by Alice Ward
My heart pounded, strangling me, fully lodged in my throat.
They lifted the stretcher and loaded him up into the back of the ambulance. My father motioned to me. “Come on.”
We raced to the back as the doors were closing and hopped inside. I stumbled to a vinyl-coated seat on the side of the opening for the stretcher, and my eyes fastened on my brother. They’d braced his head so that he wouldn’t move, but he was covered in a once-white sheet so I couldn’t see the extent of the damage to his body. He’d had a nice face, a handsome face. The ladies loved him, from what I’d seen. But now, it was so bloodied and swollen that I had to cover my mouth to avoid sobbing all over him.
My father sat on the other side of him, looking shell-shocked. “Brody,” I whispered, taking hold of his hand. It was limp, and so, so cold.
Just as I was beginning to think the worst, he opened his eyes and looked at me. I sucked in a breath and told myself to be strong for him.
It didn’t work.
Unable to stop the emotional release, I began to cry in earnest, big, pathetic sobs that shook my entire body. “Hey, buddy,” I said in a voice so choked with emotion that the words were barely audible. “Hey, bro.”
“Hey, Ems.” His voice was weak. “Guess I didn’t do so well.”
A bark of what must have been half laugh and half sob rushed out of me, and I ran my thumb in circles over his hand. “Had better days, but it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
He closed his eyes, drifting off, chest heaving under the sheet as I looked at my father. He was frantically punching in a call to my mother, who’d been left to mind the station in Wintersburg for the afternoon. I sat there, stroking my brother’s hand as the EMT checked his vitals and kept pressure on his shoulder.
“Is he… how is he?” I asked him. “Will he be okay?”
The EMT’s jaw tightened. “He’s stable. He’s suffered a lot of damage to his arm.”
I looked down at his hand, which was poking out from the sheet. The rest of the arm was covered. I wondered if he could even feel my hand stroking his.
We met my mother at the hospital, and the three of us sat huddled together, crying and shaking while waiting for news as they wheeled Brody into emergency surgery. I’d left all my things at the track, so I didn’t have my phone to call my friends and family to tell them what was going on. For a long time, we didn’t really know ourselves, because it was too early to tell. From what I’d gleaned, his right arm had been damaged at the shoulder, and the surgery was to repair it.
“It’s okay,” my mother soothed, hugging me tight. “As long as he’s here with us, I’ll take him any way God wants to give him to us.”
I nodded. She was right. Nothing else mattered but him being alive. Right then, I made a thousand promises. I’d never fight with him again. I’d never be a brat to him. I’d be the model little sister. I’d be happy whenever I had to serve as his pit crew, not jealous as hell. I’d never ask for anything ever again if my brother could just live.
Please let him live.
It was after ten o’clock when the surgeon finally came out into the waiting room to update us, five hours after Brody had been wheeled in. His mouth was set in a grim line as he sat down, not making eye contact.
Oh my god, it’s bad.
“He’s alive,” the exhausted looking physician said after what felt like a million seconds had ticked by. Like balloons releasing air, we all sagged in our seats in relief. “He’s stable and resting now. But his right arm was too damaged to save.”
I clasped my sweaty hands together and saw my mother grab my father tighter. “What… what does that mean?” I asked, but I already knew.
“We had to amputate it,” he confirmed, saying the words my mind refused to accept.
The doctor went on and on about how lucky Brody had been. How his brachial artery had been pinched, saving him from bleeding to death before they could have even gotten him out of the car.
I dropped my face into my hands, trying to imagine my strong, athletic brother… as an amputee. As much as I tried, I couldn’t. My brother, who’d been the quarterback of the football team in high school, who’d had the golden throwing arm. Who lifted weights like mad and flexed in front of the mirror at our makeshift gym in our backyard, kissing his biceps as a joke to make me roll my eyes.
Brody couldn’t have lost a part of his body. No way. This couldn’t be happening.
