#Swag (GearShark #3) Read online

  It was pretty much luck a lot of my sponsorship contracts were up for renewal this winter. It was the perfect time for me to make the switch.

  “GearShark wants an interview,” he stated, not responding directly to my words.

  Shock had me gawking at him like he’d just announced baby aliens landed on the roof and would be moving into my bedroom.

  “With me?” I asked, dubious.

  “Why not you?” he asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “You know why,” I replied. “You know I never get as much mention as the men.”

  “Like I said, they’re interested in the rumors you want to leave the pros and cross over into indie territory.”

  It kinda pissed me off they were calling now. Like the only reason I was suddenly worth interviewing was because I was doing something they probably thought was foolish. I could imagine the headlines now:

  Female racer can’t hack it with the pros, goes indie!

  or

  Ron Gamble’s daughter making a big mistake.

  “Tell them to call someone else for the empty corner in the back of their rag,” I told him. I didn’t even care I sounded bitter. It was hard not to have a chip on my shoulder when it felt like everything worked against me.

  “It’s a feature interview.”

  I glanced up. He’d shocked me again. Why in the hell would the fact I wanted to go indie make me a featured headline?

  It didn’t matter anyway.

  “You told them they were barking up the wrong tree, right?” I said, settling back into the chair, disgruntled.

  “Actually, no.”

  I glanced down at the scotch in my hand. What the fuck was in this? I was hearing things. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Dad chuckled; it was a warm sound. His looks had changed over the years. His hair had become peppered with grey, his face more creased with lines.

  But his rich laugh never changed.

  “A feature interview is a good opportunity for you. Look what it did for Drew and the NRR.”

  “What are you saying, Dad?” I sat forward. I was ready for the bottom line.

  “Finish the pro season strong, get the media good and interested in you…”

  “And…?” I pressed.

  “And then I will transfer your sponsorship contract over to the NRR.”

  I jumped up out of the chair, a wide smile splitting my face. “Really?”

  He chuckled again and nodded. Then, like any parent, he had to go and ruin it with a bunch of conditions and yapping. “But Hopper is going to manage you.”

  “But what about the pros?” I asked, perplexed. Hopper worked with me and the rest of the pros my dad sponsored now.

  “I’ll find someone else to help take his responsibilities.”

  I frowned. I liked Hopper. Working with him was definitely not a hardship. He was a friend, but I didn’t want him to feel like he was being pushed out of a job he loved just to babysit me.

  “He wants to do it,” Dad said, reading my face.

  “He does?”

  “Apparently, no-rules racing appeals to him as well,” Dad quipped.

  I grinned.

  “You’ll also be attending more events with Drew. He’s the face of the NRR, poised as the first champion. His press will be good for you.”

  I nodded, readily agreeing. But then I scowled. “People are going to say I’m only sponsored by you because you’re my dad.”

  I hated it. But at the same time… my father opened doors for me.

  “Prove them wrong.” He challenged. “Just like in the pros.”

  A wave of fatigue washed over me. How many times did a person have to prove themselves? I wanted a fresh start… not a new beginning of the same thing.

  As I grappled with my own thoughts, he continued. “When you aren’t at pro races, you need to be at indie ones.”

  I just nodded. I already planned on that anyway.

  “It’s basically double the work.”

  He listed all these conditions like they were somehow death sentences and things I wouldn’t be thrilled to take on. He seemed almost regretful he was agreeing to transfer my contract.

  “I’m not afraid of hard work.” Even if it does make me exhausted. It was a point I felt I shouldn’t have to make. I worked harder than any other driver he sponsored. I didn’t say it out of arrogance; it was merely a fact. A fact my father well knew.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking tired. “The indie world is different than the pros. The drivers are of a different…” He searched for a word. “Caliber.”

  It was like a megawatt lightbulb flickered to life inside the darkened areas of my brain.

  That’s why he doesn’t want me in the NRR.

  I forgot about proving myself. I forgot about the work I was taking on. I was transported backward. To a different time. “I’m not that girl anymore,” I said, tight. “I haven’t been for a long time.”

  “A division with no rules might be tempting, though.” He cautioned.

  “Who’s talking right now?” I asked, my voice low. “My sponsor or my father?”

  “Both.”

  I wanted to laugh. If he only knew half the crap I dealt with being the only girl in my world, he wouldn’t even be bringing this up.

  “I can assure my sponsor I’m not a bad investment. You’ve seen my driving, and you know my work ethic. I won’t do anything to jeopardize all the time and effort I’ve put into getting myself where I am today.”

  He nodded. “I know. It’s the reason I’m agreeing to this.”

  So it was really just the father in him talking, then.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Dad.” I vowed. “It wasn’t the pros that straightened me out or the rules of the division. I grew up.”

  His voice was gruff. “I know I don’t say it often, but I’m proud of you, kid.”

  That meant something to me.

  No. Not something.

  Everything.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “The interview with GearShark is next week. All the details are being sent over.”

