THE LAPS continued to drop away in a haze of sun, heat, and speed as the cars behind me jostled for positions. My radio squawked to life at regular intervals, directing me to watch my fuel, my tyres, or just issuing directions for the small adjustments I needed to make inside the car. I fell into the comfortable pattern of the track and felt my mind start to drift. Brown eyes filled my mind, even as I resisted the urge to think about her.
“Safety car, Declan. Bring her in.” Eden’s lilting voice shrilled in my mind, focusing me back on the track for lap thirty-one. “Morgan’s ready to go.”
Thank Christ.
All I needed to do was bring the car safely into the pits and then I was in the clear for roughly thirtyish laps as Morgan took control of the car. If he crashed, well, that was all on him. I briefly wondered if he’d let me anywhere near him with the rusty pliers if that happened.
Once the car was in the pits, I breathed freely again. The love I felt for the job was fast becoming a noose around my neck, dragging me down to the depths of doubt—and it was all her fault.
The changeover between drivers was hectic as usual, but I was free and had done a decent job increasing the lead by fractions of a second at a time.
I pulled off my helmet and shook my head before brushing my fingers through my hair to return some shape to the dark auburn mess. I would hate if anyone saw my trademark spikes flattened against my head in a terrible case of helmet hair. Or worse, for some damn pap to catch a shot of it. Even though I earned my pay on the track, I had a reputation among the ladies that I had to maintain. Morgan and I both did really. Although he’d been all but taken off the market, we were still the poster boys of the series. Women wanted us and men wanted to be us. With his surfer-style blond looks and the blue-eyed charm I’d been gifted with by my Irish heritage, we provided the perfect package to the sponsors.
There was a time where I’d had issues with posing for the magazines and other duties. Then I saw the benefits. Especially on shoots with other models—it was rare that I didn’t bring at least one of them home with me.
Knowing I had some free time, I headed into the garage to take a breather. As soon as I was clear of the immediate pit area, I unzipped my fire suit and pulled it loose. Freeing my arms, I tied the top half around my waist to give me some air. It was so fucking hot. Being October, the air temperature was easily over thirty degrees. On the track though—in the car—it had been closer to sixty. I grabbed my water bottle, downed it almost too fast, spilling some of it down my chest. Reaching for another, I was tempted to just pour the whole thing over my head before sitting to watch the race on the monitors.
By the time I was settled, Morgan had already pulled the car cleanly back onto the track and was working his way past the slower cars. He was a speed freak like me and, even though I would never admit it to his face, a fantastic driver. He had just the right balance of brains and balls to find success on the track. That was why he’d finished second behind me last year. He was older and more experienced—and the current lead driver for Sinclair Racing. If I had one or two more championships under my belt, our positions might have been different.
It was being fucking discussed.
But that was before Queensland Raceway.
Once, that track had been my main stomping ground. It was close to where I had grown up, was near where I’d gotten my start in karts, and also where I had eventually cut my teeth in the early stages of racing cars. I’d moved rapidly up the ranks while I was still in high school, before being offered a place on Sinclair Racing’s team. They were the elite Holden team in the ProV8 world.
Danny Sinclair, the team owner, had courted me onto his team by offering me a five-year contract for a lot of money. No, not just a lot—a shitload of money. More money than a suburban boy like me had ever expected to make in ten years or more. The only problem with the offer was that it had meant relocating to Sydney. Which meant leaving my friends and family behind and saying a final goodbye to her.
We’d already broken up by the time I’d got the contract, but it was still devastating to say that final goodbye. Seeing her that last night—the night it ended for good—it was clear the hurt we’d inflicted on one another the day we broke up was still so raw for the both of us.
After I’d moved to Sydney to join his team, Danny had told me that as soon as he’d watched me race, he’d wanted me to be part of his “family” and everything else had just been a formality. I started as a junior driver in production cars almost straight away. Within two years, I’d moved up the ranks and had been given the chance to drive as part of their V8 team. I had more than exceeded everyone’s expectations—I was just that damn good. Or at least, I had been. Until Queensland Raceway.
That was where I saw her again.
I had no idea what she was even doing at a race. She hated the sport. She’d always told me that she couldn’t understand the fascination boys had with their “toys.” Regardless, she’d been at that racetrack—my home track—mere metres away and separated from me only by a group of about twenty people. I’d wanted to speak to her so badly, but I didn’t want to force open old wounds for either of us. That was if she even still bore any scars.
We hadn’t spoken since I’d left for Sydney around four years earlier, and that meeting had been difficult. She’d tried to call, often in fact, especially in the beginning. I’d known that if I wanted to have a chance of making my career work I needed to avoid her. She was too small town for me, and her dreams would only drag me into a suburban life I would never be happy with. A clean break was the easiest option for her. For both of us.
Over time, her calls had slowed until, almost a year after I’d moved, they’d stopped altogether. Once the calls stopped, I’d almost been able to put her out of my mind for good. She still resided in my dreams and nightmares and in memories of both good and bad times—smiles and tears. Our past played out on instant replay every night, but other than that, she’d never crossed my waking mind.
