by Alice Ward
Her eyes widened. “Really? Are you sure you’re thinking clearly?”
I snorted. “What do you mean? I don’t fly off the handle all the time, do I?”
“No. But this sport is about adrenaline. It’s easy to let it cloud your judgment.”
“My judgment’s not clouded.”
“Are you sure? Because Emma is a corporate asset. What if the press finds out? You think this is a good move? Not even just for the company, but for Emma, personally.”
I broke my gaze from the oval and looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Remember what happened at the press conference? And that little stir up on the beach? There was all this speculation about her, as a woman. It’s different for women. Men, they can go and fuck any woman they want, and it’s no big deal. Hell, it’s celebrated. But women? Emma? They were all over her, at the press conference, on the message boards, everywhere. There are already accusations that because she’s a pretty piece of ass, she fucked her way onto the oval. If they find out you and she are together… it’s only going to get worse.”
I inhaled sharply.
“You really want her to get crucified any more than they’re already crucifying her?”
I shook my head. No, I wanted them to leave her alone. But that wasn’t possible.
Shit. As always, Laura, my voice of reason, was right. I looked at her, then back at the track, where Emma had just passed another car. I pulled on the headset, partly to hear what was going on, and partly to drown out Laura’s reason.
Sixteenth place. She was fucking in sixteenth place and coming up close on fifteenth.
I kicked back the stool and stood up, placing my palms on the glass.
Go, Emma. Go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emma
Around a curve, Ryan Blaney tapped my back-right side, sending me careening forward, but I managed to correct and keep it off the wall. He sailed past me as white smoke started to plume in my vision. I adjusted the face shield on my helmet, trying to detect the source of the smoke, just as Blaney’s car missed the curve, skidded around full speed, right into the wall, bouncing back sideways in front of me.
“He’s blown a tire,” Brody said.
“Clear, inside, go, go, now,” my spotter advised me.
“On it,” I said, finding the opening.
“You got it.” My spotter got me through it, giving the directions I needed until I was safe. I pushed ahead toward pit road as the yellow caution flags came out again.
When I sailed into my pit stall, Daddy gave me a wave from behind the wall as my crew handled my change. I grabbed my water and downed half of the thing in two large gulps, flipped my shield down, and revved the engine. No, I wasn’t first, or second… but I wasn’t fortieth either. I was a respectable sixteenth, way better than the bookies thought I’d do.
Take that, bookies. I tightened my gloves around the wheel. Time to bring this baby home.
When Jonesy tapped on the back of the car, I sailed out, following behind the caution car. The second the green flag came out, I was on it. “Let’s bring this home,” Brody said to me. “You’re looking real good. Just keep at it.”
“I intend to, bro,” I said, stomping on the gas and getting into the fray again.
Twenty more laps to go. I greased another car, getting myself into fourteenth. It was easier now, like it had been in the beginning, when I’d been go-karting in the dirt with Brody. I was in the groove where it felt natural, powerful. Exhilarated.
By the white flag, I’d sailed past Joey Logano, and I was in twelfth place, fighting for purchase with Austin Dillon’s red number 3. Somehow, I slammed ahead of him in the straightaway, even though he was trying to push me to the wall. “Inside, inside, inside,” my spotter said calmly into my ear.
When the checkered flag came out, I pulled both fists off the steering wheel and pumped them hard. I hadn’t just finished, as was expected of me. I’d gotten eleventh place. It was solid and definitely enough to qualify me for the Daytona 500. Holy shit. Maybe I’d be able to trample Ryan and Kasey in the real deal and get enough money to get Brody’s fancy driving arm.
But by the time I sailed back into pit road and found my stall, the excitement had withered.
I should’ve done better. I should’ve won the whole damn thing.
I pulled back the net, ripped off my helmet, and stepped out of the car. The first person I saw was Brody. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Not bad for a rookie,” he grumbled, adjusting his ball cap on his head.