  A giddy feeling rose up inside me, like I was suddenly filled with all the bubbles a soda came alive with when it was first poured into a glass. “I’ll be there.”

  I started for the door, assuming the meeting was over. I would heat up his dinner and then head across the house to where my rooms were and maybe take a hot bath.

  “Joey.” His voice stopped me.

  I turned back.

  “There’s something about the interview I haven’t told you yet.”

  Of course. Hadn’t I known I couldn’t possibly escape with only the third degree? “What’s the catch?” I asked.

  “It’s not a solo interview. There is another driver being interviewed as well.”

  I laughed, a harsh sound. I’d known it was too good to be true. For whatever reason, I alone wasn’t a good enough story. “Who?” I asked, already pissed at the unknown person.

  “He’s an indie driver. I think they want to do a dual point of view about the potential crossover.”

  Of course they did.

  “Who is it?” I asked again. Knowing it wasn’t, but hoping it was going to be Drew.

  “Lorhaven.”

  The bottom fell out of my stomach. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I fumed, swinging fully around to face my father. “That guy is a class-A asshole. And he hates pro drivers.”

  “Which is probably why they want his perspective.” My father pointed out, the business tycoon in him recognizing the spin the magazine could put on this.

  I made a rude sound.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind.” He reminded me.

  I made a face. “I’ll do the interview.”

  I wasn’t about to back down. It was exactly what men like Lorhaven wanted.

  Everyone, including GearShark, thought they had the upper hand. They thought I was just some piece on a chessboard, a rook instead of
a queen.

  They were wrong.

  I’d prove it.

  All of them could kiss my ass, including the man who thought he was so epic he only needed one name.

  Lorhaven

  It never gets old. The feeling behind the wheel of a car breaking barriers, of carrying a man faster on land than he ever thought he’d go.

  Adrenaline spikes through my blood like fuel through a fuel injection line. The juice hammers beneath my skin, making my hands jitter, but my foot is steady and sure as it tamps down on the gas.

  Even though I’m sitting, the physical aspect of driving is intense. My heart rate spikes like I’m sprinting on a treadmill, sweat slicks beneath my clothes, and I’m so immersed in what I’m doing, the concentration almost hurts.

  But it’s a good kind of hurt. The kind a man like me craves.

  It doesn’t matter what kind of track I’m on, who I’m up against. The second my tires squeal off the starting line, it becomes a little less about who’s on the road with me and a little more about pushing myself to the max.

  I love the control of driving. The absolute power thumping beneath my palms and purring through the engine of a jacked-up car. I’m at the helm here, in complete command of the machine rumbling beneath my body. My only limits are my own.

  The back end of the Corvette turned out, drifting forward to lead as smoke from the burning rubber of my very expensive tires saturated the space around the white body. Even though I was inside the car, I knew what it looked like to all the people lining the streets.

  It looked fucking badass. So fucking bad it was good. Almost ethereal, with the white fog lifting and the sleek, shiny white body cutting through it with perfect precision.

  Just when it seemed I might drift too far, I cut the wheel and put the end back where it belonged and hammered the nose forward to shoot ahead on the last straightaway.

  Behind me, a Dodge Charger came in fast, nosing close to the back of my Vette and putting pressure on me to move or get taken out.

  I laughed.

  Beneath my grip, the steering wheel obeyed my every command. The car swerved in small, decisive jerks. Right—left then right—left again.

  The Charger behind me jerked, thinking they were going to power around me, but they should have known better by now. I came back solidly in front, cutting him off and stomping on his hope.

  I guess I was the kind of lion who liked to play with his food before taking the fatal bite.

  Aggression and frustration of the driver in my rearview crackled in the air, and I pressed down on the gas, milking my car for even more performance. The engine responded, and I glided forward, creating more of a gap between us.

  His emotions were starting to cloud his driving. I could sense it almost immediately. It left a foul taste in my mouth. Those emotions were going to be his downfall.

  Not the fact that he had any. Hell, we all did.

  But they didn’t belong in a street race.

  Turns out I was right. In his haste, he pressed down on the NOS injector installed in his car. I heard the groan of his engine even over the purring, smooth hum of mine.

  The Charger shot forward, making mincemeat of the distance I’d put between us, and came in hot on the fender of my Vette. I swerved over, but it didn’t matter.

  The kid behind the wheel couldn’t hack the power. He didn’t have enough knowledge to use the muscle he’d just summoned.

  Time slowed down. My own breathing echoed in my lungs as he lost a split second of control. A split second was sometimes all it took.

  The front corner of his car slammed into my fender, sending my ride in a wide circle. I drove into it, not fighting against it, knowing I could use the momentum of the hit to spin myself back out, straight over the finish line.

  He wasn’t so lucky.

  The Charger flipped and began to roll.

  I had a prime view through my windshield as my car swung around.

  Coming up behind the AWOL Charger was a car I knew very well. The black Camaro my brother always drove came dangerously close, and every muscle in my body locked up.

  “No!” I yelled and started fighting my car, intent on putting it into submission.