Lucky or not, I knew this would devastate him. We wanted him any way we could get him, but Brody? What did he want? I knew the inside of my brother’s crazy head the way I knew my own. And something told me that he wouldn’t see his arm traded for his life as a fair deal. I knew he’d rather…
No!
I wouldn’t say it. Think it. And I wouldn’t let my brother think it either.
My feet felt as heavy as cement as the three of us walked down the hallway to the intensive care unit, my mind screaming for this to please be a dream. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even a nightmare. This was reality, as evidenced by the machines beeping and whirring around us. Softly, we padded inside, surrounding his bed, but he must have sensed us, because when we were all assembled, one eye cracked open.
Did he know? I couldn’t tell from the bleary, dazed look he gave me.
“Ems,” he said softly, so softly I had to lean down over him.
“Yeah, bro. I’m here,” I said, fresh tears threatening to spill over as I reached for… nothing.
There was nothing to grab for on that side of his body, and I ended up touching the empty space where his hand should have been.
As much as I wanted to be strong for him, I couldn’t. The tears started to fall, streaming off my chin and onto that white, vacant place.
“You got your chance,” he croaked, his voice so fragile it made my chest ache. “I hope you’re ready to ride.”
CHAPTER TWO
Locke
The good thing about Daytona weather was that there were always plenty of perfect days for photo shoots. Not only sunny blue sky days, but also ominous looking stormy ones… like now.
It was late evening, and the sun was going down, casting Creamsicle-orange rays across the brilliant Florida sky. The lighting was set up to make the perfect background effect as the sun set below the clouds on the horizon. It’d give us five, ten minutes tops of prime photography time. We’d been sweating our asses off for three hours by then, preparing for the perfect image.
I checked our model, Olympic hopeful Tawny Myers, and frowned. “More sweat. I need more suffering.”
My assistant motioned the makeup artist over, who began to spray the athlete with liquid dirt and baby oil. She was lubed up now, wearing her white USA Olympic singlet and track shorts, but she still didn’t look tough enough. Here was one of the fastest women on Earth, someone who’d clawed and fought for that title, and I wanted people to feel every step of her struggle in this photograph. I wanted every one of her gorgeous muscles to pop because each one was hard-earned.
I adjusted the watch with the CageFree logo on her wrist. Though the ad featured Tawny, CageFree was another star of the ad. They both had to look perfect.
“Make her hair messier. And more sweat, dammit. I want people to see the years of determination on her face, feel like they’ve been there for every one of her practices, every step that got her to be one of the fastest women in the 100-meter.”
The rest of the makeup crew scurried around, getting her ready. “So, Mr. Cage,” she said to me with a grin. “You like your women wet, eh?”
I avoided eye contact because, hell, Tawny was hot. All our athlete models were. But hot or not, she was off-limits, and no matter how interested my cock was, my brain wouldn’t let things go further.
“I already worship that body of yours for what it can do.” I took the camera from the photographer and looked through the image finder. Better. “Now, I want the world to worship it too.”
She gave me a wink, which I quickly deflected. There was nothing sex
ual about the way I studied her body. There was just something intensely beautiful about the human form in peak condition. For my entire adult life, I’d adored it, studied it, and devoted my life to helping people achieve it.
“Remember,” I said to her. “Beast mode. That’s what we’re going for here. Don’t be afraid to show your inner animal.”
She nodded, putting out makeshift claws, and purred a sexy, “Rrowr.”
“Locke…?” I turned to UnCaged Fitness’s Chief Operating Officer, who also happened to be my baby sister. “Stop flirting with the model and get behind the camera,” Laura said, rolling her eyes. “If you don’t get your ass in gear, you’re going to miss another sunset.”
My sister was right. We’d been out here every day this week, and the shoots so far hadn’t conveyed what I wanted for UnCaged’s Run Like a Girl ad. It was the first installment of our biggest ad campaign yet, and I was spending millions in the hopes of empowering women to get fit and healthy by using fitness tech like CageFree. We had a lot riding on this. “All right. Get her in place.”
