High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “Is it ready?”

  Benny raised his eyebrows. “Ready enough for you to win today.”

  Ronan tugged at his collar, his hair matted with sweat despite the cool temperatures in Austin.

  The man reached out a hand, his expression placating. “Don’t go off halfcocked.”

  Ronan gave him a final glare and strode toward the podium, helmet in hand.

  • • •

  Cass slumped in her padded seat, and Anderson leaned down with concern in his expressive blue eyes.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded. Spent. The excitement she’d felt watching him race in Brussels and Abu Dhabi was gone; terror had taken its place. She’d been frantic with worry and tension for the past hour. Now that he’d won, all the stress had dissipated, leaving her limp and chilled in the skybox. Cass’s gaze searched and held on Ronan smiling up there on the podium. Her attention then wandered to Maddux, and she couldn’t help but chuckle as Ronan directed the spurting bottle of champagne directly at him. The American’s smile slipped—for a split second she almost felt sorry for the man. It was obvious that second place was good for nothing to him.

  Anderson settled himself next to her. “Upset?”

  “We had a fight. I think it’s over. Which is ironic, considering I just hung up on a reporter who wanted to ask a few questions about being in police custody with Ronan. They’re going to harass me until they get their story.”

  “It’s a shame the press has run with it, but it’s all speculation, and the town sheriff is telling everyone it was a misunderstanding. It will blow over; don’t worry. ”

  Cass sighed. “How bad will I make things for him?”

  “His reputation is unassailable overseas. Now it is at any rate. And everyone loves a winner. Sure, the American press will latch onto it, but Europeans aren’t Texas fans, as you well know. They think Texans are the very devil incarnate.”

  Cass raised her brows. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yes. If anything, the PR machine will play it up and Ronan will come out of this unscathed—. the ‘victim’ of the American media and the Texas good old cowboy culture. They know just how to spin it.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less humiliating or less painful,” she said in an under voice, staring out at the tarmac track blindly. She’d doubted Ronan’s integrity on the sponsorship thing, despite everything they had, and all because of her insecurities. How dumb could she be?

  As far as the new technology in his car went, he wouldn’t race if it hadn’t checked it out. She was worrying for nothing, just adding to the litany of stupid things she’d done since she’d met him. Ronan wasn’t the kind of man to drive a car that could incinerate him and endanger all the other drivers. Good for him that his engineers had given him an eleventh hour shot. The crew at Silverstone had probably been working around the clock to have it ready for the end of the season.

  • • •

  He’d get nowhere with Pantech’s boss, Martin, that much was certain.

  There was a sponsor event—a celebration he was supposed to be headed for—but Ronan couldn’t bring himself to dress for it. Instead, here he sat in the white hotel robe on the sofa, staring at his hands.

  He wanted to win.

  Was that so wrong? After so many years as runner-up, this was still his year. He didn’t need the new technology to win. All he and Mitchell needed were a few points in Hockenheim.

  There was a knock on the door, and he groaned, fitting his head into his palms.

  Cass?

  He opened the door to Martin Spruce, Pantech boss.

  The man glanced down the hall, then pushed his way in. Ronan stepped back.

  “As you can see,” he gestured to his robe, “I’m not prepared for visitors.”

  Spruce crossed his arms. “This won’t take long.”

  Ronan straightened.

  “I understand you aren’t happy with the hybrid technology we’ve put in the car.”

  “I’m happy about the speed and the control; I’m less pleased by the idea that all the kinks haven’t been worked out and it’s prone to ignite.”

  “You’ve one more race, Ronan. One more to win it all for us.” The other man’s eyes blazed with intensity. “We deserve this. This sport isn’t just about one man—or any one man’s fears. Your job is to drive.”