  The Charger rolled and flipped over the pavement as if it weren’t a huge, heavy piece of metal, but an acrobat performing some fabulous routine.

  My attention zeroed in.

  The Vette shot forward, fishtailing a bit as I forced it out of the spin and surged forward, now driving in the complete opposite direction I’d been going.

  A bleached-blond head was my focus. Through the windshield of my brother’s car, I saw his eyes round, his shoulders tense, and his hands white-knuckle on the wheel.

  When a man was driving as fast as we all were, everything happened so fast, often way too fast for there to be enough time to anticipate or even react.

  By the time my brother saw the wreck in motion, he was already so close even slamming on his brakes wouldn’t stop him from becoming a casualty.

  The fucking Charger headed right for him. They were going to collide, my little brother landing underneath.

  Remember how I said you couldn’t let emotion get in the way of driving?

  There was an exception.

  Family.

  My little brother.

  I forced my eyes off him. I couldn’t let it paralyze me.

  My foot punched the gas all the way to the floor. I rarely did that; there was never a reason to. Pushing my car to its absolute max was never a necessity.

  Until now.

  The sound of my tires on the pavement was so loud it echoed through the night. The end of the Charger bounced off the pavement and catapulted into one more rotation, the rotation that would land it on top of my bro.

  It was a split-second decision. One I would have made even if I had five minutes to consider it.

  As the car peaked in the air, my Vette slid beneath it, and I hit the emergency brake hard and swerved the wheel with more violence than I usually treated my ride with.

  The car jolted around. My body slammed against the door and bounced off, and the car continued the sharp U-turn.

  My back end smacked into the Camaro, shoving it sideways, as my car took up the spot my brother was supposed to be.

  I threw the car into reverse and hit the gas again. I didn’t even bother looking where I was going. I just went.

  The Charger dropped out of the sky like a plane in full engine failure.

  Crunching metal, shattering glass, and loud groans filled my ears. The impact of the Charger on the Corvette felt like my body hit a wall of water from a twenty-foot drop. The harness strapping me in tightened painfully as my body jostled once more. The airbag deployed, punching my body and robbing me of air. My head snapped back, the taste of blood slicked my tongue, and then everything fell silent.

  * * *

  The kind of silence that follows destruction is always sort of eerie. Kind of like the calm after the storm… you know, where everything around is taking stock of what the fuck just happened and how much damage there was to recover from.

  I blinked, my movements sort of sluggish as I pushed at the airbag filling my vision. The weight of my arm moved it enough that I got a close-up view of how close I came to being a pancake on this dark back road.

  The Charger lay upside down across my hood. It teetered there like a seesaw in the wind. Shattered glass lay everywhere like rubble, and the headlights cast a glare off to the side of the road. The body of the Charger was mangled and dented, the paint partially scraped off from the tumbling, and windows all blown out.

  My own windshield was filled with a thousand cracks, making it look like a giant spider web. All it would take was the slightest nudge and the entire thing would crumble.

  The sound of metal scratching against metal caused chills to brush over the back of my neck.

  All at once, everything seemed to burst into motion again, and the sounds of people yelling filled the air, and the body of my
car jolted like someone was jumping on the hood again.

  “Lor!” a familiar voice screamed. I heard the alarm, the scared-shitless tone, and my body stiffened.

  I grappled for the handle to get out, but the goddamn airbag wouldn’t get the fuck out of the way.

  “Lor!” he screamed again, and my door was ripped open. Night air came whooshing inside the stifling cab.

  The airbag was shoved away, and my brother’s bleach-blond head appeared. Worry lines creased his face, his eyes frantic.

  “I’m fine.” I assured him and reached for the buckles on my harness.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” he yelled, ripping away the ends of the harness after I unhooked them.

  I didn’t take offense because the underlying fear in his tone cut me.

  I didn’t want you to die. That’s what I’d been thinking.

  “You okay?” I asked, pushing out of the driver’s seat to stand. I was a little unsteady, but I pushed that back, refusing to show any kind of weakness, even after I was almost fish food.

  I spared a glance at my once perfect icy-white Corvette. The entire front end was crumpled in, the hood bent up around the Charger at odd angles. Smoke from my tires and the scent of burning rubber and brake fluid tinged the air.

  My car was likely totaled. I wasn’t going to be able to fix the damage done. It totally fucking sucked because this was my favorite car.

  “Me!” Arrow scoffed, reminding me I was supposed to be making sure he wasn’t hurt. I focused back on him as he shoved at the long strands falling over the side of his head. “You just drove head on into a wreck.”

  I gave him a smirk. “But did I die?”

  “Your mouth is bloody,” he said, not finding humor in my joke.

  I dabbed at my teeth; my fingers came away red. I shrugged. “Bit my tongue when the airbag deployed.”

  “Don’t do that again,” Arrow said, his voice a little hollow and low.

  I glanced up sharply. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes like wide, white saucers in his face.

  “He was headed right for you.” I dabbed at my mouth some more, not taking my eyes off him.