#Swag (GearShark #3) Page 4

  Drew snorted. “On a scale of one to ten?” he asked. “Twenty.”

  Oh, good. Something to look forward to.

  Not.

  Lorhaven

  Scrap metal.

  Not fixable.

  Totally fucked.

  All of these things describe the condition of my beautiful white Corvette.

  Once we got it back to the hangar, it looked even more hopeless beneath the bright, harsh beams of the floodlights.

  Refusing to admit defeat, I went over that car like I was searching for gold. Arrow helped, even though I knew he thought it was hopeless.

  After several hours and a long moment of silence, I pulled a cover over her and called it.

  Dead on arrival.

  Arrow offered me the Camaro. I wasn’t going to take my brother’s car. He loved it the way I did the Corvette. We had a few other cars in our hangars. They were all nice cars. A Nissan, a Dodge, even an older model Corvette.

  I drove around in a Mustang for a week.

  It wasn’t a Fastback, but I felt like a Forrester wannabe.

  So I sold it.

  It didn’t take more than a day. All I had to do was put out word I was selling one of my cars. One of the drivers I was accustomed to seeing around my races bought it. Paid all cash. I didn’t ask him where he got all that cash, because I didn’t really care. It was green, and it increased my bottom line.

  Personally, I thought it was pretty fucking stupid for the guy to buy my car, because I knew he’d show up at my races with it. He’d never beat me driving a car I practically built. I knew all the nuances of the Mustang. Unless he did a lot of work under the hood, I’d beat him without even trying.

  But he would pick up some wins on my turf when I wasn’t racing. Maybe he didn’t care to be the best like Kurt. Maybe he just wanted to be better than he was now.

  I could respect that.

  I looked through listings for another Vette. Even test drove a couple. It didn’t feel right. It was sort of like trying to replace a favorite pair of jeans. It didn’t matter if they were exactly the same, because the original was always better.

  In short, I was in a goddamned pissy mood.

  And I’d never say it to anyone, but my neck fucking hurt. Guess having my head snapped back in the wreck pulled a muscle or some shit.

  The morning of my GearShark interview, Arrow got up and left the hotel room early. I figured he was going to get some coffee and breakfast. I took a hot shower and put on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with my sponsor logo on it.

  It hadn’t taken long for a few offers to come my way. I held out, though, until the best one came along. Ted Bayer was one of the three men who owned the New Revolution Racing corporation. He was rich and connected. His main business was a huge tire company that had chain stores in every state in the country. He had his hands in other businesses as well, but it was Brickstone Tire’s logo that was prominently displayed on most of my shit.

  When Arrow walked in the room without any coffee or food in his hands, I gave him a WTF look.

  “You didn’t bring me any coffee, asshole?”

  Arrow grinned beneath the baseball hat he wore. “Brought you something better.”

  On the way to the elevator, I shoved my wallet and phone into my jeans and gave him the death glare until we stepped outside on the brick sidewalk of the hotel.

  I stopped in my tracks at the sight.

  I glanced between Arrow and the object parked there. “You did this?”

  He grinned like he thought he was fucking brilliant. “Dude, you’ve been like an old man with a bad case of the gout and some extra-large hemorrhoids lately.”

  “Fuck you,” I told him, still staring.

  It was a fucking Lotus.

  A pristine Lotus Elise.

  This car was basically mystery and sensuality wrapped up in a two-door package. There was a lot of racing history and some mighty impressive wins around the Lotus Elise. It was the kind of car people would drop their voices an octave when they spoke about it.

  It just had that kind of majestic pull.

  Lotus was actually a well-known brand in my circles, the manufacturer having basically pulled off a Hail Mary.

  A few years back, a lot of car manufacturer’s in Britain were going under, and it appeared they would be going down with them. But the company threw every last resource they had into the Elise.

  And it paid off.

  It literally saved the entire brand.

  That’s the kind of magic I was talking about here.

  And sitting not twenty feet away was a damn fine specimen.

  Plus, it was white.

  I approached the car slowly, studying every line and curve on its flawlessly designed body. The wheels were black satin in a lightweight Y-shaped cast. The front tires were sixteen inches, while the back were seventeen.

  The rounded vents behind the two doors were fierce. Round taillights anchored the word

  L O T U S spelled out between them. The roof was a removable hard top and installed auxiliary lights on the front. It was a small sports car, only enough room for two, but my God, it had a presence.

  Frankly, it was giving me a hard on.

  “Where the fuck did you find this?” I asked Arrow, glancing over the hood to where he was standing on the sidewalk.

  You can find anything on the internet.

  He searched for a car for me.

  And he found this.

  I was in awe.

  My momentary come to Jesus moment was interrupted when someone flung over the driver’s door and got out.

  I stiffened and rushed around the hood to the man.

  “Who the fuck are you!” I demanded. Did he think he could just steal this car?

  My car?

  He cleared his throat and looked at me. I snarled. He was wearing a pair of dress pants that were too short and gave a nice view of his dress socks and shoes. His shirt was tucked in like it was shoved so far into the back of his pants his ass probably could taste it.

  What the fuck was a douche like this doing even touching my car?

