#Swag (GearShark #3)

by Cambria Hebert

  I hadn’t even used to do that, until of course the tampering started. Until a lock had become necessary.

  I should have known this was coming. I should have prepared for it. Although, how did someone prepare for something like this exactly?

  I felt like the “preparations” I’d made up until this point had been to harden myself, my heart, and feed the chip on my shoulder until I could use it as a shield.

  The thing about shields?

  There was always one weakness. Always something that could penetrate to hit its mark.

  I’d been busy with my life, with friends who came to town to see me, additional press and travel. With Jace and the way he made me feel.

  I dropped my guard. My shield.

  I knew better.

  This was my punishment.

  I went to the sinks, turned on the cold water, and splashed my face. The icy droplets helped rid some of the fog weighing down my thoughts. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t an option. I needed to think, to act.

  After I used a crappy paper towel from the dispenser to pat my face dry I pulled the clip out of my hair and let the dark curls spring forward.

  I studied myself in the mirror above the sink. I looked deep into the green eyes staring back at me.

  Was this really worth it?

  It always seemed no matter how hard I tried, it just was never enough.

  Despite my best efforts, a tear escaped. With absolute loneliness, I watched it trail down my reddened cheek. Another fell. And another.

  I loved driving, the thrill of speed, and spending my days behind a wheel, not at a desk. Was everything that came with it finally starting to break me down?

  A sob broke free of my throat, and the dam burst open. Grabbing another paper towel, I buried my face in the scratchy paper and cried.

  My body shook like a thunderstorm. I cried out of humiliation, loss, and even defeat.

  All these years of being strong, of never letting it break me down… It ended in a win today… Then that win was swiftly stolen away.

  I allowed myself to cry longer than I wanted. Actually, my body took over and seemed to pour out so much despair I was frightened. Which, of course, made me cry more.

  Eventually, I sniffled, lifted my chin, and stared down at the torn, saturated towel in my palms. Slowly, I looked up. For once, my reflection showed what I was really like on the inside.

  Broken. Kicked. Torn down.

  The skin around my eyes was swollen and red. The fair skin on my cheeks was splotchy and hot. Dry, cracked skin coated my lips, and the end of my nose was raw from the stupid paper towel.

  There was a smudge of dirt on my cheek, likely from the race… and it flooded me with memories of the first night I spent with Jace. Of the way we went at each other and the way he looked in that dirty T-shirt.

  I started to cry again.

  What if I lost him along with everything else that had already been taken?

  I tossed the ruined cloth in my hand away and retrieved a fresh one. After mopping up my tears a second time and wiping my nose, I threw it away and washed my hands.

  Enough was enough. Standing in a bathroom and crying wasn’t going to change anything. Walking out of here with a face giving away how I really felt was going to be embarrassing enough. If I still wanted to cry later, I could do it in the privacy of my hotel room.

  Pity party for one was now cancelled.

  At my locker, I entered the code and opened the door. My brown leather hobo bag waited for me in exactly the same position as when I placed it there.

  I wasn’t quite ready to go back out there with everyone, to face the questions, the conversations… the looks. I stalled for time by unzipping the jumpsuit I was wearing and stepping out. It smelled like sweat and gasoline. The back was damp from how badly the sweat pooled between my shoulder blades. Beneath it, I was dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and a simple gray loose V-neck T-shirt made of combed cotton.

  The brush of cool air against my previously confined skin was like a kiss from Jace. Teasing but refreshing. Soft but exciting.

  I had to take off the boots tied on my feet to pull off the suit, so I sat down to quickly do so, but when I went to put them back on, I couldn’t. I was so tired… Instead, I reached into my hobo and found a pair of flip-flops. I was stuffing everything in my bag when the door to the locker room opened and slammed shut.

  I glanced up, thinking it was Jace, not objecting at all to his presence. I kinda wanted it right now. I just wanted to feel his support. I needed it.

