Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1)

by Michelle Irwin

  When I came down Conrod Straight, I overtook a Ford, which put me in third position overall and still outright first. My breathing steadied as I felt the car fall into a comfortable rhythm. It seemed impossible that we could lose, but I didn’t allow myself to get too cocky. Not with my form, and certainly not at the notorious Bathurst.

  Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. One, two, three, four. Hard to the left. Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting and Reid Park. Past McPhillamy and into the skyline. Breeze through the Esses into the Dipper. Soft right. Hard left around Forrest Elbow. Race down Conrod Straight.

  Eden had been right about the track. By the ninth lap of my second stint, the bitumen was bone dry and the teams that had gambled on the rain staying were scrambling to the pits to change back onto slicks. I used the time to push even further ahead. Eden’s voice squawked over the radio, telling me that I had just achieved the fastest lap time of the day. If I didn’t have to keep both hands on the wheel, I would have given a fist pump in celebration. Things were finally going my way.

  I was celebrating the small victories when I came across the top of the mountain again, across Skyline. The glare from the sun reflected in the top corner of my windscreen and I was blinded. Not by the light, but by the vision which the sun called to mind.

  Alyssa.

  My heart stopped and my eyes slammed closed.

  Smiles and laughs; the sun glinting off her watch as we kept an eye on the time.

  I could almost hear her voice bouncing around the car, laughing over some ridiculous shit we’d done during the day. We’d been so happy. So innocent. So fucking naive and stupid.

  The memory was from one of the days we’d ditched school to hide out in our park. With a gasp, I swallowed oxygen down into protesting lungs. My hands shook and tremors raced through my fingers and into the wheel.

  My stomach clenched as I remembered just how beautiful she’d been. She didn’t have supermodel looks, she had something better. An honest to goodness girl-next-door quality that shone through from within and made her ten times sexier than any over glossed supermodel could ever be. The truth was, as bad as the visions of Alyssa’s red-rimmed eyes were, the happy ones were worse. They became tangible reminders of how much she’d once meant to me, and I almost didn’t want to suppress them.

  With two more gulping breaths, I forced my eyes open and pushed the thought away. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, but it was already too late.

  Though it’d been mere seconds, I’d been in my own world—my past—for too long and hadn’t prepared to take the turn before falling into the Esses. I had no time to do anything but adjust the angle of my car as it smashed into the concrete barrier with a teeth-rattling bang. I prepared myself in the only way I could for a second crash as the car ricocheted off the wall, spun across the track, and then smashed into the side of a passing car. The sound of crunching metal and squealing rubber filled the space around me, but I could do nothing but hold on and hope for the best. My car lurched sickeningly toward the wall again, shunting hard into the concrete and rocking me into the hard surface of the door.

  By the time I came to a rest, I was angled nose into the wall in a stationary car.

  Unable to move, I panted as I struggled to comprehend just what had happened, aside from the fact that I’d crashed—that part I got loud and fucking clear. Closing my eyes, I mentally ran through my body to ensure I wasn’t too badly injured. I wiggled my fingers and my toes and was relieved when everything did what it was supposed to. Except for my heart racing at a million miles a minute, and the fact that I couldn’t breathe down nearly enough air to stay in control, I was okay.

  My eyes snapped to the rear-view mirror when I heard the sound of protesting tyres.

  Shit!

  Another car, flying down from Skyline, hadn’t seen me until it was too late. Although the driver was braking hard, he wasn’t going to be able to stop or avoid crashing into me. I was too far out on the road. Waiting for the impact was maddening. It was as if time had stopped as I sucked down a breath and prepared for another jolt.

  When time seemed to have restarted, it jumped to fast forward. The car slammed into the back of mine hard enough to lurch my whole body forward. My teeth smashed together, the impact rattling my skull until stars exploded behind my eyes. I said a silent thanks for the HANS device and harness holding me in place.