  Arrow glanced at me. “He owns it, Lor.”

  I laughed.

  The man with the keys and bad pants frowned.

  “You own this car?” I scoffed.

  “I’m a car collector,” he replied, his voice tight.

  I shook my head. A fucking shame.

  He probably never even drove this beauty. It probably sat in his temperature-controlled garage and wept every night when the lights went out.

  I glanced at the car. I’ll save you.

  “Sorry about that, man,” I said, approaching him and offering my hand. “I thought you were trying to take off with it.”

  He cleared his throat and shook my offered hand. “Your brother says you’ve been looking for a new car.”

  I nodded. “This one for sale?”

  “For the right price.”

  Fucking businessmen. Always thinking they could get one over on someone like me because I looked like some rich boy who only wanted to impress his friends with a shiny new toy.

  “One point eight-liter engine. Toyota, right?”

  The man’s gaze sharpened a little. “Yes.”

  “Five or six speed?” I asked.

  “Five.”

  I pursed my lips. “Zero to sixty in four point two seconds, zero to one hundred in four point six,” I said as I walked around and admired the body some more. “Two hundred seventeen horse power, and a max power at one forty-five?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  I scoffed. “I could make it to one sixty.”

  “It’s a good design,” he said. “Speed wasn’t sacrificed for safety. This model has both.”

  I nodded. It would have even more speed when I was done modifying it.

  I motioned for Arrow. “How about a test drive?”

  “Well, I’ll need to ride with you,” the man said, glancing at Arrow.

  I plucked the
keys out of his hand. “Not necessary. I’ll handle her with kid gloves.”

  “You can’t just take my car,” he protested, his voice hard.

  I pulled my driver’s license out of my back pocket and handed it to him. Then I handed him the keys to Arrow’s Camaro.

  “Here’s some collateral. You can’t expect me to pay for a car I’m not even able to drive.”

  “You can’t expect me to let you drive off with it,” the man retorted.

  “I have an interview with GearShark Magazine.” I shrugged. “Can’t be late.”

  “GearShark Magazine.” He scoffed.

  “I’m a driver in the NRR.”

  His eyes turned speculative. I shut that shit down instantly.

  “Here’s the deal. I’ll drive her. We’ll meet back here in, say, three hours? If I like the car, I’ll give you sixty grand on the spot. Cash.”

  “This car is worth seventy!” He fumed.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “No. It will be worth seventy when I’m done with it.”

  “You can’t just give me a number and expect me to take it,” the man argued. “And you aren’t leaving here with my car.”

  “Fine.” I held the keys out between us.

  Over the hood, Arrow watched with apt interest.

  Hope you’re learning something, little bro.

  “Excuse me?” the man asked, staring at the keys.

  “You don’t like my number or my terms? I’m sure you have another buyer willing to give you seventy grand on the spot.”

  The man’s mouth drew down.

  He knew as well as I did he wasn’t going to get seventy grand for this car. Maybe if it were brand new and had some upgrades, but as is?

  He could go fuck himself.

  “I’m gonna need the keys to my brother’s Camaro back.” I held out my hand. “And my license.”

  He glanced down at the stuff he was holding. His eyes seemed to sharpen on my ID.

  “You’re the Lorhaven who drives for Brickstone?”

  “One in the same,” I drawled, impatiently motioning for my shit.

  “Well, I guess it would be okay if you took the car for a bit.” His hand curled around my ID like he intended to keep it.

  I think my price just went down to fifty-five thousand. Asshole.

  Without another word, I turned and slid into the driver’s seat. There was less room in here than in my Vette, but I liked the way the car seemed to hug my body.

  The engine purred when I hit the button to start it up, and the man on the sidewalk stood there like he was in shock. I rolled down the window.

  “See you in a few hours,” I said, then drove off.

  Arrow looked over from the passenger seat. “Nice choice for your next car.” He grinned.

  I held my fist out to him above the leather console.

  The interior was all black leather, trimmed with Alcantara in red.

  “Good looking out, bro,” I told him as we pounded it out.

  Out on the main road, I opened her up. She responded beneath my hands better than any lover ever had.

  Damn, this was a sweet car.

  “So?” Arrow said when I downshifted as I approached Gamble Speedway where the GearShark team would be waiting. “You gonna buy her?”

  “Thinking about it,” I replied, wondering why I said that and not an immediate hell yes.

  We turned into the Speedway lot and coasted across the pavement.

  I wanted the car. This was the closest I’d come to driving nirvana since the Vette was totaled. Yet for some reason, something held me back from saying so.

  There was a slight hesitation to my usually quick willingness to pull the trigger.

  And it wasn’t the price tag.

  As I steered through the smaller gates into the stadium, I caught the distinct sight of a bright-yellow Skyline.

  Nah, it wasn’t the money. It was something else.

  Joey

  My hair.

  There was so much of it, it got its own sentence.

  My mother was Latin. Yes, the irony of a Latin woman living it up in Paris was not lost on me. She was all curves, dark hair, and olive-toned skin. She was a gorgeous woman, actually; it was the reason she’d caught my father’s eye and managed to become his third and final ex-wife.