“This rookie just qualified for the Daytona 500.” I laughed, giving him a smack upside the head so that his hat fluttered to the ground.
He glared at me, a glint of brotherly rivalry in his eyes.
I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around him, wanting us to be okay. “Maybe you can beat me next time… after I get you your driving arm.”
He said something I couldn’t hear because I was swallowed up by the waiting arms of my parents and pit crew. They embraced me and jostled me around, and I smiled as they patted me on the back and congratulated me. “Woo-wee!” my father shrieked, grabbing me. “My girl sure knows how to race!”
Reporters invaded our circle after that, and I knew I was expected to hang around for post-race interviews. But as I scanned the faces surrounding me, I was really looking for only one person.
Locke.
I knew he’d be happy, even if I wasn’t so happy myself. I knew I’d done him and UnCaged proud. I just should’ve done better.
When he broke through the crowd, my heart, which had already been beating double-time, did its own Daytona 500 inside my chest wall. He looked… in a word, elated, his smile bigger than I’d ever seen it.
All I wanted to do was jump into his arms.
Instead, he put out his hand, very businesslike. “Congratulations, Miss James.”
I reached over and shook. Geez, how could he be such an amazing lover and give the lamest, most unenthusiastic handshake? “Thank you,” I said stiffly.
Time stood still for a moment, as confetti poured down around us. And suddenly, my world fell apart. “Why does it say on the board that Emma James has been disqualified?” Laura said to me.
I looked up at the board. Sure enough, it did. I looked at Daddy, and Brody, and they were both listening into their headsets and frowning.
I stormed over to them. It had to be a mistake. “What the hell?”
Brody shook his head, and my father let out one of his infrequent curses. Tom’s dark face, covered in sweat, was sadder than I’d ever seen it. “The pit crew went over the wall a couple seconds too fast,” Jonesy explained to me, wrapping an arm around me. “It happens.”
I stared at him. Yeah, it happens, but not with us. Not with Brody. Brody knew better.
“What the fuck, Brody?” I said as a terrible thought occurred to me.
He’d done that on purpose.
He gave me an innocent look and backed away, but I hadn’t raced my heart out just to get my ass disqualified. I reached for him, rage distorting my face, wanting to wrap my hands around his neck. “Did you do it on purpose?” When he just shrugged, rage slapped me in the face. “I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your neck!”
“Okay, okay, calm now,” Locke said, coming forward and taking me from behind before I could get to my brother. Meanwhile, Brody just stared at me in a stony way that exuded guilt.
I tried to wrench away from Locke but couldn’t. “He did it on purpose!” I shouted. “I need a new pit chief!”
“No, he didn’t,” Locke said, trying to calm me down, and it was then I realized that I had my share of reporters around me, and they were all snapping like crazy.
I swallowed. Then I threw down my helmet and dropped my head.
“You did good, Emma,” Locke whispered to me. “We’ll get it next time.”
I nodded woodenly.
The winner, Jimmie Johnson, was doing his victory lap
around the oval, the screech of tires on the asphalt echoing through my head along with all the other noises from the day, threatening to cause a splitting headache. I looked up expectantly at Locke, who gave me a very soft, very sterile kiss on the cheek.
“Save that fire for the next race,” he whispered. “See you tonight?”
I nodded, happy to defy Brody for the first time. And here, Brody thought me being with Locke was ruining my chances at a win. Now, I didn’t give a shit what Brody said. From now on, I’d do everything on my terms. “Damn straight.”
And then Locke disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd of friends and admirers and reporters. The celebration went on around us, but I skulked through the crowd, feeling like a loser. I knew it had nothing to do with the way I’d raced. It was all my pit crew. But it didn’t matter. It meant I was still no one. I might as well have come in dead last.
The team mulled in its sorrow for only a little while after that. My dad hugged me and told me to get a good night’s rest, that things would be better in the morning. But I wanted Locke there. I wanted to cry to him and yell out my frustrations at him, and let him make things better.
