Page 6 of Heartbreaker

“The difference is you’re here for eye candy, honey. We all know it,” Liam says, looking down at me. Right now, I wish I wasn’t undercover so I could kick him in the balls.

Instead, I use my words to tear him down.

“Didn’t you come in dead last in the finals last year?” I ask, my face becoming contemplative as his jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

“Well, I mean—” he starts, but my lips tip up.

“And you made it to the qualifiers by the skin of your teeth.” The reserve driver managed to earn enough points to qualify, though it did him no good.

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” he says, face turning red, though I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or irritation.

“Oh, that’s not me being a bitch. If I were being a bitch, I’d bring up how you’re just pissy because you’ve been holding out for that lead driver position and keep getting passed over. You’re pissed that the company decided to bring in a woman who hasn’t driven in years rather than promote you. Saying that would be bitchy. Before, I was just pointing out facts.” There’s a chorus of ooohs as I smile pretty at him, trying to portray indifference rather than the irritation simmering in my veins.

Liam is a reserve driver who subs in when there are injuries or days off, or for larger venues that allow more trucks to compete. There was an opening for a month that Liam was unofficially filling before Rome came in to take the spot on a more permanent basis. For that reason alone, he is high on our list of suspects, since removing a driver or two could bump him into the normal rotation.

Before Liam can defend himself or I can give one last parting shot, a familiar, low voice joins the fray.

“Don’t let them get under your skin, Lana. Jordan’s just mad you wouldn’t give him the time of day even if he were the winner,” Rome says, walking up to our small group with a cocky grin, his helmet dangling casually in his hand. “Which he’s not going to be, because we all know I’m going to sweep this. Plus, I’ve been watching her at practice—Lana’s pretty fucking good out there. Maybe if you attended practices, you’d have an actual shot at a win.” He speaks aloud what I noticed as well: Jordan hasn’t been to many of the practices, skipping any of the optional ones, and rolling in late to the required ones. When he races, he doesn’t have the smooth, natural grace that Tyler and Rome do; instead, he looks choppy and out of sync.

Truthful or not, Jordan clearly isn’t happy being called out like that, and it becomes obvious when he turns his ire to Roman.

“Maybe you should worry less about me and more about yourself. I’ve been to enough practices to know you still can’t land a flip.” There’s a knowing tone to his voice that raises my internal alarms, but instead of focusing on him, I watch Roman’s reaction carefully. That’s why I’m able to see it: the tiny crack, the smallest chink in the armor.

The temporary fall of the devil-may-care mask he wears, revealing disappointment and shame beneath. He’s frustrated he hasn’t been able to land the trick, and he’s annoyed that people around him have noticed.

When I snuck into the arena to check how tight the security was and see who would notice if Demi and I came in to add cameras and microphones, I was surprised to find Roman practicing alone. That is, until I realized he was there trying over and over to land what I think was a front flip, the same trick he was doing when he crashed.

Looking back, I realize Rome hasn’t landed any front flips, his signature move, since the crash.

“I don’t need to flip to kick your ass, Jordan. I’ve been doing that for years,” Rome says. Jordan opens his mouth to say something, but just then, an announcement comes over the speakers telling us to get into our trucks. He rolls his eyes before turning away without another word. The other drivers follow suit, leaving just Rome and me.

“Time to show you what a real winner looks like, baby,” he says, voice low and smooth, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t warm my belly.

God, I’m such a sucker for an asshole.

I shake myself out of my stupor as he slides his helmet on, the visor lifted to reveal his dark blue-gray eyes and not much else. He goes to step away, but I reach out, grabbing his wrist and tugging him to face me. He lifts an eyebrow as I step closer until there’s barely a foot between us.

Yes, Roman DeLuca is an asshole. That much is terribly clear. But he’s also our closest tie to the sabotages, and despite what I told Demi, I know I’m going to have to spend time with him to figure out if he has any idea who may be at the bottom of this. That being said, I also need him and the rest of the men here to respect me, to view me as an equal. I’ll never earn that if Prince Smarmy swoops in and makes it seem like I can’t fight my own battles.

“Don’t do that again,” I say, looking up at him and trying not to feel small in comparison.

“Do what?” he asks, annoyingly oblivious, and my jaw tightens.

“For one, call me baby. But I meant don’t stick up for me like that. I had it handled. They’re never going to stop looking at me like some dumb blonde who doesn’t even know how to drive on the turnpike, much less in an arena if I can’t fight my own battles.” Anger is battling with frustration and an unexpected hint of disappointment as I stare at Roman.

I knew when I accepted this assignment that I’d be the only woman driver—the first in some time. I expected some backlash, some barbed words and off remarks, but I didn’t expect the way it would poke at old wounds of not fitting in or questions if I was qualified to be here.

My dad was an all-star motorcycle racer and got my two older brothers into racing dirt bikes and go-karts from a young age. They really excelled at ATV racing, which meant we would spend our summers touring in an RV, going from race to race. Because I was along for the ride, I got into it as well, which sounded more fun than spending my summers bored and annoyed.

And it turned out, I was good—really fucking good.

Unfortunately, no one accepted me; I was always the girl driver, the one no one took seriously, not even when I would sweep the awards. When I started, I had a pink ATV and matching helmet, feeling cool and badass and pretty, or as much as an eight- or nine-year-old could. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I was only putting a spotlight on myself, making myself even more of a sore thumb. By the time I was twelve, I had an all-black ATV and setup, always wore my hair pulled back tight, and went by Al in the standings, short for my full name, Alana.

No one took me seriously if they thought I was just some ditzy girl, but a racer named Al wearing all black and kicking ass? That caught some eyes and, most importantly, respect. Eventually, I blended in with the circuit and was accepted, but only as the tomboy version I’d created.

The very first instance of me becoming the Chameleon, of changing myself to fit in.

“I need them to respect me,” I say with a hint of pleading I can’t keep out of my voice.