Until Queensland Raceway.
Until I’d seen her in person once more.
She, Alyssa Dawson, the knobbly-kneed girl I’d loved, had blossomed into one hell of a woman. Her hair, mahogany brown and hanging to her waist, was silkier than I remembered it. My fingers twitched at my side as I thought about the feel of it tickling against my skin as we’d kissed. At some point, her hips and boobs had taken a womanly shape that her previously boyish frame had never hinted was even possible.
When I’d spotted her, it was clear that she was waiting for someone. Her gaze scanned the crowd at regular intervals. For half a second, I’d arrogantly assumed it was me. That maybe she’d come to beg for another chance. That she was willing to admit she’d been wrong and that my racing was a career after all.
With a satisfied smirk on my face, I’d begun to move in her direction. That’s when I saw him. When her lips split into a wide smile the instant the hulking figure headed in her direction, I knew she’d well and truly moved on and had no further interest in me. The guy cut an imposing figure, towering at least a head over most of the crowd as he walked toward her from the concession stand. He held a hot dog in each hand and had two cans of Coke balanced in the crook of one arm, which proved it wasn’t an accidental meeting.
His perfectly tanned face returned her grin before he planted a kiss on her lips and handed off her half of the food. Watching as their lips touched, my hands formed into fists at my side. It didn’t matter how brief their kiss had been, it hurt like a son of a bitch to witness. In that instant, I wanted nothing more than to pound him into the pavement. Not just because he’d kissed my girl.
She’s not yours anymore.
It was painfully obvious that she’d willingly come to watch a race with someone who wasn’t me and seemed to be enjoying herself even though she’d protested against the series the entire time we’d been together.
It was clear that it was love—she’d never once come to watch me race when we were together. A new emptine
ss clawed its way into my chest as I watched them sit happily together and chat as they ate. When they’d finished, she ruffled her fingers through his jet-black hair. With a laugh, he’d picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder, caveman style, while she giggled and pretended to protest. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to see, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pair.
I’d been the one to gouge a chasm in our relationship and walk out on everything we’d shared. I should have been happy for her. Instead, I felt like charging over to the fucker who’d claimed her heart and ripping him limb from limb before carrying her off myself. Maybe I could even show her some of the moves I’d learned in the time we’d been apart.
That was Queensland Raceway.
That was immediately before I climbed in the car.
That was the first race, ever, that had ended in a DNF for me.
That was why the former love of my life had become the bane of my existence. It was the memory of her that appeared and haunted me around the race track, leaching my concentration away for vital seconds at a time.
CHAPTER TWO: ON REPORT
WITH MY HEAD cradled in my hands, I tried to clear it of all thoughts of Alyssa. I tried not to think of her dark mahogany hair that curled at the ends and was almost unmanageable in the summer humidity of Browns Plains. It was vital I didn’t focus on the memory of her light honey-gold eyes, or the long black lashes that framed them. Any thought of her boobs—so well developed since I’d last seen her—were strictly forbidden.
“Declan,” a voice called.
I glanced up to see Gary, one of the pit crew, leading one of the roving pit reporters over to me. It wasn’t the normal TV guy, who was an ex-V8 driver himself and now provided expert commentary on the race. Instead, it was a pretty young brunette who wouldn’t have been out of place as a grid girl. I flashed her one of my winning smiles, even though she was officially off-limits—and not just because she was at my “workplace.” With a growing blush, she held up a mic and made it clear she wanted an interview before I went back onto the track. I nodded. It was part of the job after all—the part that sponsors paid for, in fact.
Standing, I slipped the arms of my fireproof suit back on and zipped it up. The reasons were twofold. First, I wanted to be ready to take control of the car as soon as the mini interview was over and Morgan had arrived back in the pits. Second, all of my sponsors’ badges were displayed prominently on my outfit. The more screen time I got them, the more they loved me. It was win-win.
The plump-lipped reporter—I probably should have known her name, it wasn’t the first time she’d covered a ProV8 race that season—was already talking to the camera by the time I made my way to her side.
“I’m here with Declan Reede,” she said before moving to cover the last inch of distance between us. Her boobs brushed my forearm as she talked. “Declan, how are you feeling about your chances today in light of your recent form?”
I bristled. Of course she had to bring that up. I chose to ignore most of the question and give the standard-issue response. “The car is feeling really good today. With a bit of luck and perseverance, I’m sure McGuire and I will both be on the podium at the end of the race.”
“How about you?” She twisted her body in a way that forced her boobs to brush across my hand. “Do you have anyone special cheering you on today?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at her. It was well known that Declan Reede did not have a personal cheer squad at any race meeting. I didn’t have a significant other—didn’t want one because it would only spoil my fun.
Instead of answering her, I checked the monitors. Morgan was just finishing lap sixty-two, and was being called back into the pit.
I was up. For a double stint at that—sixty-odd laps straight before handing it back over to Morgan to bring the car home. We’d agreed that would be the safest option; it was always sometime in the last ten laps that I choked . . . and crashed. I shuddered. Not today.