As I went back to the apartment, I realized I had another item for my bucket list.
I wanted Locke and me not to be a secret. I wanted him to grab me in front of all these people and kiss me passionately, stay by my side and tell me that the sun would come up tomorrow, and for being with him to be okay.
As impossible as people told me winning a Cup race would be, at least there was a chance. All I had to do was push myself harder. With another few races, I felt confident I could get there one day.
But Locke and I being accepted as a couple? I didn’t see how I could make it happen. Not with the way Brody had looked at me. What had he said? You just fuck your way to the top. And he was my brother. Something told me popular opinion would be even more scathing.
Locke and me? That felt like a race I could never win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Locke
The months went on, and soon we found ourselves in June, at the Pocono Raceway.
I hadn’t even watched Tawny, our Run Like a Girl spokesperson, compete in the Olympics. I didn’t even know our Shred Like a Girl’s name. But I’d been to every race that Emma had been in, all twelve of them, busy schedule be damned. I’d never been so protective of an asset as I had been toward Emma, so it should have been obvious what was going on.
I knew it was obvious to Laura, who just rolled her eyes and said, “Talladega?” or “Bristol?” whenever I announced I was going away for a weekend.
I was like Emma’s shadow, her damn bodyguard. Wherever she went, I was somewhere in the background. When she was interviewed, I was hanging by, just off camera. And though I always booked two rooms in whatever hotel we were staying at, we ended up sleeping together. No. Now we needed to sleep together. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was all too easy and comfortable that sometimes I forgot we had to keep things secret.
That was a necessity. Now more than ever. Laura was right that it wouldn’t be good for Emma. Emma had done UnCaged proud. Now, interviewers were starting to notice her for more than just her pretty face and gorgeous tits. After bombing out during the trial in Daytona, she’d come back strong with a twelfth-place finish in the Martinsville 500, done a respectable fifteenth in her hometown course at ISM, then she’d killed it in Bristol with a seventh-place finish. She hadn’t finished in Talladega due to engine trouble, but then at Dover, she’d been in fourth until she was tapped on the last lap and had to take a seat.
People were starting to notice her, and she was getting her due as a tough racer. With Danica Patrick out, she was now the only female NASCAR driver on the field. The ads for Drive Like a Girl had been well-received, and our profits were up twelve percent this quarter. People were starting to give her mad props, respecting her for the woman she was.
I didn’t fucking want them going back to the way they’d treated her at that press conference, like she was a joke.
She had other worries on her mind too. She’d done all her winning with Brody as her pit chief. She hadn’t replaced him like she said she would. I told her that I thought what happened in Daytona was just a mistake, but she wasn’t one for forgiveness and wouldn’t let him live it down. Even so, she told me her race winnings were going to his racing arm.
What she lacked in forgiveness, she made up for in loyalty.
But as stressful as things were all around, they were at least a little easier for me in the suite watching her. Gradually, I’d been able to relax enough to take my eyes off the race to use the bathroom or get myself some food from the buffet. Now, I’d gotten to be a bit of an expert in how Emma raced. She liked to hug the inside and stay away from the wall. If someone tapped her, she’d tap them back. She was vengeful that way. And she liked to come out in front as soon as possible and just stay there as long as she could. She was like a little jackrabbit.
I was excited for Pocono because it was a four hundred, and in the simulator, that seemed to be her sweet spot. Five hundreds started to drag her, and anything less, she didn’t have enough time to stretch her legs. After that almost third-place finish in Dover, I felt like something big was on the horizon.
“How you feeling down there?” I asked her as she and the other drivers made their way to the starting line.
“Okay, boss,” she said to me. She’d taken to calling me that a lot more, ever since I told her not to, which made me smile. She sounded relaxed, happy, just as she’d been when I left her in her hotel room this morning. “Taking your car out for a spin.”
“All right. Take good care of it.” And yourself. Take good care of yourself.
