Tracked

by Jenny Martin

  James taps at his flex, occupied with who-knows-what business while Cash and Goose chat away. They discuss pit adjustments, paint schemes, and track schedules. All the latest circuit rumors and all the new tweaks they’d like to test before this year’s Corporate Cup series. Cash thinks he can work me into shape and Auguste enthusiastically agrees. In fact, he has high hopes for a season full of pole position starts.

  My manager. This mouthy pacer. We are supposed to be a team, but it’s like I’m not even here. I tune them out and watch the sun die a slow death.

  The Onyx turns one last corner and rolls into the parking garage under the Spire. It’s a long march with a side of small talk before we make it into the elevator. James unlocks it with his flex, and a breath later, we step off onto the 210th floor.

  Cool marble tile and silk-draped walls. The foyer’s monochromatic—everything is drenched in cream, accented with shades of pewter and gold. It’s bright and airy and pretentious as hell. Not me at all.

  There are two sets of double doors—one to my right, and one to my left. James points to the ones on the left. “Use your flex,” he says.

  I wave it in front of the blinking light above the handles. Sure enough, three bolts snap—one after the other—and the door is unlocked. We walk in, and they all trail me as I scope out my new apartment.

  It’s not so different from the lobby. Lots of oversized, off-white furniture. The flex glass walls gleam iridescent like mother-of-pearl. At will, I can bring up any feed or application. It’s all programmed to respond to a few command words or the swipe of my hand.

  Admittedly, most of it’s wasted on me. I don’t really watch anything aside from racing feeds, but there’s plenty of space here, and the kitchen is stocked.

  It sure beats the rust out of jail. All I need is . . .

  “When is Bear coming?” I ask James.

  “Who’s Bear?” Cash interrupts.

  “Bear is Phee’s . . . bodyguard, and he will arrive soon.”

  “Well, aren’t you something?” Cash looks at me and then turns on our keeper. “James, when are you going to hire me my own special goon?”

  So. Cash is spoiling for a fight or trying to get under my skin or I don’t know what. But I’m too focused on getting answers to take the bait. “How soon?” I say. “Tonight?”

  On the glass behind the living room sofa, James swipes his flex against the wall and calls up a map. A red bull’s-eye crawls along the good road just south of here.

  “Definitely tonight.” James’s earpiece buzzes. He taps it and clears the wall. I wish he hadn’t. I want to keep my eyes on that bull’s-eye. He walks out of the apartment, leaving us to take his call.

  Cash is watching me again. “Don’t worry, Vanguard. You’re safe in your ivory tower. Nobody’s going to get us up here.”

  “Look. I’m not worried about my personal safety,” I tell him. “I just want to make sure my friend’s okay, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for some sign of life. The fully poseable girl is actually capable of spontaneous reaction.”

  I’ve got a pose for him—I’ll put him on the floor. I lunge, but Goose steps between us. He lays a hand on my shoulder and stabs a forefinger at Cash. “You and you, avez courtoisie! Grace is a virtue.”

  “So is minding your own business.” I hold my ground and flash the same grin Cash wore for me on the way out of the chophouse.

  James stalks back into the room. It’s like his presence changes the air pressure. The tension between Cash and me instantly de-escalates—we don’t need Benroyal’s right-hand man crawling up our exhausts over a little trash talk.

  “I have to leave. Something’s come up,” James says. “Auguste, can you stay until Phee is settled?”

  Goose shakes his head. “Impossible. I realize you all may find this hard to believe, but I have much work to do. The series qualifiers are in a matter of days. If we are to start tomorrow, I must prepare immédiatement.”

  “Cash,” James says. “Go over the basics with her. Look at this week’s schedule. Talk things over, agreed?”

  “It’s fine,” I protest. “I can—”

  “Anything you say, James.” Cash speaks over me. “We got it.”

  James takes him at his word, and he’s out the door with Goose. I’m alone in my new apartment with Cash. I flop into the nearest chair, sinking so low, the snowdrift of cushions nearly buries me. My would-be pacer is smiling again, but this time he doesn’t look one bit scorched. “Well?” I say.