  The nose of my car ploughed farther into the wall with a loud crunch before the tail lifted and spun my car again. The motion tossed me around like a rag doll as my car was hit once more. I finally came to a rest with the passenger side of the car hard against the barrier.

  I risked a glance around to see two other damaged cars parked close to mine. The officials had the yellow flags out at last, and I had no doubt the safety car was already on its way around the track. At least it meant it was unlikely any other cars were going to join the pile-up.

  “What the hell, Declan?” Eden’s voice admonished me. “Danny’s going to have your arse for this.”

  Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know.

  I smacked the steering wheel hard before scrambling out of the wreck. The car was totalled. The once sleek red and black exterior now a mangled mess of broken glass, ripped stickers, exposed metal, and broken plastic.

  I guess I win the record after all. Go me!

  In frustration, I kicked the door. A sharp ache echoed up my leg.

  “Fucking shitter of a fucking bastard of a fucking car!” I screamed as I ignored the pain and kicked the car again.

  I knew I was supposed to leave the track immediately to avoid further injury, but I couldn’t resist kicking the car a few more times to vent my frustration.

  Finally, after a few more, “Fucks,” “Fucking hells,” and kicks for good measure, I climbed over the barrier.

  Even though it was clear I was okay, I headed for the medics for clearance, ripping off the sleeve on my race suit as I went. Three of them came over to me and ran me through a series of concussion tests and other bullshit. Even though my ankle still ached from kicking the car, and a pain niggled along the right side of my body, I refused to tell them. I’d ice whatever I needed to when I got home, and deal with the rest later. I didn’t have time for any of it. I just wanted to be gone. Not just from the car, but from the track. The team. The whole place. My life in general. The farther away, the better.

  Eden was right, as usual. Danny was going to own my arse over the crash.

  Fucking Alyssa “small town” Dawson. If it wasn’t for her, none of this shit would have happened.

  “Reede!”

  I rolled my eyes at the sound of another driver’s voice behind me—Hunter Blake, with Ford’s Wood Racing. Ignoring the ache in my ankle, I walked faster to escape him. I couldn’t deal with his bullshit.

  Obviously uninjured, he covered the distance between us faster than I could walk. Grabbing on to my shoulder, he spun me around. “What the fuck was that?”

  I shoved him off. “Go fuck yourself, Blake.”

  “You had to pull that crap didn’t you? What’s that, six in a row now?” His eyes narrowed.

  “What the fuck do you care?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about your performance issues, until they affect me. They’re affecting me, so you better fucking watch—”

  “Hunter.” His name was barked in a sharp tone by a unique voice on the circuit. Paige Wood, the owner of Wood Racing. She was a relatively new team owner, having taken over from her father when he retired, but she ran a tight ship and her team was second only to Sinclair. “Back to the pits.”

  Like the little lapdog he was, Hunter sneered at me once more and then spun around and retreated.

  Instead of turning to follow him, Paige came up to me. Her short blonde hair was pristinely coiffed, and despite her garish make-up she was kind of pretty. The team polo she wore showed the benefits of her fantastic surgeon—she was full in all the right places. All in all, she wasn�
�t bad looking, for an older woman. A wild cougar displaying her true colours, and definitely someone I wouldn’t say no to bedding if the offer arose. “Mr. Reede.”

  I nodded. “Mrs. Wood.”

  She chuckled, a throaty laugh which was clearly designed to be seductive. “It’s Ms and please, call me Paige.”

  I nodded, and waited impatiently for her to get to her point.

  “That was an unfortunate incident on the track.”

  Raising one eyebrow, I scoffed at her. “Unfortunate?”

  She stepped closer to me, brushing her hands through the front of my hair.

  With an eyebrow raised at the overfamiliar touch, I reached out and captured her wrist before lowering her hand back to her side.

  A sly, challenging smile lit her lips. “Well, it wasn’t exactly deliberate, was it? What else can it be called besides unfortunate?”

  There were a hundred other things I could have called it, but I wasn’t going to say them all. In fact, I was surprised how calm she was considering she’d lost a car in the tangle.

