Page 22 of Battle Scars

“Well, I’m not a big fan of being grabbed by my clothes and hauled around,” I reply.

“If you can’t see me, I can’t see you,” he repeats himself for the eighty millionth time today—or the third, but whatever. At this point, I get it, but what he has to get is that this is my job.

“Yep,” I snap. “I was there for this convo the first three times. I get it.”

“And if I can’t see you, I can’t protect you,” he tells me.

My spine stiffens. If he thinks for one second, I’m going to let him, his team, or some stalker keep me from racing, letting Bobby gain the upper hand, he’s lost his damn mind.

“But surely, on the track⁠—”

“I can’t have you on the track alone,” he says gently, as if the softness of his tone will lessen the blow of his words. It does not.

“Gabe,” I plead. I hate the exasperation in my voice and that my life isn’t mine to control. “I have to practice. If I don’t, I can’t win.”

“What good is a win if you’re dead?” he counters.

“Well, seeing as I stand to lose my entire family legacy if I don’t win, it matters a fucking lot,” I snap, letting out more than I want to share about this fucked-up deal with the devil.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I try to change the subject. “Why don’t you post the guys around the track. One of them up there. You can see everything from the media box.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he practically growls. “What are you talking about?”

“The media box overlooks the whole track⁠—”

He cuts me off, “You know that’s not what I mean.”

I sigh. I mean, what does it even matter at this point? I’m fighting a losing battle, and he should know what his safety precautions will cost me. “My dad made an announcement,” I explain. “It’s all over YouTube. He’s retiring, and he’s having Bobby—another driver—and me compete this season for control of the company.”

“I thought DHR was a family company,” he prompts.

“It is,” I reply sadly.

“And you’re his only child,” he states, like he’s telling me something I don’t know.

“That’s open for interpretation,” I sigh. Apparently, I was born with the wrong external parts to run a billion-dollar racing empire.

“What does that mean?” he asks as he studies me thoughtfully.

“My stepmom is pregnant.”

“And you’re unhappy about that?”

“Not at all,” I answer honestly. “Babies are a blessing.”

“Then what?”

“I can’t lose this,” I admit. “The world thinks I’m not good enough, because I’m young, because I’m a girl. I have to show them I deserve to stand at the helm of DHR, the company my grandfather built.”

“Then where does Bobby figure in?” he asks.

“He’s a good driver,” I respond. “I’m better. We grew up together. His mom worked for Dad.”

“Does he have a chance?”

“More than I want to admit. I’d like to say it’s a shoo-in, but nothing is final until you’re dead,” I say, frustrated because it feels like my life is imploding. “I need to get on the track.”