  He waits for the sound of closing elevator doors.

  “I’m just going to be honest here. I feel for you,” he says. “It’s your first night in the Spire and I’m sure it’s all a little overwhelming. But I’ve been up for twenty hours straight and I need to zone out for a while. So now that James has vacated the premises, let’s just call it quits until later.”

  I really would like to get a handle on things before I crash for the night. It’s my future we’re talking about. But no way am I getting all angst-y eyed in front of Cash. “Suits me,” I say.

  “Good. Get some rest. I’ll be across the hall, at my place, but I’ll check in later, all right?”

  I close my eyes. He can think I’m too tired to answer.

  I hear the door close. On my own at last.

  As much as I’d like to scope out every inch of this apartment, I’m too numb-toed and tired for anything but a hot shower. I drag myself through the master bedroom and into the biggest bathroom I’ve ever seen.

  I jump in the flex-walled shower, and select the hottest gush I can get, then plant my feet and stand up to the blistering fire hose blast. The purge is enough to break me down. After all I’ve been through, it’s the drench that finally puts a lump in my throat.

  I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know how to reach my only friend. I don’t know if James lied to get me here. I’ve managed to wreck my whole life—my rig, my home, my adopted family are all out of reach now. Tomorrow, I’ll become Benroyal’s property, taking a driver’s mark on my shoulder. Twelve hours from now, the needle and ink will erase Phoebe Van Zant for good.

  How could I sign that contract?

  Quickly, I reach for my towel before another thought has the chance to plague me. Hanging on the door, there’s a downy white bathrobe. There are clothes waiting in drawers and closets. I find a pair of gray cotton pants that fit all right in the waist, but are of course too long in the leg. Although the matching sports tank is also a little big, it will have to do. Either I shrunk in custody, or the Sixers think I’m bigger than I am.

  I’m still wet and only half-dressed when I hear the knock on the apartment door. I hustle through the living room to get to the foyer. It better not be Cash. Now that I’m ready for bed, I’m so not up for training schedules and pit rosters. When I answer and open up, it’s like someone drop-kicks me, punching out my center of gravity. Relief chases the shock.

  There are two DP officers flanking Bear.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” one of them says. “Mr. Benroyal asked us to escort him here. Is James An—”

  Before he can finish, I yank Bear’s arm and pull him inside. “Your services are no longer needed,” I snap. And then, smiling wide, I slam the door in their faces. Surprisingly, they don’t beat the door down. Even more surprisingly, I hear the retreat of their footsteps.

  “That felt good,” I say.

  And now it’s Bear’s turn to pull on my arm. One whiplash spin and his arms are around me, just as they were on the courthouse tiles. But this time, when I look up, he slides his hands from my waist. His palms cradle my neck, the planes of my cheeks. I’m so raw from the shower; the warmth of his fingers on my jaw is an invasion.

  Still rattled, I hesitate. We’re so close, the heat in his exhale . . . it prickles my cheek, the edge of my lips. Inside
, a part of me quiets and panics all at once. I might as well be drowning again. When our eyes lock, I freeze.

  He must sense my confusion. I feel the tremble of uncertainty build in his fingertips. His hands drop and he pulls away.

  “Bear.” I don’t know what to say. “You’re . . . Did they . . . Are you all right?”

  He doesn’t answer. I want him to look at me. I want to read something on his face, but suddenly his eyes won’t meet mine. He stares at the creamy marble floor. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was worried. I just . . .”

  His face is on fire now. He’s embarrassed and beside himself and I’m just letting him twist in the wind. “It’s okay, Bear,” I say. “I’m glad you made it. I’ve missed you like crazy. You mean more to me than anyone on three planets.”

  I mean every word, but somehow it’s my own mind that needs reassurance. It’s not a question of how deep my feelings run for Bear. Blood could not knit a stronger bond between us. It is no lie that I love him, yet when I ask myself exactly how I love him, when I question the shape of the space he fills in my heart, I stumble. A handful of days ago, Bear was my best friend and almost brother. But now?