I pulled off the headset and affixed my 77 ballcap onto my head.
“Drivers, start your engines!” the starter screamed into the microphone from the podium out front.
Before this, I had to say I’d been stumbling around the sport. Not wanting to appear like a total buffoon, I hadn’t asked anyone the thousands of questions bubbling up in my head as I watched the races, having to figure it out on my own. By now, though, I was pretty comfortable. Yes, I’d seen a share of crashes, similar to the one that had taken Brody’s arm, but I trusted Emma’s ability.
So when the pace car trailed into pit road, the green flag waved, and announcer Darrell Waltrip said, “Boogity boogity boogity, let’s go racing, boys… and girl!” I was actually enjoying myself. It was impossible not to fall in love with the sport. Everyone was so damn excited, and the enthusiasm was infectious.
This time, contrary to my first race, I was actually able to get out and circulate, schmoozing with the guests. I greeted them all, made sure they were comfortable and had everything they needed, and thanked them for coming. I also provided them with all the number 77 merchandise they could fit on their person.
By the time the three-hundredth lap rolled around, I was in high spirits. As usual, Emma had made it to the front of the pack and was jockeying with Ryan Blaney for fourth. Just a hundred more to go. I could count on Emma to keep it close for the next few dozen laps, and then make her move on him, do a little one-two punch that would leave him scratching his head, sucking her exhaust.
“So, your girl going to make a big move at the end and bring home a win this time?” a voice said behind me.
I turned. It was one of our business partners from up in Pennsylvania. During all these races, we gave private access to our biggest partners who were also NASCAR fans, and Sal was one of the biggest. Bald, large, and brash, he was in his early sixties, ruddy-faced, and built like a refrigerator.
I grinned. “She’s still a rookie, but she’s getting there. Making strides every race. She’ll win one of these days.”
He nodded and took a sip of his beer as he sat beside me at the table overlooking the oval. “Yeah. She’s definitely a hot property to have.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant “hot” in a derogatory way, but he was one of my business tr
ade partners, so I took it at face value. “Yes. She’s definitely going places.”
He laughed. “I know one place I’d like her to go. In my bed.” He bobbed his eyebrows, grinning like a hound.
I turned to him. Was he fucking serious? If he wasn’t one of our biggest business partners, I’d have clocked him. My fists clenched, and I had to tell them to behave. “She’s a serious athlete, Sal.”
He put up his hands, conceding. “Doesn’t mean she isn’t also a hot piece of ass.”
I frowned. Big partner or not, I couldn’t stand for that. So what if his big-box store refused to carry our products? We still had fifty-five other retailers who did. I stood up. “All right—”
I froze when I heard one of the announcers shout, “Oh and there goes number 77. Fire and flames.”
Shit.
I fastened my eyes on the oval just in time to see 77 spinning across the track before colliding with the inside guardrail, then flipping, end over end in a barrel roll, once, twice, three times. Cars soared past, avoiding the wreckage, but my eyes were fastened on the mangled car as it bounced about the track like a child’s plaything. The hood with the UnCaged Fitness logo was ripped open like the top of a tin can.
“… and it still hasn’t stopped rolling from the momentum,” the announcer said through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope the driver, rookie Emma James, will come out of this all right.”
Fuck. I dropped the beer I was holding and grabbed the headset. Brody was yelling Emma’s name, over and over again, with no response.
“What’s going on?” I barked into the mic. “Emma. Answer us!”
Silence.
Heart in my throat, I raced out of the suite and down the staircase, toward the entrance to the field. Meanwhile, the race went on, the yellow caution flag out. By the time I got down to the pit area, the rest of the crew was surrounding her mangled car. An ambulance and fire truck had arrived and were putting out the flames, leaving smoke in its wake.
It hadn’t looked that bad from above, but now that I was close to it, it looked like a crushed tin can. The crew was cutting into the frame, trying to pull her out. Shit, shit, shit. “Emma,” I said again into the mic.