  “Yes. Let’s talk about our jobs. My job is to drive my Formula One car to the outside edge of its limits. Your job is to provide me with a car that meets the safety parameters, rules, and guidelines set by our racing authority. Our job is to determine if the new technology is ready for prime time or to go back to the drawing board. My experience in the car at the end of the race indicates there are still problems with the new system. Significant problems. If it isn’t ready, I don’t race with it.”

  The other man snorted. “I don’t have a single person on this crew—no, on this team—who doesn’t want to win it all. You drivers.” He shook his head. “The arrogance.”

  “This isn’t a test track, Martin. I’m not the only one racing out there. Get it together without the danger of incineration, and we can keep it. I don’t shy away from modifications. And I want to win, too. Have you forgotten what happened to Gregor at Silverstone? I can assure you, I haven’t.”

  “What aspect of any of this business is safe? You want safe, be a bloody chartered accountant. I pick these people, from the engineers to the mechanics to the back office people, because they’re exceptional—people who will accept nothing less than success, who’ll go the extra mile. No matter the risk.”

  Martin took two steps toward the door. “We’ve come this far. I’m not going to let your fears jack it up,” he warned. “We’ll do whatever’s necessary to win at Hockenheim. Now get dressed and get downstairs and play your part.” He opened the door, checked the hallway, and was gone. The door snicked closed.

  One more race.

  One more.

  Ronan sagged against the wall. He needed sleep. Once the adrenaline fled his system, he was punchy—exhausted and disgusted. And goddamn it all, heartbroken.

  • • •

  Cass checked her phone. No texts from Ronan. No voicemail. No contact. Not that she’d expected it. Yesterday after the prelims, she’d left a voicemail apology, told him she’d like to talk before he left Texas, and wished him well in the race. Now that he’d won, she wasn’t above stalking him.

  Anderson was right. Either Ronan was an ethical person or he wasn’t. He was. Her gut was telling her he was.

  True to her prediction, the press situation was a nightmare, and the guilt was overwhelming. They’d spotted her in the hotel lobby returning from the track after Ronan’s win, and they’d followed her to her room, shouting questions at her. She’d been holed up here for the past three hours, and had to call down to the front desk when a reporter claiming to be room service had knocked repeatedly on her door. Only the memory of what her last bout of drinking had done was keeping her from the minibar. She’d have to leave at some point. There was only so much bad television she could stand. The news came on at 6:00 P.M., and she watched with a kind of horrified fascination as they’d discussed the outcome of the race and the alleged “arrest,” hinting some kind of cover up and suggesting Ronan had been intoxicated, too.

  There was still a part of her that couldn’t understand why he stuck around. Why he put up with her drinking, her nightmares, her fucking panic attack. Here was a guy who had a complicated job, a life of endless travel and tremendous pressure, yet he’d taken her on, with all her issues. And now look what was happening—because of her.

  Last night she’d had more nightmares. Thank God Ronan hadn’t been around to witness them. She’d spent most of the night afraid to fall back asleep—reliving the crash in endless vivid loops, unwilling to escape with her old friend booze, which seemed to be causing more trouble than it solved. And she had to apologize to Ronan. If the press was causing her this much trouble, she could only imagine how they were hounding
him. God. She’d track him down one way or another and make him listen to her apology.

  • • •

  Ronan dressed for the after-party. He still had a part to play until he could figure out how to proceed. What right did he have to decide risk? These were decisions Pantech-Windsor made—well above his pay grade. The whole damn thing was risky. There were continual modifications to all of the cars, not just his.

  The hybrid technology they were using was so brilliant, so cutting-edge, and best of all, legal so far. The vehicle with the new tech had passed all their post-race required tests with flying colors. Racing was having a field day, pitting him against Maddux. Sport fans loved a rabid rivalry, and they got an authentic one with him and the Texan. It played well in the press, the juxtaposition of him against Maddux: the levelheaded, blond Brit versus the dark, hotheaded Texan. Even their goddamn names lent themselves shamelessly to the mockery. “Hawes and Bates—just a letter away from hates.” The sport had even gained U.S. fans this season. Americans were late to F1, but according to his handler, they were as bad as the English in their addiction to tabloid journalism.

