CHAPTER ONE
Emma
Crouching into ready stance, my hands grew hot and slick under my gloves. Lifting my helmet, I wiped a lock of hair from my face, only to find my forehead dripping with sweat too.
Dammit. This was not the time to show nerves. Not here. Not at the ISM Speedway, where babies need not apply, and the men sure as shit got separated from the boys. I replaced the helmet on my head, dipped the shield, glad to have its thin barrier to hide my face.
The track roared to life like a buzz saw, something that would’ve been deafening if I hadn’t practically been raised on racetracks. Fans in the stands above screamed and cheered. I pushed my helmet back, waiting, waiting. I flared my nostrils, inhaling that heady scent of gasoline and exhaust. I loved it. Daddy said I had motor oil in my veins — it made my heart pump.
He wasn’t wrong.
Now, my heart was pumping double-time as cars looped around, coming close to pit road. I gripped the pneumatic air gun in my hand, ready for Brody’s first pit stop.
Brody, the little shit. My big brother, but only by ten months.
Irish twins were what people sometimes called us. Growing up, we’d been inseparable, though we got in fistfights almost daily since we both inherited the James’s family famously bloodthirsty competitive gene. We’d never had much money, so it almost killed me when my parents told me they could only back one of us financially. I’d known before they even said it which one of us they’d choose.
The eldest.
The son.
The decision had broken my heart. Especially since I was, at least in my opinion, the better driver. The more daring, anyway.
I watched the chosen one hanging behind the air draft of blue car number seventy-three and wondered why he was pussyfooting around. He was such a softie, more of a girl than I was, the way he spent hours in front of the mirror, primping.
Own it, Brode, I silently transmitted to him. Show them what you can do.
He would, I knew, but not until later in the race. That was Brody’s signature move. Start coy, tentative, the dopey little tortoise, then come out full-throttle later, making them wonder what had hit them in the end. Me? I was all hare, all the time. I wanted to be front of the pack, from the first second to the last, air draft be damned. I didn’t want anyone ahead of me, didn’t want anyone showing me up.
It didn’t matter if the track was dirt, concrete, or asphalt. It didn’t matter if it was oval or winding across a desert, long or short, I loved it. And I wanted to win.
Especially now. Not when there were still macho assholes around who thought that a woman had no place going over the wall and should be home, barefoot and pregnant, the kids underfoot.
I looked around. Jonesy, the jack man, had the jack ready, but he was forty and had been doing this since before I was born. Tom was the gas-man and six feet of pure chocolate muscle, fresh out of the University of Arizona at Tucson. He gave me lifting pointers sometimes. It was his job to deal with those eighty-pound gas cans, but he lifted them like they were pillows. Albert, the other tire man, taught me everything I needed to know about changing tires on the fly ten years ago. Those guys, I could trust.
Who I wasn’t so sure about? The Sandersons, Jay and Dan, twins out of U of Minnesota, former college wrestlers. They were our new tire carriers, and this was their first race as part of the James crew. Cocky and good-looking, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes whenever they strutted in, exuding machismo like cheap cologne. My dad hired them because they’d done a stint in the Cup as part of the Stewart-Haas racing team, bringing Kurt Busch pretty close to a win. They had an impressive resume, and with Jonesy getting older and our average pit time ticking up to over fifteen seconds, we needed speed.
Jay sidled up beside me. “I like the way you’re holding that gun, girl,” he said with a sly wink. “After the race, I’ll give you something else you can hold, if you’re good.”
I turned to face him nose to nose, my lip curled up in a snarl. Whenever we were alone, they regarded me with one of two things — disgust or lust. That was one thing about working in a male dominated sport. Once you got down to the pits, there was no shortage of men who thought offering up blowjobs to the men who did the “real work” was a woman’s sole purpose for being down there. They were especially hot on attractive women, which they apparently thought I was. But really, any female with female parts qualified for the less-than-human treatment.
Now, though, it was time to show them my real purpose.
I pointed the gun at him and revved it a few times. “If you want me to use this on your lug nuts, Mr. Sanderson, I’d be happy to.”
He pushed his helmet back, revealing a sly grin behind the shield. His eyes raked over me, and though I was wearing a men’s cut yellow suit that covered me from head to toe, you’d think I was in a skimpy bikini by the way he licked his lips.
“I don’t know how you were raised in Minneapolis,” I continued, waving the gun at him, “but this isn’t the wild wild West, and the men I work with have better manners.”
He shrugged, which only riled me more. “You gonna go tell your daddy I made you cry?”
