Racehead

by Daya Daniels

  He examines the steep incline we rest on with an approving nod.

  It’s late at night.

  The white moon shines above and the stars light years away twinkle.

  I inhale and shut my eyes for a moment. Then I grab Banks’ hand and squeeze.

  “I like it here, but I miss home.” Banks frowns and then smiles.

  Believe me no one misses California more than Nevada.

  I miss it too but being here is just super cool.

  Nevada laughs. “Yeah, Banks, I know. I miss it too.” She threads her fingers through mine.

  Banks snatches up the popcorn, picks out a few kernels and tosses them in the air. He catches them in his mouth then passes the box along. I eat some then the box moves to Nevada.

  We’ve been here in the beautiful southeast for a while now.

  Nevada spends a lot of her time right here on the track working. And that means racing. The fans followed her. They never left her even though she had to move from California to pursue her dream.

  Ruby and her nieces run Nevada’s fan club. Nevada had only picked up more people who believed in her along the way as evidenced by her one hundred thousand overzealous Instagram followers.

  I spend more than enough time at the lab working on engines, exploring the science of it all and pushing innovation for the team of drivers I was hired to help make be the best.

  Shortly after Joe Gibbs Racing asked Nevada to work for them, and I finished school and graduated with my bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, they offered me a job.

  I took it of course, floored at the opportunity, and completely unwilling to be away from Nevada for as long as I had been already.

  She loves what she does.

  And I adore my job too.

  Life’s been good.

  After that crazy night back in Riverside, things had settled down somewhat. Banks spends a lot of time with Vijay and he and I have somewhat rebuilt our relationship. Although he still hasn’t explained his absence to us, I believe some day he will. His initial apology to me came in the form of cash. I used to it to get Nevada’s favorite thing in the world back. Then, I paid off my college debt.

  And while Banks and I will never get the years back we’d missed out on with our father, he’s around now. We have dinner once a week with his new wife and kids. The wife is normal. But the kids are a little weird which means Banks and I fit right in.

  A chuckle leaves me.

  Banks wears a cheesy grin on his face.

  Glancing at Nevada, I admire the way her hair dusts her forehead when the breeze washes over where we lay out on the track.

  Nevada smiles. “This is my favorite place to be.”

  “Yeah, we know, we know.” Banks groans.

  “We know you love being here where you get to race every-single-day, going around and around and around on this thing. It’s super cool though, if I must say so myself.”

  I ruffle Banks’ hair.

  “No, that isn’t what I mean, little dude.” Nevada inhales loudly.

  “What did I miss then?” Banks jackknifes to a sitting position and places his hands on the asphalt behind him.

  With a scoff, I roll my eyes and press a soft chaste kiss to Nevada’s lips. “I know what you mean.”

  She winks at me.

  My heart races out of control and crashes.

  The way it always does when I’m in her lane.

  I fall in love with her again and again and again.

  There is no caution.

  Nevada

  THERE’S A TWINKLE IN her eyes…

  One I don’t think I’ll ever tire of finding in them.

  I breathe in the night air, loving it, even though I’m far away from home.

  Ash has visited us here but had stayed behind in Riverside to help Syd run the garage while I’m gone. I miss them badly and I count down the days until I’m back in Riverside, which might not be for a long time. But it’s not so bad here.

  We have more than enough money and a cozy home in a nice neighborhood. Banks loves his new school, and of course, he’s at the top in his class. Now, he lectures everyone on facts about the state of North Carolina.

  I’m not in jail, thanks to Sheriff Abs.

  I used to think she hated me, but clearly that isn’t true.

  She’d let me off the hook more than enough times.

  That time would be the last.

  I apologized profusely for giving her shit from the first day I got my license.

  She only smiled, tapped me on the shoulder and told me to get out of her face.

  I did just that.

  Now, I’m building my career every single day I wake up.

  Most people never get to live their dream, and here I am, racing for a living.

  And it’s all legal.

  It hasn’t been easy.

  I must work harder than everyone else while keeping my sanity.

  I stand among on a handful of other women in this racing league.

  We are the minority.

  Hopefully, one day that will change.

  Some days the fans cheer. Other days they tell me I shouldn’t be here and throw trash at me. I’ve been told it’s all a part of the sport.

  But, still I keep going.

  I just keep doing what I’m doing.

  The warm asphalt beneath me is what I’ll be driving on tomorrow in Sunday’s race. I should be in bed right now but instead I’m here with two of my favorite people in the world.

  “This is my favorite place to be.” I gaze up at the night sky then at Banks and Vashti.

  Banks smiles and shoves more popcorn into his mouth, chomping.

  Vashti grins.

  “Oh, I get it.” Banks cracks up laughing. “You mean here with us.”

  “Yes, I mean here with you guys.” I chuckle.

  And it’s all so perfect.

  “Thanks, Nevada.” Vashti glances my way then tickles Banks and pulls him close.

  My brows knot. “For what?”

  Banks laughs out loud. “For showing Vashti how to change a flat tire!”

