by Alice Ward
I tensed and looked over the heads of the crowd, trying to meet the eyes of my brother. I doubted the reporters even realized that he was in the room.
Locke’s hand stopped moving and just stayed there, steady, being the calming force again. “Of course, there’s always that danger. But I don’t let it get to me. You got to keep moving forward. Like my daddy says, if you give up every time you take a wrong turn, you’re gonna find yourself at the tail end of nowhere. I’m more worried that I won’t do well, and I’ll disappoint people.”
“So you’re racing to honor your brother?” someone asked. “Will you give him your cup if you win?”
I glanced at my brother. His teeth were gritted so tight I could see the muscle popping in his jaw. I tried to think of something to say that would make him happy. Yes, I would have loved to honor him somehow, but he didn’t want the honor. He wanted to race. He wouldn’t want a trophy I’d won. He wanted to win it himself. “Well, I—”
“How much pressure do you feel to perform well now that you’ve taken his place?”
“A lot,” I said before I could be cut off again. “I mean, my brother was a great driver, no doubt about it. If his dreams hadn’t been cut short, he’d be out here. So yeah, I want to do him proud.”
I glanced toward him again. Now he was pacing toward the window, a flush mingling with the dark stubble on his cheeks.
I knew that look. He was a volcano about to blow. Why? What had I said?
A small, wiry man in the front row with a lanyard from the local ABC affiliate said, “So, is there some sibling rivalry perhaps? Jealousy?”
“Hell yes. Always has been. Don’t get me wrong. He’s proud of me, I think,” I murmured as I watched him, then focused back on my audience and realized what I’d said. “I mean, I know he is. But I know he wants to be out here himself instead of acting as my pit crew chief.”
“You look like a woman who has a life off the track, and isn’t all about having dirt under her fingernails,” a man with a crew cut asked. “Were you a tomboy growing up?”
“I am one,” I insisted. “Don’t let this dress fool you.”
“What are you wearing?” a man in the back row asked.
“Um.” I looked down. “Clothes?”
The reporter laughed. I frowned. “But who is the designer? Dolce?”
“Um. Target?” I shrugged, saying the first brand that came to mind. “I don’t really know.”
More laughter. This time it filled the room. I looked over at Locke, who was smiling too. Suddenly, I felt like the butt of someone’s joke, and I didn’t like it. I shifted in my seat, pushing his hand away from my knee.
“So, what happens if you have to pee during the race?” the man in the front row asked.
“Um, well,” I started. Did men have to answer these questions? “You just do it. Right in your uniform. I mean, I never have. It feels kind of weird and unnatural, so I just hold it until the end of the race. But I guess I would if I absolutely had to. I can’t really stop off at the lav when I’m on my three-hundredth lap and surrounded by a bunch of other cars.”
“But what if it’s your time of the month?” a man in the back row called.
My jaw dropped. Now, I was sure Dale Earnhardt had never had to answer that. I turned to Locke. Hadn’t this gone far enough? But he was just sitting there, waiting for my response, as if nothing was wrong.
“I’m not going to answer that,” I snapped. “Not on your life.”
Another man wearing glasses raised his hand to ask a question. “These races are far more intense than anything you’ve competed in thus far. Your first race is the Can Am, the Daytona qualifier, a shorter race. But the Daytona 500 is grueling. What makes you think that as a woman, you’ll be able to handle the hours of intense concentration necessary to qualify?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think that as a man, you’d be able to handle the task of asking questions without being completely sexist?”
Locke started to speak, suddenly aware of the dangerous direction the press conference had swerved into. I waved him away.
“Really, sir, would you ask a male driver that question? Or in your world, is it automatically assumed that men have the powers of concentration that women lack?”
Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. And the man was smiling wryly, like oh, look at you, aren’t you cute?
“Your focus is so laser-like that you can’t even tear yourself away from the fact that I have boobs,” I snapped, pointing to my face as the rest of the reporters continued to buzz around us, pouncing on the uncomfortable exchange. But who cared? This guy was a total jerk. “They’re fucking glands. Get over them. My eyes are up here.”
I pointed at my temple as the man broke into a laugh and looked around at his fellow reporters, who were also kind of chuckling nervously.
“And,” I rose from my seat slightly and said to the rest of the group, not ready to concede my soapbox. Now I wasn’t nervous anymore, I was just plain mad. Locke tried to drag my butt back to my seat, but I shook him off. “I’m honestly ashamed of the lot of you. You call yourselves reporters? For your information, it doesn’t matter what the hell I’m wearing, or what my anatomy is. What matters is that I’m going to wipe the track with the asses of every one of my opponents. And you can quote me on that.”
They all stared at me, most with widening eyes. The asshole who’d asked me about my period wrote something in his notebook and said, “Maybe it’s your time of the month right now?”
The reporters broke out in hysterical laughter, all except for the one woman in the front row, who was shaking her head, just as dumbstruck as I was about the sexist swing to this conference.
That was it. Rage bubbling up, I jumped to my feet. Locke tried to hold me back, but I was done. I hadn’t been in many fistfights in the last few years, but I was ready to lunge across that table. I started to go that way when I heard Locke’s voice.