I jogged over behind the camera to stand beside Laura, and like the good brother I was, elbowed her. “I was not flirting.”
“Right. But she was flirting with you.”
“And that’s my fault?”
I stood behind the photographer as he kept the shutter going, snapping picture after picture as Tawny stretched and started to sprint down the track. She was gorgeous, in prime physical condition. The clouds above looked dark and foreboding, the air was humid and still. The only thing moving was Tawny, and boy, did she own it.
I nodded. We had it. “Yeah. That’s it. Keep it going. Get some of her coming toward the camera. Make sure the CageFree is visible.”
Ten minutes later, the sun sank down below the horizon, and I smiled for the first time. “I think that’s a wrap. Good job, all.”
Whirling to leave, I grabbed my phone from the pocket of my khaki shorts. The background photo was the UnCaged Fitness logo, with the words: I WISH, the last two letters crossed out and replaced by LL. I WILL. That’d been my motto since I first made the decision to get in shape.
Laura followed behind me a short while later, as I crossed the field to the parking lot. “Hey, Pudge.”
I waved her away, irked by the old nickname, even though I understood why she still used it. “Shouldn’t you be at the Walmart meeting right now?”
As COO of UnCaged Fitness, Laura had just about as tight a schedule as I did. Yale Law degree, whip-smart with financials, fantastic at making deals, it was hard to believe she was the girl I used to give head noogies to persistently in our childhoods. She had an important meeting with the folks at Walmart, finishing up the plans to bring an exclusive line of our fitness games at a more attractive price point to the average joe. But she was my right-hand girl at shoots like these because she’d spent most of her twenties fitness modeling herself. Since most of the women we were using weren’t professional models, I relied on her to get our subjects to relax for the camera.
“Getting there,” she said. “So, what’d you think? This going to be the greatest ad campaign we’ve ever done?”
“Yeah. By far. Tawny’s… um…”
“Hot,” she finished. I’d been thinking good, but only in the sense that she’d make our target audience feel like getting off their asses and buying more CageFrees in the process. “Delicious. Alluring. And clearly willing to do anything you command of her, as are most of our female models.”
I let out a huff of air. “I don’t dip my pen in the company ink, Laur. You know that.”
“They’re models, not employees,” she pointed out.
“No difference. I’m not interested in that,” I said flatly.
“Okay, okay.” I knew she wondered what was wrong with me. I’d had my share of women, but all the ones in recent memory had been casual, one-night hookups. I liked women. Loved sex. But I had an empire to build, a mission to fulfill. “So check it, Pudge.”
She shoved her phone under my nose before I could tell her to cut out the Pudge. I’d already been to the gym today, so I didn’t need that reminder. I stared for a second at the video playing. Looked like a NASCAR race. Fucking NASCAR. Who cared?
“What am I looking at?” I asked, watching the damn cars go round and round. “You know I’m not one for NASCAR.”
She snorted. “The only heterosexual man in Daytona who’s not. You are hetero, right?”
“Hilarious,” I deadpanned, making a move like I was going to give her a smack across the head, which was nothing compared to what I used to do when we were kids. She put up a hand to block me, hardly worried, but kept the phone where it was. The cars in the video continued to loop around, like an exercise in futility. I strode forward, checking my own phone for the time. “What am I checking? I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m a busy man, remember? Things to do, people to see, company to run, your paycheck to sign.”
“Watch,” she said, struggling to keep up with me.
I was about to tell her that I didn’t have the time since I had a load of things to do at the office and a benefit that night. But then, something happened that made me stop in my tracks. One of the cars fishtailed, got T-boned by another car and went airborne, then landed in a smoking, mangled heap on the track. It was a particularly grisly accident and a shame for the driver, but I wasn’t sure what it had to do with me. “And?”
“There,” she said as the car came to a stop and the pit crew raced forward. “Watch. Watch that.”