  I knew almost instantly, though, it wasn’t Jace. My back stiffened as someone stepped around the row of lockers into sight.

  All the little nagging thoughts, the suspicions my subconscious held close, rushed to the surface. Along with it came humiliation, defeat… anger.

  “If I were you, I’d turn around and get the fuck out,” I said, grabbing my bag and slamming the locker door closed with a bang. It made a nice exclamation to my words.

  “Joey, Joey, Joey,” he intoned, stepping forward. “You look like you’ve been crying.” He made a sad face, and in that moment I knew true hate.

  Dean Cannon was an arrogant bastard who thought the world revolved around him. He wasn’t a large guy, standing about five seven, with a slim build and a head full of brown hair. He definitely wasn’t my cup of tea—or my cup of anything really—but I knew a lot of fans thought he was a heartthrob.

  He liked to remind the entire team of that whenever possible.

  He had his own line of T-shirts, some with his name on the back. He also had a couple endorsement deals, one of which pretty much made him a household name. Well, for anyone who watched TV and paid attention to commercials.

  My father sponsored him, along with a few other big companies, but it was the deal he had with my father that made him part of my “team.”

  Technically, drivers weren’t on teams. But my father sponsored quite a few drivers in the pro division. Our headquarters was at Gamble Speedway. Everyone had apartments there. The garages and mechanics were there. Hopper and a few other managers were there.

  We drove together a lot. We occupied a lot of the same training facilities, and we used the same team of people to get us ready for races.

  Everyone got along with each other, but no one really got along with me.

  I was the outsider. The driver who remained apart even in a crowded room. People recognized it. I downplayed it.

  Because really, I didn’t care.

  Not much, anyway. Okay, fine, sometimes it hurt like hell. Sometimes, I felt like a kid in kindergarten who stood in the back of the class while a popular kid handed out party invitations, waiting for mine, but it never came. Everyone got invited to the party, everyone but me.

  Why not me?

  When we were at work, I was all business. I ignored the jokes, the looks, and the occasional snide remark. I didn’t go out for pizza and beer or watch old racing tapes after hours in the headquarters media space.

  I was nice to everyone on staff, but I earned the reputation of being aloof. I knew some people assumed I thought I was better than the other drivers. Some thought I was spoiled by Daddy. I never denied it, but I never confirmed it either.

  It didn’t matter, though, because I learned sometimes silence had a price. Some people always wanted to believe the worst or revel in the drama, and since I never said anything, they continued to do so.

  It bothered me, but in the grand scheme of things, what did it really matter? My job was to drive, to be a professional, and to win races.

  Today you didn’t win. Today it was all taken from you.

  Looking back, and looking at Dean right now, maybe I should have been a little less professional. I’d allowed him and the others to get away with too much.

  Hiding behind the stereotype.

  “The press is already having a field day with this.” Dean guffawed, placing his hands in the pockets of his dirty, sweaty racing coveralls with a smug look on
his face.

  “That was your intent, wasn’t it?” I said knowingly. “To discredit me with the press and take away my win today so I looked worse than you after you tried to take me out and caused a metal pileup on the track.”

  An angry glint covered the truth in his eyes. “Are you implying I’m the one who fucked with your car?”

  “Oh, I’m not implying it.”

  His hands yanked out of his pockets, his arms pumping when he strode forward. I stayed planted where I was even though my skin crawled with his nearness.

  This is the first time I’ve been alone with him since that night.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he warned.

  I tipped my head to the side and studied him. “You mean like before?”

  His eyes flared. “You haven’t forgotten about that yet?”

  I smirked. “You wish I would, don’t you?”

  His blue eyes narrowed. It was such a beautiful waste of color on him. His dark soul ruined it.

  I stepped forward, challenging him. I refused to show any kind of fear or intimidation toward him. It’s what he wanted, and even if my hands did tremble a bit with our confrontation, I was too conditioned to let it show.