“So no special little lady here?” The reporter prompted when I didn’t answer.
It almost sounded like she was fishing for a no. Maybe she was hoping for a ride with a champion. If so, she would be sorely disappointed. I didn’t do brunettes, not anymore. It was my one rule when it came to selecting my “dates.” The fact that she was asking such ridiculous questions only made me less inclined to dance the horizontal tango with her.
I cast her a withering glare.
“I thought you were here to cover a race, not gather juicy titbits for Gossip Weekly,” I admonished before walking away, leaving her flustered and covering for the camera.
I’d probably get my arse kicked for being rude while we were live to air, but these rookie fucking reporters needed to learn that some questions were off limits. Especially by reporters with brown hair and big-arse doe eyes like the ones that haunted me on the track.
By the time I reached the pit area, it was clear that I’d been sitting in the corner of the garage for so long, not paying attention to anything but my meandering thoughts, that I hadn’t even noticed the rain setting in. I should have known, really. Rain at Mount Panorama during the Bathurst enduro was almost as regular as the race itself. That didn’t make it any easier to drive in though.
Unless the rain was a consistent downpour over the whole area, the track always ended up with dry patches. It happened because of way the bitumen stretched up over the mountain. That left all of the teams with a difficult choice: stay out on slicks and risk sliding all over the track if it’s too wet, or put on wet-weather tyres and risk chewing through the tread and slowing the car down if it’s too dry.
The decision came down to forecasting and the wrong decision could cost time later on. If we stayed on slicks and the rain continued we would need to pit that much earlier to change to wet weathers and vice versa. Luckily, we had Eden on our team. She had a knack for it, an innate ability to read a track. She very rarely got it wrong. I knew she’d already had a plan in place because she had the guys warming a fresh set of slicks. It seemed unlikely I’d be driving on a wet track for long.
I was flicking through the stats of Morgan’s last laps, checking for any information, when Eden darted to my side. Her willowy frame was flattered by the team shirt, and even though her curves were fairly boyish, the presentation did the sponsors proud. Black pants wrapped her long legs which only served to make her appear taller and thinner than she really was. She pulled her mic away from her mouth so that whatever she had to tell me didn’t accidentally get repeated to everyone.
“It’s going to be a bit wetter at first, but I think it’s clearing. You’ll hopefully be all right on slicks. You just gotta keep your head these first few laps and you’ll do fine. Watch yourself on Forrest Elbow.”
I nodded absently, running over the information I needed on the car’s handling and performance over the last few laps that Morgan had run.
“Dec,” Eden said.
I glanced up at her in confusion when she didn’t say anything further.
She grinned at me, her hazel-green eyes sparkling. With her sandy-brown hair pulled up away from her face and the giant headset on, the expression made her seem like an overgrown child.
“Relax out there,” she ordered. “You’ll do fine.”
I gave her a genuine smile in return. Sometimes, especially lately, it felt like she was the only one on the team who was on my side. “Thanks, Edie.”
I finished getting ready for my next drive and headed into position, ready to jump back in the car.
Minutes later, Morgan slid the car to a perfect stop and the frantic driver change occurred once more. The instant he was out, I climbed in, and set about reattaching everything and fastening my harness as fast as I could. The instant I’d finished, I clipped the window netting back into place and gave the thumbs up to let my crew know I was in and ready to go. I was acutely aware of the fact that most races were won and lost as much by fast pit stops and good strategy as by any actual driving. And of
course, by not crashing.
The instant the car dropped back to the ground, I pressed my foot to the accelerator. Despite my rush, I was careful to keep the speed limiter on—the last thing I needed was a stop/go penalty for pit lane speeding. When I reached the end of the pits, I exploded out of the exit and onto the track.
In that moment, at that speed, I felt invincible. Thanks to my original lead and Morgan’s perfect driving, we were currently in fifth position on track, but first overall after adjusting for compulsory pit stops. All I had to do was keep us there.
And so the dance began again.
CHAPTER THREE: HAUNTED
I’D BARELY REACHED Forrest Elbow on the first lap of my latest stint when I felt the tail start to slide. I hit the marbles on the edge of the track and struggled to retain control.
But I did. I got the car back where it needed to be, and it felt fucking fantastic.
Maybe I can do this after all.
I allowed myself to hope for a few seconds, but then my mind offered up a vision of her eyes. Red rims around honey-gold irises—the way they’d looked when I said goodbye a little less than four years ago. I shut down the images as quickly as I could when I felt my tail slide loose again. My rear kissed the side of a car attempting to come up my inside before I managed to right it.
My radio crackled to life and Eden’s voice came through my headset. “Watch it, Declan. Morgan’s asked me to remind you about the pliers.”
Focus.
Just think about the track ahead.
Concentrate.
Three more laps and I’d found my groove again. Despite the incidents at the top of the track, the lighter fuel load and drier track helped me keep the car straight. The distance between me and the other cars behind me grew.
Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1) Page 2