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“Someone call security,” I yell back to the crew behind us who is watching in horror.
I’d like nothing more than to knock Stan’s teeth out and curb-stomp him, but I’m more of a professional than he ever was, and he’s done jeopardizing my career. I’m not going to be on the news for brawling with my father in the team garage.
“You worthless little shit,” he gets in my face despite Liam trying to pull him back. “Too busy chasing pussy instead of winning.”
“Watch yourself,” I shove him back.
“Always were more concerned about that dirty whore…”
That’s the last thing I hear before I drive my fist into his face, and Stan flies back, hitting the concrete. I don’t feel it on my knuckles, I don’t hear the commotion of the guys circling around, I don’t feel Dante’s hand across my chest holding me back.
I don’t feel any of it for several beats until sound returns to my ears, and Stan rolls over gurgling, blood gushing out of his nose on the floor. Security rushes in behind us, and, unanimously, the whole crew tells them that Stan attacked me.
They’ve got Stan handcuffed on the ground, and he’s spitting blood out, sweating and screaming—all the insults I’ve heard a million times before—but I don’t give a shit.
Finally, you’re in cuffs, dickhead.
“Banned.” I clench my teeth and tell security, “He’s never to step foot on any track ever again.” They nod and drag him to his feet and haul him out the back door.
Goodbye, prick.
Someone slaps my back hard, and I turn.
Shit, our team boss, Silas, is next to me, and I have no idea how long he’s been there.
“Good race today, boys,” he crosses his arms over his chest and grimaces at the blood on the floor. Then he takes a deep breath, shrugs, looks to Dante and me, and says, “Drinks on me tonight.”
Dante and I look at each other as Silas walks away then Dante busts up laughing. There’s absolutely nothing funny, other than our team boss shrugging off the blood on our floor, but something about the stress of it and the way Dante is struggling to breathe from laughing so hard, now I’m cackling like a hyena, too.
“I need to clean that up,” I laugh. I’m not asking a cleaning crew to deal with Stan’s mess.
“Ey, where’s a mop?” Dante yells as our crew disperses.
No one offers us a mop, but Dante and I find some towels, shop rags, and gasoline cleans up blood pretty well, we learn. In a few minutes, we’ve got it wiped up, and both of us have tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.
We’re washing our hands in the sink in the back when the exit door flies open again, and Emily sticks her head inside.
“I need help,” she looks at us and waves us over.
We both think Stan’s done something else and rush to fling the door open, but when we do, Emily is trying to lug a twenty-five pound used tire inside. She’s covered in brake dust and is black from the dirty rubber.
“What are you doing?”
“Hurry up, I need this tire,” she drags it another few feet, and I go grab it from her and haul it in through the door.
“Where did you get this?” Dante asks as the tire flops onto the floor where Stan’s blood just was.
“I stole it.” Emily’s out of breath and panting.
My eyes go wide, but she continues, “It was on a rack waiting to go into the Concordia truck.”
“Em, these are all numbered, they can’t go missing,” I run my hands through my hair.
“Shit,” Dante mutters. He knows as well as I do that this is fucked up. Silas isn’t going to laugh about this.
“I’m going to give it back, just help me,” she says as she jogs into the garage bay where the mechanics are working to break down and pack up the cars and gear.
Dante has the good sense to haul the tire into the bathroom to hide it while I chase Emily into the garage. She’s rifling through tool cabinets like a madwoman. “What are you looking for?”