  His phone vibrated, and he grabbed it. Cass. His heart leaped, and he struggled to quash his excitement. She’d left a long, halting apology in his voicemail before the race. And he’d almost forgiven her for misreading his character. How could she think he would use her, even for a second? Nothing had hurt more than that, except perhaps his father’s betrayal.

  She’d texted “Congrats.”

  He replied, “Going to party in five. See you there?”

  “No. Media bloodthirsty. After?”

  “Back in room by 11,” he texted.

  “See you there.”

  • • •

  Two hours later he was desperate to escape. Knowing what was really happening with the car made the sponsor event unbearable. Between the veiled comments and the whispered conversations, it seemed everyone was onto this not-so-secret secret of the hybrid technology. He hoped to God the engineers could keep the damn thing together through the testing in Hockenheim.

  He pushed the elevator button and entered. The doors were closing when a hand stopped them.

  “Going somewhere?” Maddux stepped into the elevator.

  Ronan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Can’t stand the heat?”

  “Talking crap again?” Ronan jabbed the button for his floor.

  Maddux faced him. “How’s this for crap? Your tech isn’t ready for the big time, sport.”

  “Fuck off, loser.”

  “You’re out of the turns pretty damn fast on that accelerator—quicker than any of us. You sure it won’t fry you like it did Gregor in the preseason?

  Ronan maintained his silence.

  The elevator dinged its arrival at his floor. He shouldered his way past the American.

  “Hold up,” Maddux said, turning the corner and following him down the hall. Behind him the elevator dinged again.

  Ronan stopped. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Viv, perhaps?”

  Maddux laughed. “You’re still pissed about that? You didn’t want her, but no one else can have her. Is that it? Chill, dude, it’s nothing.”

  “She’s only with you to cause me pain.”

  “It’s worked pretty well,” the other man said softly. “Anyway, it’s over. “

  “Do I look like I care?”

  Maddux shrugged. “You’re the one who brought her up. Whatever, man. Women. That’s not what matters. What matters is what you’re doing out there. For God’s sake, this is the real deal, not a test track. You better be damn sure that your shit works, or you’re putting us all in jeopardy. I don’t plan to go out because I’m hit by a piece from your exploding car!”

  “That’s more like it. Always looking out for number one, aren’t you? Meanwhile you’re the real danger out there. A menace to all of us.”

  Ronan took two steps forward, putting himself inches from the scowling Maddux.

  “Because I want to win?” Maddux’s expression had gone from anger to confusion.

  “Because you’re inexperienced and reckless. You’re either unaware or unconcerned with your own mortality. I plan to preserve my own.”

  “Then get them to take out that system, if you value your life. Even one of your engineers has been blabbing that it isn’t ready.”

  “Bullshit,” Ronan said. “Is that what you’re here for? To warn me? You self-serving, manipulative arse. Sod off. You couldn’t give a shit about me or the car. You’re jealous and trying to wreck my head so you can win in Germany. Well, get this. You won’t succeed.”

  Ronan turned on his heel, yanked the keycard out of his jacket pocket, and let himself into the room. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the sofa. A soft sound behind him sent him whipping around.

  Cass. In the doorway, holding the door open.

  She stood, pale and achingly beautiful.

  His heart lurched and he took two hesitant steps toward her.

  “Is it true?” she said, stepping forward, the door shutting silently behind her.

  “Is what true?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Ronan.” Her voice was hoarse. “What I heard in the hall.”

  He sighed impatiently. “About Viv? That’s over. Long over. I don’t have feelings for her anymore. There’s no room for them—not given the way I feel about you.”

  She stared uncomprehendingly. “Viv?”