A jumpsuit-clad figure jumped the wall and ran toward the wreck. When the figure removed its helmet, I looked closer. Pink cheeks, full lips, and big, dark eyes. A woman. A woman in the pit crew? “Where is this?”
“ISM.”
“No clue what that is,” I murmured, transfixed on the woman. She ran to the wreckage, and there were tears in her eyes as she hugged herself. Even under the circumstances and the horror clearly written on her face, she was beautiful. “Who is she?”
“Emma James. Didn’t you read the stories?”
I squinted at her. Of all the sports I participated in, and there were many, NASCAR had never interested me. I preferred to use my own body to produce results, not depend on some machine. Besides, I’d read all that shit about NASCAR drivers being unique athletes, but I couldn’t buy that they were as in shape or required as grueling a workout as your average linebacker. “No.”
“Well, her brother was nearly killed in the Arizona 200 six weeks ago, and now she’s taking over for him. Before that, she used to be in his pit crew. Thing is, she trained right along with him and went to all the same schools he went to.” She smiled, studying her phone. “Now, she’s racing in his place. Word is, she’s even better than he is.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So?” she repeated, punching me on the arm. “Big brother, are you that daft? Are you forgetting that one of our Like a Girl ads is going to be Drive Like a Girl?”
I stared at Emma James again. My sister was right.
NASCAR was one of the most viewed spectator sports in the United States, which meant a shitload of eyes watched cars race around an oval hundreds of times. I didn’t get it, but a huge portion of our population did… and I wanted to appeal to that portion.
That’s what had led me to consider sponsoring a car in the Cup series. Since our headquarters were right in Daytona, it made sense. I even had the contract for one up-and-comer, a Kyle Someone-or-Other, sitting on my desk and had dodged several phone calls from his agent, wanting me to sign him. “Let me see that picture.”
She’d paused the video of the girl as she wiped tears from her eyes. She’d run right out onto the oval, fearless. I could see determination behind the terror and couldn’t help but respect her. And… be drawn to her.
“What’s going on here? Is this the accident where her brother…?”
“Yeah.”
In the video image, Emma was a sweaty mess, her wild black hair in a ponytail atop he
r head. Her skin was tanned and her eyes as black as buttons. But there was something about her… something raw and feline in the way she moved. She had the promise of a body under that unisex suit, too, which was a must for our fitness ads. I was used to looking at women’s bodies in a purely utilitarian way, so I was surprised to feel my cock twitch.
Surprised and alarmed.
Handing the phone back to my sister, I said, “I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it?” Laura huffed as I walked away. “You better snatch her up before someone else does. She’s gold, I tell you. Pure. Gold!”
I jogged up to my Porsche, throwing my folder and phone into the passenger seat. I might not have been into NASCAR racing, but I did appreciate fast cars.
When I was inside, I plugged my phone up to the charger and frowned down at the image that was my screensaver… my reminder of who I never wanted to be again.
Pudge.
I was eight and a walking donut. Twenty years ago, everyone called me Pudge. In the picture, I’d been looking at the camera through black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and laughing, chocolate all over my chubby freckled cheeks, my Ronald McDonald helmet of hair flying in the breeze.
Geez, I was an ugly kid. I’d been happy in the photo because the worst of the abuse was still a couple years away. It didn’t get really torturous until I was in middle school.
There, it had gotten nearly unbearable. Girls ignored me, but the guys? Not so much. They were all sports freaks, wearing their favorite player’s numbers on t-shirts and caps. Their favorite drivers too. They’d go on about drinking beer in the parking lot and sneaking into the international speedway at night. By day, they’d usually beat the shit out of me, or just tease me in a way that left no bruises. The only solace I got was from sitting behind a computer, learning to code.
That had been my life.
Until one day, years later, I’d had enough. It was midway through my junior year in high school when I’d bought my first set of hand weights. I worked out in my room then, too embarrassed to step foot into a gym.