  “You’re not injured I hope?” she purred as she trailed her gaze over my body.

  Glancing down at my ankle, I shook my head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I assume Danny isn’t going to be very happy with you?”

  I barked a laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

  She chuckled again, another throaty sound which echoed into my cock. “Well, maybe it’s time you and I had a little chat about things?” She brushed her hand over my shoulder. “I like to give my boys extra-special attention.”

  I smirked at her. The attention she was lavishing on me certainly gave me something positive to concentrate on rather than the shit I was going to have to deal with back at Sinclair’s pits. Some of the dealings I’d had with her in the past were a little less than desirable, and I had no interest in joining her team, but there was something about having the undivided attention of a woman who clearly looked after herself. Something told me she’d be a firecracker in the sack too.

  “How about we have dinner sometime?” she said as she brushed her fingers through my hair again. “Talk about your future.”

  “I’m locked in with Sinclair for another year,” I said. Assuming he doesn’t fire my arse. “So I’m not sure what there is to talk about.”

  Another one of her throaty chuckles slipped past her lips. “Even if you’re locked in for twelve months, there’s plenty to discuss. I’d do almost anything to get you under me.”

  There was no missing or confusing the double entendre in her words. “Maybe it’s worth having that chat one day then.”

  She brushed her fingers over my cheek. “Later then.”

  I turned around to go back to the pits, but stopped when I saw Hazel Sinclair—sweet Hazel, Danny’s wife—staring wide-eyed at me in disbelief. When I gave her a wave to let her know I was okay, she frowned and turned away. It was a sign of the things I would be facing when I went back into the pits.

  Fuck that shit.

  CHAPTER FOUR: GETTING AWAY

  INSTEAD OF REPORTING back to the pits to deal with the punishment I knew was coming, I fucked off. I climbed into my Monaro and drove straight back to Sydney.

  The press would probably have a fucking field day at my expense, especially the snooty brunette reporter I’d spurned during the midrace interview. I didn’t want to face them, or any of the drivers I’d taken out in my wreck. There were five of them who wanted my arse for the crash—Morgan more than any other. I just didn’t see the point in hanging around the track long enough to get grilled, beaten, and investigated.

  Or worse: fired.

  My weekend was over by that point anyway. There was no way the boys would get the twisted mess that used to be my car back on the track. Which meant I wouldn’t be getting back into the car for any reason, and unfortunately, neither would Morgan. I had little doubt he was already hunting down the pliers to follow through on his threat.

  Only bad things waited for me back at the pits. If Danny was going to give me the sack, it was going to be easier to deal with later—after everyone cooled off. Hopefully in a private meeting where my dirty laundry wouldn’t be aired all over the TV. I really didn’t need my shame to be any more public than it already had been. It was almost a certainty that I would cop a fine for my outburst at the top of the track after I’d crashed. Short of a summary dismissal by Sinclair, it really couldn’t get much worse for me.

  Besides, by the time I’d finished with the paramedics, I barely gave a flying fuck what else happened to me. I was so far beyond caring about anything. All I wanted to do was get wasted and get laid. It didn’t even have to be in that order.

  I drove straight home. Throughout my drive, my phone kept ringing, but I steadily ignored it, hitting the end button on the steering wheel. There was no way I wanted to talk to anyone. It didn’t matter who it was, they’d only destroy the little that remained of my sanity. When the caller still didn’t take the hint, I turned the phone off completely.

  After I’d parked the Monaro beside my Prado, I called a taxi so that I could have a good night without worrying about any of my cars being left unattended in the city. The trek from the garage to my upstairs bedroom had never felt longer. Weariness weighted my limbs and made each step difficult. The only thing that kept me moving was the promise of a drink at the end of the effort.