“Calm,” he said under his breath. “Calm.” I nodded and slumped into my seat as he said, “I’ll remind you all to please stay on topic.”
I frowned at him. Well, thanks, Locke, that really helps a lot.
The asshole reporter was on his feet. “The purpose of this conference was to get to know Emma James better. The press kit says that. I believe everything we’ve said has been on that topic.” Then he grinned at me. “And to that end, we’ve learned one thing. Emma James can’t take a joke.”
I fought back the rage that was threatening to spill over again. Locke had his hand on my knee again, but it was clamped there now, most likely to keep me from rushing away. I could feel the tension in him. He wanted to sponsor a woman potential UnCaged users would look up to and want to emulate.
Not a loose cannon who shot her mouth off like a jackass every chance she got.
I was failing him.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t win.
I hadn’t known me being a woman was going to be such a big deal. Many other female drivers had paved the way for me, but maybe they had something I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this. I’d always been confident. I’d never cared what the fuck I said to people. But now, I knew I had to watch myself so I didn’t step in it. Brody was born to be behind the wheel, but maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was just born to be under the hood, or in the pit crew.
I answered the rest of the questions as best as I could, reminding myself over and over to remain calm. Mercifully, the press conference ended a few moments later. As the reporters filed out, Locke turned to me to help guide me out of the room. But I stood up and skulked out, stewing in my own self-doubt, before he could say a word.
I went out to the parking lot just to get some air. As I did, I looked down at my dress. Stupid dress. No wonder I had no control over myself. I didn’t even feel like myself in this getup. I turned to go back inside, to change into the comfortable jean shorts and t-shirt I’d come in.
Brody was standing there, shaking his head at me. I nearly groa
ned and walked in the other direction. I knew from his face that however bad I felt, I was about to be made to feel a lot worse. “What?” I snapped.
“Something tells me you need to get your ass back to Wintersburg and get yourself a healthy dose of perspective.” He lifted the tie on the waist of my dress and let it fall. “I think I liked the old Emma better.”
“My image consultant wants me to appeal to a certain demographic,” I explained sheepishly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your image consultant? Are you serious?”
“Well, weren’t you the one who told me I needed to play nice and enjoy everything they give me because I won’t get this chance again? So I’m playing the game.”
“That doesn’t mean selling out. Geez, Ems, you look and sound like a spoiled bitch, not a race car driver.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t, bro. I don’t need this right now. As if I didn’t already get myself reamed out enough in there.”
“Right. Where Saint Emma told the world she was racing to honor her poor, disabled brother whose dreams were cut short?” He scowled at me. “Who is this Emma? Who are you trying to fool? You may have gotten the big sponsorship deal using me as your springboard, but—”
“I did not!”
“Yeah, you did. Don’t tell me they’d have come after you if it wasn’t for my accident. Everyone pitied you, and that’s how you got this shot. And yet you turn around and become this fancy-pants bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else but doesn’t have a single win yet to show for it.”
I stared at him, seething.
“How’d they get you dressing like this,” he said, waving his hand over me. “Heck, you think any of the big guys in the business have image consultants? No, they just wear what the fuck they want and that’s good enough. Why don’t you tell that Cage asshole to shove it?”
“It’s in my contract—”
“Whatever. If they want you enough, they’ll work with you. Did you even try?”
“You told me to play nice!” I exploded, but I stopped when I realized that this was total bullshit. Sure, he was picking on me for dressing like a sell-out, because he knew it bothered me, but there was something else.
Jealousy. I could see it in his eyes. He was wondering why I was spending time on makeovers when I should have been thinking about my next race. If this had been his chance, he would have been in the simulator every day.
He thinks I’m blowing it.
“Look, bro,” I said gently, wanting him to see how much I wanted this. “I haven’t just been getting makeovers. I’ve been busting my ass for weeks. I’m going to do well in this race. I promise you. But what I need to know is that you are going to get my pit crew in shape for the qualifier. Will you?”
He sighed. “Don’t you worry about that. I got that under control.” He paced away, then turned and fired back at me, “Why’d you make it seem like I’m out of contention? As soon as I get this arm working, I’m back in it. But you made it like I’m dead in the water and out of it. Now it’s going to be that much harder to get sponsors to even look at me.”
There it was. The real reason he was so pissed. He wanted to race. And yes, I had been speaking of his career in the past tense because I’d wanted the focus on my racing career, not his.
I pressed my lips together. He was right. That was a stupid thing to say. “I’m sorry. I know you can get back in it. I just—”
“Didn’t want any competition?”
“That’s not fair. I just wasn’t thinking. It’s been so nerve-wracking. They kept asking me about you as if I’m not a good racer on my own. As if being a woman means that I’m just a marketing ploy and not a serious contender in this.”
He let out a laugh. “Are you? You’re not really acting like one.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I’d been working on it, but not nearly hard enough in Brody’s eyes.
And he was right. Instead of being in the simulator, my concentration had been taken up by something else. Locke. I thought of him more than was healthy. I probably would’ve screamed bloody murder until they gave me my way. But him? I had a hard time not bending to his wishes.