  I’d become very good and hiding the worst of my weaknesses.

  “Is that why you fucked with my car? How’d you do it, Cannon? Did you sneak in yourself after you ate my dust today, then wrecked during your temper tantrum on the track? It wouldn’t be the first time you messed with my car.”

  His face soured. “I didn’t modify anything.”

  “So who did?” I asked. “You pay someone on my pit crew?”

  His eyes flashed. “You’re a little bitch, you know that?”

  So that was it. That look I’d seen on that guy’s face. Cannon paid him to modify my car; he paid him to make me look like a cheat.

  The worst part? I was sitting in the goddamn car while it happened.

  “No, Cannon. You’re the bitch. You’re such a bitch you tampered with my car because I beat you today. Not only did a girl blow past you out on that track, but I was stealing all the pro spotlight, wasn’t I? I was getting all kinds of new attention because of the crossover.”

  The muscles in his neck corded like he was having trouble containing himself. I guess the truth hurt. “Publicity? No one gives a fuck about you or your career. The only reason you’re here is because of your daddy.”

  “So you keep saying,” I retorted, bored. I’d heard him say that so many times I practically heard it in my sleep.

  “You couldn’t even get a magazine cover on your own. They had to put a guy next to you because no one would have picked it up if it was only about a woman driver.”

  That stung, probably because part of me believed him.

  “If you think I’m going to keep my mouth shut about today you’re on crack. There’s no way in hell I’ll watch my entire career go up in smoke.”

  “After today, you won’t have a career,” he growled.

  “After today, you won’t either.” I vowed.

  His eyes widened just a fraction. It made me feel like shit. Did he really think so low of me? Did he really think he could push me this far and I wouldn’t push back?

  Of course he did. You’ve allowed it before.

  “You shouldn’t have come in here, Cannon. But you just had to gloat, didn’t you? I might have suspected it was you before, but now I know for sure.”

  “You don’t have the proof.” He smiled.

  “I’ve got my word. And I have a direct line to the man who signs your biggest check.”

  All the color drained from his face, and he rushed me. I flew back, my body slamming against the locker doors as I tried to avoid his hands.

  Memories rushed me… feelings, thoughts… fear. I made a strangled sound, trying to get away. He shoved me back again. My head bounced off the metal and I shoved out at him, determined to fight.

  You know what sucked about being a woman? Being physically weaker than a man.

  He body-checked me. Pressed himself up against me and rubbed like he was a cat on a scratching pole. “I know you missed this,” he crooned, reaching for my breast.

  I spit in his face.

  The mean, spiteful look I’d grown used to appeared in his expression. His hand shot out, grabbed me by the throat, and pinned me up against the wall. I grabbed at the hand with both of mine, trying to claw him off.

  He only squeezed tighter, lifting me so my feet were off the floor and dangled over the ground. I dug my nails into his arm, and he cursed, but it wasn’t enough to make him let go.

  I gasped, desperate for air.

  “Listen here, you little bitch,” he snarled. “You keep your damn mouth shut, go over to that farce of a division for the poor, forgotten indies, and let the real men handle the pros. You don’t belong here. You never did, and you never will.”

  I brought my knee up and rammed it into his balls.

  His eyes about popped out, his hand let go of my throat, and I dropped out of the air, down the locker, and hit the floor with a hard slap.

  I grabbed my throat, wheezing and gasping for breath. Even though his hand was gone, I still felt like he was squeezing it. I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  Panic tinged the edge of my vision, and I rolled and sat up. I barely made it; gasping for oxygen was all I could manage. Cannon’s body folded in on itself. What I could see of his face was beet red.

  I knew I needed to get up, so I started to stand, throwing my hands out to brace myself. With a sound of rage, Cannon launched himself at me, tackling me to the floor, and pinned me down.

  “Get off me!” I roared, but it sounded like a squeak. He hit me. Pain bloomed across my cheek.