  The flutter in my chest—I don’t know if it’s the first wave of alarm or longing. I thought I knew where we stood. We had plans. A partnership. We’d keep racing and get our own shop and someday, just fall . . . together. But now I see the headlong curve in the arc, the shape of our landing, and don’t know if I’m ready to tumble into this so fast. I’d never imagined exactly the moment we’d trade fist bumps for fever sighs, and now I realize Bear definitely has. Maybe he always has.

  Suddenly, he takes a step back, and I feel the distance.

  I look at Bear again and then remember what I asked James to do to get him here. “Are you all right?” I blurt. “Are your parents—”

  “Dad says DPs shook the clinic down, tried to pin some charges on my mother, but after they both signed some papers—actual rusting papers, Phee—they backed down and left. Things are a mess, some equipment was broken, but—”

  He doesn’t know what I’ve done. The thought buys me a moment’s peace, but we’ve never been anything but honest with each other. I shouldn’t keep this from him. “It was my fault. I—”

  “It’s not your fault Benroyal wanted us.”

  Us.

  I could tell Bear that it really is my fault, and that the Sixers couldn’t care less about what happens to him, and that they only wanted me to sign their stupid contract, but I won’t wound him twice today. “Are you hungry?” I touch his arm. “Do you need to rest? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine. Maybe I should . . .” He mumbles and tugs at the sweat-stained hem of his T-shirt. “Is there a place I can . . . ?”

  I point to the hallway. “Take a right, then two doors and take a left. They’ve got a room for you too. It’s right next to mine. You’ve got your own shower and . . . even fresh clothes, I think.”

  Without another word, he trudges off to get cleaned up. The slump in his shoulders tells me he’s lost. Why didn’t I reach for him the way he did for me? I don’t deserve his goodness. I pushed him away, and I hate myself for it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  If I was tired before, I’m drop-dead exhausted now. But it doesn’t feel right to turn out the lights and crawl into bed yet. I need to say good night to Bear and make things okay. For everything to be resolved. So I slump back into the overstuffed chair and wait, palming my flex.

  James told me to study these files, but I can barely get through the mind-numbing rules. After glossing over the media guidelines, I go straight to my schedule, which reminds me my days will be jam-packed for the next six months. There are press conferences and practices and parties and the annual gala, not to mention the actual races.

  I’m amused they think they need to list them, as if I haven’t watched the series every year, for as long as I can remember. The Castran Classic kicks off every season with an exhibition at Benroyal’s own track. It’ll be my first chance to drive, but the classic’s just for show, to give the Sixers and their bookmakers a taste of the season to come. While the exhibition will give them the chance to decide how many shares to dump into the betting pool, it’ll give me the chance to show rivals I’m a real driver, and not just a wannabe from the streets.

  After the classic, the real races start. Sand Ridge is the first one that really counts—I’ve got a handful of days to prepare for 400 laps around Castra’s most unforgiving track. The 400 is make it or break it. If I place, it’s an automatic bid to the rest of the Corporate Cup series. If I put enough rigs in my exhaust, I might even get to cruise off-planet. The biggest interstellar circuit rally is always the mountain rally on Cyan-Bisera.

  A lot of credits will change hands over that one. I mean, I know corporates aren’t stupid—most of the time, they don’t wager stocks they can’t afford to lose, but there have been real upsets. Bank on a driver who can’t lose and you can cut down your rivals, a few thousand shares at a time. I think of my own father. His winning record made Locus Informatics, putting them in the game and giving them the clout and prestige to rise to Benroyal’s level. Forget politics. You want real power? Own a circuit team.

  I’ve become a part of that now, and win or lose, despite every thrill, this game was my father’s trap. Twelve years ago, he raced the same series, and I lost him for good. Dead and gone, my parents are the old scar my mind still traces in the dark.