Truth be told, I wanted to be the person Locke wanted me to be. Whoever that was. I wanted to be what made his blood pump, what made him notice me, what made him want me.
Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”
He gave me a disappointed shake of the head. “Maybe they’ll start treating you like a serious athlete when you start acting like one.”
And then he turned and went back into the building, leaving me with my face as red as the damn dress.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Locke
The press conference was a verifiable shit show.
It started out fine, but it didn’t end up so well. Not when the questions started to swerve to a sexist nature. I should’ve known a fireball like Emma wouldn’t be able to keep her top from blowing when they started to ask questions like what she’d do if she got her period. Yes, the reporters were being unfair, but Emma’s way of handling it didn’t exactly exude grace and control.
But that was what made Emma, Emma. She was ice-cold behind the wheel, a powder keg everywhere else. She wasn’t all about being someone’s model of poise and perfection. Despite the pretty dress, there was a fire underneath. It was that spitfire spark that had first attracted me to her, and that was what was going to win her the Cup. Not being demure and ladylike.
And the thing was, she was within her right to give them shit right back since they’d given it to her. They hadn’t treated her like a serious athlete.
Maybe it was the dress. Maybe it was wrong to have her made-up like that. If she’d told me that she hated it, I would’ve sent Victoria and Adlar out on their ears. But I could tell part of her actually liked it, that she’d uncovered a new side of her, one that she liked. I hadn’t made her go out there looking like anything other than how she wanted to look. I thought.
Hell.
Maybe we should have stuck to the jeans and t-shirt. The reporters were merciless with her. I wanted to tear out their throats on her behalf. But I knew she wouldn’t want me fighting her battles. She was too tough to let anyone do that for her. Plus, I risked the chance of making her look weak. So I left her alone in the pit with the rabid wolves.
They would’ve torn apart a lesser woman, but not Emma. She stood up there and took it. Then she fought back, her eyes blazing with fire and spirit.
By the end of the conference, though, she was showing the war wounds. She looked tired, a little deflated, and she’d gotten up and walked away without another word to me.
When I got to the doorway after the room had cleared out, Laura was shaking her head. “Well, at least we got the microphones working?” she said with a sad laugh. “That really didn’t go as planned.”
“I get the feeling that things won’t often go the way we plan with Miss James,” I told her. “I think we’d better get used to it.”
There was horror in her eyes. “I don’t know if my heart can take it. Most of the reporters leaving were pretty pissed. I can’t wait for the news headlines tonight. UnCaged’s Latest Acquisition: Total Brat.”
“She’s not a brat.” I shrugged it off. “And what does it matter, anyway, as long as she wins?”
She nodded and followed me up to our offices. “I guess. They sure weren’t fair to her. And you know what? She deserved to kick their asses a little. They didn’t treat her well. I just wish she could’ve been a bit more diplomatic about it.”
“But that’s not Emma,” I said, smiling as I thought of the way she’d gone at it with that prick in the wire-rimmed glasses. “We didn’t take her on because of her diplomacy skills.”
I wiped the smile away too late because Laura caught it. Her frown deepened. “Locke…” she said in a warning tone.
“What?” I said, deflecting her. I wished I was closer to my office, so I could hide away in there and avoid the next quest
ion I knew was coming.
“Locke…” she repeated, shaking her head, her eyes wide with alarm. “Please don’t tell me you’re fucking her.”
I shrugged. “Of course not.” Not yet, anyway. “Like I said, I—”
“She isn’t company ink, Locke. She’s a very beautiful woman. And our property. And if you go down that road, I promise you, it’s not going to end well.”
“I got it,” I said, deliberately avoiding eye contact with her.
“Do you? I’m the one with the law degree,” she reminded me. “And I’m telling you, that’s a lawsuit waiting to—”
I held up a hand. “I know, I know.” I gave her my most innocent look. “Which is why I don’t get involved. You don’t have to tell me that.”
She studied me suspiciously, moving closer, as if she was trying to sniff my guilt like alcohol on my breath. “All right,” she said doubtfully as we came to her office.
I looked around. Adlar had packed up all of his tools, and he’d left a pile of distressed denim and faded t-shirt there, which I had to assume was the clothing she’d arrived in. “Okay. Where did she go?” I asked Adlar, who was sitting in a chair, reading a Glamour magazine.
He gave me a sorrowful look. “She did not come back up here.”
Great. So what had she done? It was a bit of a trek back to her apartment. I couldn’t imagine she’d walk it in that red dress and sandals.
Laura pulled out her phone and sent her a text. “She might be at the gym,” Laura said, not worried. “Or she took a car back to her apartment.”
I agreed, that was probably what she’d done. Her schedule had her working out on the simulator in the afternoons, so she’d probably headed toward the training center. I needed to head that way too, make sure everything was all right.
But when I arrived at the training center, she wasn’t there. Bruce nodded when I asked if he’d seen her. “She was in, but she didn’t want to do the simulator today. She just came in for a minute and left.”