  -THE END-

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  Keep scrolling for an excerpt of Breathe!

  BREATHE

  A

  Romance Novel

  BY: DAYA DANIELS

  PROLOGUE

  Highlands, Scotland

  Yara

  “SELFISH BITCH,” I MUTTER to myself, staring down into the fresh hole.

  I glance at the red rose in my hand, admiring its soft petals. I’d left the thorns on because, well, it’s fitting. After I don’t know how many minutes pass, reluctantly, I toss the long-stemmed flower in. It seems to drop in slow motion.

  When it hits the surface of the mahogany box with its fancy brass fittings, I swear I hear a bang. It lands with the weight of an anvil, heavy and solid, denting my soul, confirming that it’ll never be the same again after this.

  The petals that have come loose scatter over the surface, reminding me of how the red rose petals decorated the pink sand on our wedding day five years ago on the beach in Bermuda.

  But that was a happy, perfect day. This, however, is not.

  With the breeze, the petals skitter across the shiny wooden surface again, finding their final resting place.

  The petals.

  This is where they’ll always be, I realize...making their comfortable home rotting with this box, trapped in this hole...just like me.

  I keep my gaze on the mementos that others have tossed in: photographs, trinkets and books—everything that once meant something to her. There’s even a teddy bear in the pile. It’s holding a cluster of hearts with the script writing: I Love You stitched across them. It’s the one I gave her last year for Valentine’s Day.

  I scoff.

  This is all meant to look so pretty. A pretty funeral...

 
; Oh, the irony!

  Everything here is set up to seem so touching when it’s all so goddamn sadistic. There’s even a small blanket with the Chelsea football team emblem on it that partially covers the coffin. A fucking blanket! Since when do the dead need to stay warm!

  Focusing back on the rectangular hole, I simply stare. The long-stemmed rose I’d tossed in rolls with the breeze. It comes to a stop right in the center of the coffin. I’m not sure how long I look at it, examining its position, mentally taking a picture of everything in my view, cataloging it for when I need it in the near future, when I’m shoulders deep in a bucket of scotch and singing along to Johnny Cash.

  Standing straight, I gaze up at the gray sky and then out at the endless watery expanse of Loch Carron that’s calm from the cliffs. Even beneath a thick blanket of gray, this place is picturesque. “It’s breathtaking,” as she’d always called it.

  The cool air whips around me, taking my long, dark tendrils with it. My eyes burn each time I blink and my nose is on the cusp of bleeding. It’s freezing!

  Shoving my hands deeper into the pockets of my wool coat, I sniffle. God, I’m tired of crying. Looking around, people head back to their cars that are parked along the winding road that edges this very ancient burial ground. Others wait around, likely for me. To give their condolences. To express their regrets.

  I don’t want them.

  I wish they’d all just leave me alone—allow me my sadness, my anger, my fucking rage.

  After five years of marriage, I’m a widow at twenty-seven years old...

  I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

  After this day, the final day, I’d decided that I wouldn’t cry anymore. My tears would be for others—for those who wanted to be loved—for those who wanted to live.

  Not

  for

  this

  bullshit.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One Year Later

  Yara

  THIS WAS NEVER MY idea...

  Kicking a few cardboard boxes out of the way angrily, that take up space on the floor, I clear a path so that I can get around the large den. With a groan, I move the last one out of the way. I pull my shawl sweater closed tightly. I make my way over to the window that’s come ajar from the winds outside that have picked up. As I get close, the cool air skitters over my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I freeze for a moment and stare out at the deep blue sea, taking in its beauty with a growl before I shut the window with a bang.

  My first name should be Ebenezer for the grouch I’d become in the last year.

  Dragging my index finger along the dirty sill, I bring it to my face inspecting the layer of dust on it. I’d need to clean this place from top to bottom. It’s on the list. It’s on the very long list of things I need to do. I’d been in this dilapidated shit hole for a year now and all I’d really managed to do was successfully build up my alcohol tolerance and rack up a whole bunch of credit card debt.

  Yet, still I’m here.

  I’m here and she isn’t.

  It’s the story of our lives...

  Brushing my hand off on my ratty jeans, I back away from the window and spin around. It’s nearly black in here, despite that it’s eleven in the morning. Normally, I’m not a late riser but for the past few months I had been. Mostly because of the late nights and the raging insomnia that I’d had ever since that day.

  At least I ate. I slept but it was usually during the day, in the hours that most people were awake and going about their productive days. It’s as if I’m trudging through quicksand with quicksand in my boots. So, you can imagine I’m moving s...l...o...w.

  I move across the room, still clutching my shawl sweater closed, sniffling from the dampness. I amble over to each window, pulling the cold, dusty curtains back exposing the dirty glass. Each time, I stop to admire the beauty of this place outside. I’m not sure I can appreciate it, truly, even though I can’t deny it’s there.

  And it is beautiful.

  Green. Green. Green. It’s everywhere.

  It’s.

  Ever.