  The bolts on my apartment door snap. Either James is back or the DPs have forgotten something. If the guards are here to harass me, I’m not going to make it easy on them.

  The doors swing open and it’s Cash.

  Rust.

  “Why does your flex open my door?” I say. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

  Of course, His Highness isn’t really listening to me at all. He just waltzes in with that broad, brazen grin of his. You’d think he owns the Spire, all two hundred stories of it. I stand up and plow toward him, and when I’m just about close enough to give him a good get-the-rust-out-of-here shove, he reaches first and pulls us both onto the couch.

  Cash is weirdly crazy-eyed, and I can’t tell if something’s wrong or if he’s playing the worst kind of joke. He drapes his arm around my shoulder. “We should get to know each other. Do you like music?” He skims his flex against the wall. The sluggish rhythm of a slow techno-rock track drifts from speakers in the ceiling. Cash turns the volume all the way up to blaring.

  He must be drunk or high or I don’t know what. “Have you lost your rusting mind?!” I shove him, my hands pressing into his way-too-ripped chest. “Take your music and get the—”

  Instead of backing off, he answers by nimbly lacing us together, his hand on the small of my back. My first instinct is to knee him where it hurts, but he sways me with a panicked whisper. “I’m sorry.” His lips brush against the soft, vulnerable spot between my ear and my jaw. The contact nearly drains the fight from my limbs. “Really. I’m sorry. I just needed to talk to you.”

  I give him the side-eye.

  “Privately,” he adds, letting go. “It’s important, I swear. Wow, can I just say? You smell a lot better than you did two hours ago.”

  “You’ve got about three seconds to start talking,” I say. “Or I start—”

  “Be careful,” he whispers. “In the Spire, watch what you say. What you do. Security reports everything and Hank’s the only guard you can trust. Outside your apartment, there are cameras everywhere and—”

  “Which one’s Hank? How do you kn—”

  “I just know.”

  I press my cheek against his and lean in as close as I can. I’m practically eating his not quite wavy, balm-leaf-scented hair, but I want to get harsh, right up in his ear. “Why should I trust you? You’re a prince, for sun’s sake. Benroyal’s special guest—”

  “If by guest, you m
ean someone who can never, ever leave, then yes, I am very special. I’m here because Benroyal wants me here. Wake up, Vanguard. You and I are in the same prison now. King Charlie owns us both.”

  “Nobody owns me.” I say it like it’s not a lie. “And I barely even know you. For all I know, you’re just telling me this to—”

  “Hey, I just thought you should know. We’re a team.”

  “We are not a team.”

  “Not yet.” He stands, then pulls me to my feet. “But we will be soon enough. Besides, if we don’t perform well together, they’ll be all up in my exhaust about why, so do me a favor and let me help you stay out of trouble. Agreed?”

  I grimace. It almost hurts to nod.

  He smiles and the sight of it flips a switch inside me. When he leans in, my gray cotton tank pressed against his white, I don’t want to cuss or back away or shove him out of my apartment. Inexplicably, I’m rooted in place. Rust. I am so not this girl, the kind that melts for any scheming boy, handsome or not.

  “Just be careful,” he pleads again. This time, the warning sends a shiver through me. I believe him—of course Benroyal’s not to be trusted—but surveillance is not the only thing making my mind scream caution. The blood pounding at my temple sings vigilance. It tells me to be wary of this boy whose eyes shine so darkly. My hand on his shoulder . . . his skin is more than bronzed, dune- colored like the Castran desert at midnight. I need to close my eyes and turn away; I don’t know who I am with him.

  I feel the muscles in Cash’s stomach tense against mine. He pulls away. I look up and before I can react, I turn and see Bear looming close.

  He swings past me and punches Cash in the face.

  Oh sap.

  Cash stumbles back but quickly recovers, and I can’t believe Bear’s fist didn’t put him on the floor. Bear is already on the offensive again. He lunges forward again, bent on landing another punch.

  “Bear!” I scream. “Don’t! It’s not what you think.”