadn’t let me do to them. By the end of the night, I’d screwed both of them in every way possible before sending them on their way.
Swallowing heavily, I discovered that thinking about my night-time activities at that moment was not the best idea. I needed the blood to stay where it belonged—in my head—and not be rushing south to fill my cock. I shifted in my seat and focused on the track in front of me and the chatter of my team in my ear.
In mere minutes, I would have to wrestle a six-hundred-horsepower, thirteen-hundred-kilogram roaring beast around a racetrack. That couldn’t be done with a distracted mind. Especially not at Bathurst, a track that required the utmost concentration from even the best of drivers. Like I used to be. Before Queensland.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the track in front of me as the thought struck. Just twelve short months ago, I’d been at the top of my game. King Shit. No one was able to touch me when I was on the track. I had started the previous season as the dark horse, one that couldn’t possibly be a threat, but I’d finished as the youngest driver ever to win the championship. At my age it was a fucking miracle I was in the car at all, let alone being discussed as a possibility for lead driver within the next few years. Or at least I was being discussed. Now, after a string of incidents, I was practically a wash-up who couldn’t even finish a race. I was barely twenty-two, and my career was already hitting the skids. Unless I pulled a miracle—and a finish—out of my arse, I was finished. The chequered flag would drop on my career and I’d never see the track again. At least, not for Sinclair.
The drivers behind me revved their engines in anticipation of the start, reminding me of where my attention should have been. My mind raced with too many thoughts, and I tried to push them out, to focus only on the most important of them all. Number one: I needed to get away clean. Number two: I needed to keep my head on the track. At least that way I might have a fighting chance of finishing, which would be fan-fucking-tastic.
I can do it.
The thoughts I’d been trying to keep at bay, to keep off the track, started to flash in my mind. I beat back the vision, refusing to let her screw with my head before I’d even started.
Can’t I?
My head spun as the doubt crept in. I pushed it down and decided that maybe that’s all I needed to do: think positive or some shit. Be the change I wanted to see in the world and all that other bullshit.
Or maybe I should just try to stop over-fucking-analysing everything.
The simple truth was that I needed to spend more time focusing on the race and less time chasing the doubt that raced through the memories in my own fucking head. If I worked out how to do that, I might stand some chance of salvaging something of the shit that was left of my life. I just couldn’t see a way past my particular issue. At least none that I wanted to do.
A voice in my ear confirmed the flags were due to go up in less than a minute. I allowed myself one second of solitude and closed my eyes. Pressing my foot deep onto the floor, I listened to the throaty roar that issued from my beast. It blocked out all other sounds and left me with a moment of peace.
My eyes snapped open as I heard the familiar sounds signalling me that it was time to go. The instant the green flag was raised, I jumped. Wrestling the heavy car into line was never an easy task—stalling was always a concern—but I got away clean.
Ride on instinct.
Don’t think.
Don’t overthink.
You know what you need to do.
Just. Fucking. Do. It.
I would do it. It was only one thousand kilometres, and I didn’t have to drive them all. Morgan would have his shot—he would do it clean. The championship was his for the taking if he did his part. I just had to do mine.
Easy.
Starting in pole position had given me an advantage. I’d capitalised on that, and jumped from the starting line fast, which made it easy to stay at the front of the pack. My skills and awareness of the other drivers only helped to strengthen that lead.
My radio blared to life less than a minute after the start. The crew informed me of an incident in the first corner. It was already behind me, so I was ready to ignore it. There was only one thing I needed to know about it.
“No safety car,” Eden, the woman I put my faith in on race days, confirmed a second later, alleviating the lingering concern.
Her statement meant there mustn’t have been any major damage to the cars. That was all I needed to know. I didn’t listen to the rest of Eden’s information as she listed the cars involved. I didn’t really care. My only concern was the track ahead of me.
My fingers danced across the instruments. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. It was a rhythm I’d memorised years ago. The cadence of the movements matched the private symphony in my mind. Hard to the left. Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting. Reid Park. Past McPhillamy. The track, the car, everything came together to form a routine I’d done so often before that I probably could have done it with my eyes closed. Of course, taking the mountain for granted was asking for trouble.
Especially considering my recent performance issues.
In the last four years, I’d raced at the track a number of times. First, it had been in a production car, and then finally one year ago, I’d taken on the mountain in a Sinclair Racing V8. I’d fucking finished strong. My debut in a V8 and I’d finished second. It was almost unheard of for someone my age, but I was just that good. I’d driven with McGuire then as well. Buoyed by that win, as well as my other ones earlier in the season, I’d won the championship. I’d had such great fucking prospects. It was the s
tuff of legends—hall of fame worthy.
And then I fucked it up. Or more specifically, she did.
Refusing to linger on the thought, I focused on the track. I was coming into Skyline and I needed my head in the game. I’d learned from previous races and my many practise laps that with the time to enjoy it, the view from the top of the mountain was breathtaking. Under any other circumstances, I would have taken a moment to appreciate the scenery, but midrace it was more important to focus. To stay in the moment. To feel the car and let it guide me safely down the mountain. Especially with so much on the line. My balls being first on the list.
For a breathless moment, I hung suspended in the sunlight before the road dropped away beneath me and I paced through the S bends into the dipper.
A soft right. A hard left. Accelerate hard down Conrod Straight.
The start/finish line flashed away beneath me in a blur of white and black.
You’ve got this, I reminded myself as I exhaled a shaky breath.
One lap down. One hundred and sixty to go. Thankfully, I would only have to drive around half of those. Morgan would drive the rest so I just needed to get through the laps the only way I could at the moment—one at a time.
The track map was as strong in my mind as ever. Despite the fact that I’d driven Mount Panorama enough for it to be almost ingrained in my psyche, I’d spent hours studying it again over the last few days. It was never enough though; it was always a track that managed to surprise even the most experienced drivers.
I refused to let the doubt-filled thoughts creep in. I needed to keep my head focused on each lap, one at a time, and not think beyond my current stint. Thirty more laps, give or take, and then Morgan would take over and I would have nothing to think about while he drove his bit. I’d have nothing to do but watch on and be ready to take control again when the time came. Thankfully, the track in front of me was still empty and I’d already built a small buffer between me and second place.
Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1) Page 1