  Tears burned my eyes. I was so incredibly frustrated and hurt.

  “You just keep trying to show me who’s boss, don’t you?” He pushed his face down into mine, spittle from his lips spraying me, and I cringed back. “Maybe I should show you who’s really the boss, once and for all.”

  Fear, genuine and piercing, clawed me. On impulse, I ripped one arm from beneath him and drove my thumb into his eye.

  He yelled, and I shoved him off, scrambled to my feet. Dean jumped up as I lunged away, grabbed my arm, and yanked. When I spun, I brought along my fist and caught him right in the face.

  “Argh!” he yelled, his head snapping back. Blood spurted from his nose. Pain exploded in my hand, but I clung to the feeling. It made me feel alive.

  He recovered way faster than I would have liked and struck out.

  His fist caught me in the lip. I felt the skin split and the warm trickle of blood. My head buzzed with adrenaline and anger. My hands shook, and inside my chest, my heart pounded. I dabbed at my lip. My fingers came away red.

  He laughed like the sight of me bleeding made him happy. Like it proved something.

  “Keep your bitch mouth shut or it’s going to get way worse for you.” Cannon threatened.

  I wiped the blood on my leg and faced him. “How exactly is it going to get way worse for me?” I snapped.

  He started to scoff, like I was being stupid, so I swung out, hitting him again. Right in the nose a second time. He howled, this time falling back into the lockers, and brought a hand up to cover his nose.

  My chest heaved. I felt years of pent-up frustration and refocused anger shift and zero in on him and everything he’d ever done to me.

  “What are you gonna do? Stick some more maxi pads to my car? To my locker? To the bathroom stalls? You gonna hang tampons from my rearview mirror and put them in my drinks when I’m not looking?” I advanced on him, heaving. Tears rained from my eyes, but I didn’t care anymore. I was wild with anger and misery. I felt ruined, like I’d hit rock bottom.

  How did it come to this? How did I end up disqualified from a race, humiliated, and in a literal fist fight with a man?

  My eyes drilled right into his, and I took another menacing step forward, he act
ually shrank back against the lockers even more, still holding his bleeding face.

  “You gonna take my car again? Park it across town in the ghetto in an alleyway? Took me an entire day of searching to find it. You know how much that shit cost me? I had to buy all new rims and a stereo system.”

  “Shut up,” he rasped, finally pulling his hand away. Blood coated his palm, his eyes were already shadowed, and his nose was swelling.

  I hoped to God it was broken.

  “Why?” I cried. “You don’t like to hear all the shit I’ve put up with from you without so much as a whisper of complaint?” I yelled. “Well, too damn bad! You’ve pushed me too fucking far!”

  I couldn’t stop now. It tumbled out of me with such force I wondered how the hell I’d kept it in all this time.

  “What about the night y’all invited me to a team party? I thought, Shit! These guys have finally decided I might be worth driving with. I thought maybe I’d actually see some of the comradery the rest of you showed each other. But I didn’t get that, did I, Cannon? I walked in to you holding an inflatable doll with my racing suit on it. Jacobs was fucking it right there in front of you. Did you get off on seeing him get off? Did you take a turn next? You’re a sick fuck.”

  He gasped. “Not another fucking word.”

  “Oh, and then there was the time you came in the locker room without me knowing and took photos of me in my bra and panties while I changed. You taped them up in the garage. But that wasn’t as fun, was it? Because Hopper found them. You still cleaning toilets for that?”

  He took a step forward, clearly promising to hit me again. My lip stung where he’d already done so, but I refused to back down.

  “But that’s not even the worst of it, is it?” I whispered, still pushing him, even seeing he was ready to snap. “Then there was that night…”

  He roared and lunged forward. The bloodied hand he’d had against his nose struck me, slapped across my face, and with it, I felt the warm smear of blood. I stumbled, saw my bag nearby, and picked it up, swinging it at him. It hit him in the face, and I took off running.