  I jumped straight into the shower. Once the water was cascading around me, I thought about the accident and shuddered. I’d been in so many lately: six crashes from six starts. It wasn’t possible to grow accustomed to it though—at least, I hadn’t. Despite all of the safety precautions, there was always one instant where I wondered whether I would survive the impact. Somewhere between the brakes squealing and the metal crunching, my heart stopped beating. It only started again when I could feel my teeth aching and my brain swimming from the impact. As if reminded of the ache by the memory of the crash, my ankle niggled and my chest protested. I’d have to ice it before long, but that was something I could do later.

  My body trembled as the adrenaline that had carried me through the three-hour drive home wore off.

  I needed a drink.

  Badly.

  I couldn’t think of anything else that would get rid of the shakes or the memories. I didn’t bother washing my hair, it could go another day. I did wash my balls though, twice in fact, revelling in the fact that Morgan couldn’t get his rusty pliers near them as long as I avoided him. It was more a precaution though. I wanted to make sure they got some special attention tonight from some lucky chick. Between the need to let off steam and Paige Wood’s casual teasing, I needed to get off.

  As I washed off the soap, I debated a quick wank to alleviate the pressure before going out; something to tide me over until I could find some little cutie willing to fulfil my wishes. The issue was, there was only ever one image which could get me off that way, and I definitely didn’t want to be thinking about her just then. Not so soon after she’d caused me to crash. Again.

  Turning off the water, I shoved open the door and grabbed a towel from the rack nearby. While I was towelling off, I caught sight of my own reflection and scowled at myself in disgust.

  What have you become? You’re fucking pathetic.

  I threw the towel at the mirror, and turned to leave the room to find an outfit that was guaranteed to help me score. Black satin boxers were my staple item for a night out, and over the top I threw on a pair of slacks that did nothing to hide any boner I would have. I topped it off with a collared shirt that had sleeves easy enough to roll up to show off my arms—that always seemed to drive women crazy. I usually would have thrown on a team shirt, but I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that I might no longer be part of Sinclair Racing.

  My solution to the whole situation was simple. I was going to do what I always did: hit the town, get absolutely shitfaced, and find some pussy to bury myself in. The problems would still be there in a day or two, but at leas
t I could get some semblance of relief before I had to face them.

  The taxi arrived while I was still getting dressed, but I just waved at the driver through the window to let him know I was aware that he’d arrived and then finished what I was doing. He could wait five minutes; it wasn’t like he wasn’t getting paid after all. Before I left, I downed a shot of whiskey to get a jump on things, and then grabbed a Corona from the fridge for the road.

  Within half an hour, I was being ushered into the VIP room of my favourite club, Firebird. I loved it more than most clubs because I felt at home there. The whole place was themed with a garage motif. The sign out front was a bonnet from a Firebird, complete with phoenix, secured to a chrome bumper in front of an old roller door. Inside was more of a typical nightclub, with an ambiance aimed at privacy and secret deeds. The music was always loud, the drinks were always flowing, and the women were always loose. It was the perfect place to disappear and satisfy my cravings for booze and a wet pussy to sink myself into.

  The VIP area was set up better than most I’d seen. Lining the edges of the space were six private booths, each with a set of black satin curtains that could be drawn for a little extra privacy. It meant I could take what I needed without having the hassle of bringing any girls back to my house. It certainly saved a taxi fare and awkward conversation in the morning.

  I secured my booth, ensuring I had one regardless of how many people were allowed past the velvet rope, and then ordered a drink. Once I was comfortable, I sat back to scope out the talent.

  There were three blondes, four brunettes, and a redhead. That meant my choices were instantly narrowed from eight to four. I couldn’t do brunettes. I’d tried, a few times actually, but I just . . . couldn’t. They’d all been absolutely fine pieces of arse too. It was just that every time I saw one of them sucking my cock, or bent over in front of me, I’d pictured Alyssa. And I couldn’t picture her as one of these skanks—as some random piece of tail to use, abuse, and recycle. She was special.

  The redhead and her blonde friend were dancing rather closely together on the dance floor. When she spotted me watching her, a smirk broke across her lips and their dancing grew even more risqué. I necked my beer and drank, all without taking my eyes off of the pair of them.