  “My ex—his—”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Vivienne McCloud.” Her tone was dangerously low. “If you do have feelings for me, don’t get killed out on that racetrack. If whatever you’ve got in your car is dangerous, to you and to the other drivers out there, don’t race. Please, God, Ronan, don’t put your life on the line out there for a fucking car race. I’m begging you. Please, I … care for you. I couldn’t stand it.” Her voice broke.

  He rubbed his chin with a shaking hand. “It’ll do.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “It’ll do?” She shook her head. “Ronan.”

  “I know there’s been talk, but it works. You saw that. It’s just one more race.”

  Her body was trembling with barely suppressed emotion.

  “Listen, Cass. It’s not even my decision. These things are determined by the engineers, by Pantech.”

  His stomach flipped at her expression. She looked shattered.

  “Maddux is right. You’re not alone out there. You’re putting everyone at risk.”

  His heart was racing now, faster than it did at the Prix today. “I know it sounds bad, especially to someone unfamiliar with Formula One, but—”

  She took two steps backward, shaking her head. “My God,” she said softly. “That you’re complicit in something this dangerous—”

  “Christ, Cass, I thought you understood. All I do is drive the goddamn car!”

  She turned to walk out, then hesitated. “Remember the dune?” she said, her hand on the door handle.

  “The dune?” What was she talking about?

  “The dirt bikes. Remember how you felt when I went over that dune?”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  She turned back to him, her expression stricken. “That. Times a thousand. If you don’t value your life, Ronan, at least …” she opened the door, “at least know how much I value it.”

  She pulled the handle, walked through the door, and out of his life.

  Chapter 18

  Cass checked out of the hotel, rented a car, and drove through the night. Fifteen hours later she was home. Exhausted, unable to nap, she was ripe for a panic attack.

  There was a knock at the door. Probably Andrea from next door, who had been keeping an eye on the place. Maybe Andrea could give her a ride to drop off the rental car.

  Cass got up from the couch to answer it.

  She’d come home to put her place on the market and give the proceeds to Mandy. It would go a long way to salving her conscience, or so she hoped. She had a lot to do before sh
e called the Realtor. And she couldn’t stop thinking about Ronan and his damned race. She flung open the door, the welcoming smile on her face faltering at the sight of a teenage boy on her doorstep.

  “Hi,” the boy said.

  “Can I help you?”

  He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, messing with the phone in his hand. “Cassidy Miller?”

  “Yes?”

  “Paul Garcia,” the boy muttered.

  She knew that name. All the blood drained from Cass’s head as her blood pressure took a sudden severe drop. She grabbed the doorframe.

  “You’re Cassidy Miller, the pilot.” More shuffling, still no eye contact.

  “Yeah.” She took a few deep breaths. She wasn’t prepared for this—whatever he wanted, she couldn’t give him.

  He finally looked up, his eyes haunted, dark rings bruising the area under his eyes. “Can I talk to you?”

  She pressed her lips together. It went against every instinct for self-preservation she had. She was raw and shaky, with nothing to distract her from her past—not alcohol and not Ronan. That fucking night. This fucking kid.

  He waited, fiddling with his phone.

  “Come on in,” she finally said.

  His shoulders sagged with relief.

  She remembered his name, otherwise she wouldn’t have recognized this skinny, pale, teen on her doorstep. When she’d last seen him, he’d been a bloodied mess on a backboard, with a white plastic immobilization device around his neck, hooked up to an intravenous line and an electrocardiograph.

  She led the boy to the sofa opposite her and took a seat in the upright chair. He didn’t even look old enough to drive, let alone drink.

  “How’d you find me?”

  He shook his phone. “Address, occupation, marital status—it’s all here.”

  “Okaay,” she said, slowly.

  “To, uh, thank you. And to, uh, tell you I’m sorry.”

  At this unexpected announcement, grief welled up and expanded from her chest out to the nerve endings of her entire body. She took a shaky breath. “Well, thanks. I … appreciate it.”

  He stared across the room.