  I’d inherited a lot of features from her, like my endless curves and the thick mass of dark, curly hair, which frankly, I found unruly and sometimes bothersome. My skin tone wasn’t pale, but it wasn’t quite as olive and golden as some Latin women. That was courtesy of my father, along with my height, for which I was grateful. I had so many curves I couldn’t imagine trying to pack them all into a shorter frame.

  At least being five seven, the length of my body attempted to slim out my hips and chest.

  Not that it worked much.

  So many days, I’d cursed my womanly body. Working in a male-dominated field—correction—a field where men thought they were God’s gift to women, I’d wished more than once my chest was flat and my booty was, too.

  Even so, I didn’t often cover up my curves with baggy, oversized clothes. I tried that; it only made me feel like I was wearing a sack, and I still got lewd comments and propositions anyway.

  Always out of earshot of my father or any of his loyal employees of course.

  And I never said a word. I wasn’t about to run back to my father and tattle. I was a big girl and I could handle a bunch of dicks.

  Not literally. Figuratively.

  Physically, I preferred my dicks one at a time.

  :-)

  I didn’t dress suggestively either. Frankly, I didn’t have to. My body had the ability to turn any outfit into something I worked.

  Usually, on the track, I wore leggings and tank tops covered up by jumpsuits I had made with all my sponsor logos and brands on them.

  I wasn’t in a business where I necessarily had to dress for the part. Although, I had a feeling that might be changing in the next couple months.

  Or, um, right now.

  That’s where my hair came into the equation.

  We were the first to arrive on the set of the interview. Once again, GearShark had a whole team of people on standby to make the interview and shoot happen.

  I’d never done a photoshoot before. Sure, I’d had headshots done, but it was from the shoulders up. Photographers my father hired would never dare take a full-body shot of his only daughter.

 

  On occasion, at races, the press would capture shots of me, usually when I was half dressed in the jumpsuit and it hung around my waist like I had a giant sweatshirt tied there.

  I’d been in magazines before. Never a feature article, though.

  At first, I’d come into the pro racing circuit thinking being a female might actually help me. It might set me apart and grasp some attention.

  It set me apart all right. From everyone.

  Sure, some magazines ran articles about me, never more than half a page, and they were always accompanied by the kind of shot a photographer accidentally snapped when he was taking shots of some of the other drivers.

  I knew for a fact some of those paps had shots of me on the winners’ podiums, but none of those pics ever made it public.

  Conspiracy? I tried to think not.

  Some days it was hard.

  The second Drew, Trent, and I got out of the car, we were surrounded. It seemed the team today was the same team from both Drew’s and Trent’s feature interviews. Both of them had graced the cover of GearShark, and both those issues had sold a lot of copies.

  Especially Trent’s because he was sans his shirt.

  I was whisked almost instantly into hair and makeup. The stylist took one look at my very long, very curly strands and asked me if I would allow them to blow it out.

  I laughed.

  But she was serious.

  I told her it would take hours.

  She patted my head as if to say, “I’m a professional. Wat
ch this.”

  Game on. I liked my hair straight; it was something to be able to run my fingers through it. I also liked the way it reflected light when it was sleek.

  But getting it straight?

  Nearly impossible.

  I was a wash-n-wear kind of girl. You know, I’d shampoo, condition, and then use some products to attempt to make it controllable.

  Then it would air-dry into ringlets that took on a mind of their own.

  A lot of women envied it.

  It wasn’t that I thought it was ugly; it was just a pain in the ass. I couldn’t even cut it. I did that once, in a fit of rebellion.

  I looked like a pyramid for an entire year.

  I was invited into a small trailer where my hair was washed, conditioned, and some other stuff. Honestly, I stopped paying attention because one of the girls handed me a mimosa.

  When the blow-dryer and styling tools came out, so did my earbuds and my playlist.

  I actually kind of liked sitting here being pampered like this. I hardly ever got my hair done. I hardly ever got to just sit and relax. I was too busy of a person, always on the move.

  Being forced to sit while my hair and makeup were being done was a welcome respite.

  They even waxed my eyebrows.

  I might have been offended it was taking so much effort just to get me photo ready if I cared enough what they all thought.

  I wasn’t a model. I was a racecar driver.

  Trent and Drew were in and out of the trailer. So was Emily, the woman doing the interview. She said she wanted to interview both of us at the same time.

  I tried to talk her out of it.

  That only seemed to make her want to do it more.

  Finally, I was done. The stylist turned me around in the swivel chair and pointed me at the mirror surrounded by lights.

  I did a double take.

  Slowly, I reached up and pulled the earbuds out of my ears and leaned forward.

  My hair looking amazing. So good it almost made me jealous. I glanced through the mirror at the two girls standing there. “How did you do this to my hair?”

  “Blow it out?” she asked.

  “Make it behave,” I replied, glancing back at the mirror.

  It seemed darker this way. Almost black. Maybe because it was so shiny, almost like glass. And smooth… I didn’t even know my hair would go this smooth. My fingers combed through the strands falling down my chest. It was even longer now; it fell past my breasts.