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Well, maybe she shouldn’t get what she wants. Maybe this time I should turn her down, then what will she do? Her perfect reputation will go down the drain, and she’ll no longer get the “best drivers.” At least not me anyway.
I slam my laptop shut a little too hard, and I cringe. But it doesn’t stop me from stomping to the kitchen in desperate need of a cold drink and some lunch.
I yank open the fridge and hastily grab the ingredients to make a sandwich. I toss them down on the counter harder than necessary, and the bottle of mustard pops open, squirting all over the place.
Fuck.
I grab a sponge and clean up the mess, all while cursing the stupid mustard and the stupid bottle cap.
This chick is just so perfect, isn’t she?
She knows everything about racing without even getting in a race car. How fancy.
I slap down two pieces of bread and yank the meat out. She’s a woman in a man’s world. How much can she really know?
She doesn’t race. She doesn’t get behind the wheel of the car, feeling the engine rumble through her as she attempts speeds that make her heart pound and her stomach twist.
She doesn’t risk her life for money, for this career, for the damn thrill of it. Or to just escape the problems.
I throw my sandwich together, and it comes out looking like a big ole mess. I don’t bother with the mustard. I take a bite and hardly taste it, forcing myself to swallow.
A part of me wishes I’d never looked her up. I can’t standhereven more now.
I should say no just to fuck up her day.
But then I remember my meeting with Jim, andI slam my sandwich on the counter.
I didn’t want to fucking eat it anyway.
* * *
The doorto the pits slams shut behind me with a loudslam!I don’t stop until I reach my Chevy truck. In seconds, I peel out of the lot, my tires squealingin the process.
Fuck Wes.
And fuck Jim. I hate saying that about him, but dammit if he didn’t just piss me off.
No one wants to believe me anymore. Just because my past sucks doesn’t mean my present or future will be the same.
Jim’s words spin around in my head, and I try to make sense of them, but I just don’t fucking get it.
I stop at the grocery store on the way home to grab some beer and steaks. Axel’s coming by for dinner in an hour.
After prepping the meat and leaving it to marinate, I pop the beers in the fridge, grabbing one for me, and flip on the TV.
I slide onto a barstool. My kitchenisland ismy table because I use my dining room asmy gym. My house iscomfortable and spacious, yet I didn’t have a spare room for a gym. One extra bedroom is currentlybeing used asan office, and the other is for storage for all my racing gear and awards.Easy solution,considering I don’t host big dinner parties last time I checked.
The news plays across the screen, and when her face appears, my hand freezesmidwayto my mouth, and the beer slips through my fingers, crashing onto thecountertop.
The beer goes everywhere, dripping off the sides and onto the floor. Fuck!
Grabbing a dish towel, I throw it on the spill and sprint to the bathroom for more.
What in the hell is she doing on the news? Is she that goddamn important?
And why in the fuck am I seeing this chick everywhere I go now?
“Alright, Coach D. I get it,” I say out loud as I walk back to the kitchen with more towels. “You want me to accept the sponsorship.”