  Green.

  Plockton, Scotland.

  Often referred to as the “Jewel of the Highlands.”

  This tiny village is in the Highlands of Scotland in the county of Ross and Cromarty, facing east, on the shores of Loch Carron. Population—roughly four hundred people. When I think about that, I nearly break out into hysterics.

  Only she could convince me to leave my rent-controlled Lower East Side apartment that was a block from my favorite pub, quit my barista job and make a home on the opposite side of the world, in a touristy town where we knew no one and no one knew us. I’d told her it was crazy! That the mere idea of owning and running a bed and breakfast when we had no clue about business or hospitality was an insane idea.

  But she smiled.

  And I got all wrapped up in that smile.

  Eventually, I agreed.

  I’d emptied my savings and agreed to buy an old, abandoned property here with her that I’d never seen before. All I knew then was that it was a fifteen-thousand-square-foot stone structure set on five acres of open land that overlooked the sea. It had eight bedrooms, eight and a half bathrooms, two kitchens, two dens, a rather large library, and a wine cellar. I, however, did not know that the property was four hundred years old. Surprise, surprise.

  Soon after that, we left New York City and vowed never to look back.

  Besides, we had nothing there except for each other and a smattering of friends. I wasn’t close with my family and her parents had moved to Chicago the year before.

  Something told me it wasn’t the brightest idea ever to move here but the hopeful soul inside of me wanted to believe I was making the best decision for us.

  After we got here and settled in, we spent our days looking for used furniture and picking out color schemes for paint, searching for handymen: carpenters, masons, electricians, plumbers. The one that we’d hired had fixed a lot but there was still more work to be done. By the second week, we’d already blown through our budget after buying a used car—a 1993 Saab 900 hatchback.

  We’d drastically underestimated how much this would all cost. And after a few days of reviewing cost estimates and tallying up the major work that had to be done on this fixer upper, I knew it was already turning to shit.

  We’d discovered some issues with the property that the previous owner hadn’t disclosed before selling. Caveat emptor or “let the buyer beware,” of course bounced around in my cynical head but there was nothing we could do.

  The check had already cleared. The ink had already dried on the agreements and the deeds to this place were already in our hands. There was no turning back.

  We’d be here for good.

  We’d named this place “The Cliffs” because of its location and had a sign made in burgundy and cream (the colors she’d decided on), making it all official.

  We relaxed for a week by the huge fireplace here, roasting s’mores, making love, and talking about our hopes and dreams for the future and of starting a family. We’d decided that we’d have a girl and a boy and that their names would rhyme: Casey and Maisie. I laugh at the sweet names that only she could’ve picked out.

  A week after that she was dead.

  We’d only been here for a month when it happened.

  I flinch out of my daze at the reminder and continue my task about the room, opening the heavy, dusty drapes. The sunlight assaults my eyes but warms my sallow skin.

  Spinning around, I eye all the furniture that we found here that’s still covered in plastic, boxes of our belongings that I still hadn’t gotten around to unpacking yet and the dirty walls that need to be painted. This place could be a gem with a sizeable cash injection but I know there’s no way it’d be coming from me. I’m broke as a joke and running out of time.

  The best thing for me to do is to prepare this place for sale—purge myself of it and everything it represents.

  But I didn’t know where I’d
go from here.

  Back to New York City? Back to my parents in Buffalo who I hated and who hated me? Crawling back to my old minimum-wage job in the Meatpacking District?

  Still, I hadn’t decided.

  I had no plans. I couldn’t see past this afternoon, let alone where I’d be in the next week or month or year. I’m navigating unchartered trails with no idea where I’m going. I’m lost, I suppose, which doesn’t really make much sense. Since how much more lost could you ever get when you had no direction in the first place?

  Looking at myself in the massive mirror that hangs over the fireplace across the room, I brush my wavy hair away from my eyes and huff, blowing the dark unruly strands everywhere. I look like shit. I feel like shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  The only friends I have now it seems are Marlboro and Jack Daniels.

  Why am I drinking American whiskey when I’m in Scotland...the world-famous origin of scotch whiskey, you might ask? Well, it’s the only American thing here that I have left. When we first moved to this crap can, I brought three cases of it with us. I have one left and I plan to finish it all (don’t judge).

  Nowadays, I avoid people like the Hollywood stars do the paparazzi, which doesn’t help much seeing as everyone around here is so goddamn friendly. They invite you into their homes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They stop by to check on you, offering what little services they can, free of charge. They bring you things like sugar and milk, cold medicine and even chicken noodle soup. Stuff like that.

  I’m from New York City. Certainly, I’m not used to this.

  But with all the attention I’d been getting since being here, still I hadn’t been taking care of myself much, since lately I was spending most of my days tending to tiny things I could do around this place myself to cut costs: painting, washing down floors, dusting, etcetera. My hair is much too long and it’s been ages since I wore makeup. Do I even know where that stuff is?

  Standing, I twist from side to side, taking in the sight of my very Middle Eastern features.