My fists clenched. Cry? Not likely. He didn’t scare me. This was Avondale, near Phoenix, near where I’d been born and bred, and no one waltzed into my house and gave me shit. I was more of a country girl, raised in a little town called Wintersburg, fifty miles west of the city proper. There wasn’t much in that town but a general store, the Tin Top Bar and Grill, and the auto shop and gas station my daddy owned and operated. That, and a pretty damn good racetrack my brother and me carved into the dirt out back. Two things Wintersburg had a hell of a lot of — dirt and space. And Brody and I’d made the most of them.
Tom nudged him, a glare in his eyes. “Cut it out, dude.” He leaned over the wall so that his apron sagged as his gloved hand wrapped around the enormous gas can. “Come on, Em, our boy’s coming in.”
I whirled. Sure enough, Brody’d gotten out of the blue car’s shadow and was sailing toward pit road. I crouched again, at the ready as the car revved, tires screeching as it sailed into the stall.
Fifteen seconds of controlled chaos. That was what these pit stops were. I wished I had time to ask Brody how he was doing. That was the mom in me. He’d seemed even more cautious than usual on that last lap.
But there wasn’t time to even breathe the wrong way now.
Instead, the six of us jumped over the wall in unison, like a dam breaking open. Jonesy got behind the hydraulic floor jack and raised the right side of the car as Tom jockeyed for position at the left corner, attaching the fuel filler, the gas can propped up against his shoulder. The two of them had been doing this so long that it was a blink-and-you-miss-it thing.
Heart thrumming in my ears, sweat pouring down my temples, I was already down on my knees, spread low, removing the five lug nuts with my gun. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop, that was all it took. They flew everywhere, skittering over the asphalt behind me, hitting my shield. I’d done this hundreds of times, so nothing surprised me anymore. Next to me, Albert was doing the same thing, slightly slower than me, I thought with satisfaction. Jay, my tire carrier, rolled the new tire in, slapping it in place, then rushed off to throw the old one over the wall and grab the next one. With another five quick pops, I had it set.
Had to do it quick but thorough too. It wasn’t unusual for a driver to lose a tire, and guess whose fault that would be?
Yep.
Jonesy dropped the car as I ran around to the side nearest the wall, sliding against the tire. I unscrewed the lug nuts even as Jonesy was lifting the left side up. Jay ripped the tire off, got the new tire on. Another few pops and my job was done. I scrambled away as Albert was finishing up, grinning with satisfaction. Tom wiggled the gas tank to alert Brody, meaning job over. The instant Jonesy dropped the car, Brody dropped the clutch and tore off into the oval.
Breathing hard, feeling proud of myself, I started to retreat over the wall when a muscular body came up behind me and a hand gripped my ass hard through the canvas jumpsuit.
I whirled to find Jay grinning at me. “We make a good team, girl,” he said, and his lecherous grin was impossible to miss beneath the shield of his helmet. “You’re impressive. But I’ll want you to take it nice and slow when you’re sucking my dick.”
Dammit. It wasn’t like I was the first girl ever to go over the wall. Plenty of women had done it. Maybe it was because I was little and slim, and boys always said I was pretty, that made them forget that I was deceptively strong. I gave him my sweetest smile. “You know what’s even more impressive?” I asked coyly.
He leered down at me like the Big Bad Wolf. “What?”
“My right hook.” I revved the gun again in his direction. “Touch me again, and you’ll be getting real familiar with it.”
I jumped over the wall, dropped my gun, and flexed my back, forcing my mind away from the asshole and back on Brody. My brother had better appreciate the shit I had to deal with. My parents had always given him the best of everything, just because he was first. And, well, a man. They’d thought it would be easier for him to secure sponsorships to get him into the Cup, the big leagues. They poured all their money and time into his career, leaving me to play supporting cast, his backup.
“Don’t worry,” my brother said to me after he’d gotten his shot at this race, the Grand Prix 200, a two hundred miler I’d been salivating for. “When I make my first million at Daytona, I’ll make sure you get your chance.”
But dammit, my fingers itched to be out there now, tightened around a steering wheel. My foot ached to press down on a pedal, and all I wanted out of life was to be sailing around the track with everything blurring around me. In motion. Free.
I stalked behind the wall, head down, past the rest of my team. Instead, I had to be in too-close quarters with scumbags like the Sandersons. It just didn’t seem fair.
“Good job, Ems,” my father said, massaging my shoulder, his eyes never leaving the white stock car at the far end of the track, the one that carried his firstborn and most of his life’s savings. “You’re getting faster.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled, leaning over the concrete barrier. I wished I could say the same for Brody, who was once again hanging in someone’s draft. “He’s being too cautious. He needs to make a bold move or else he’ll never place.”
My father didn’t respond to my comment. He likely couldn’t hear me anyway, with the roar of the cars and his earphones on. I was hard on my brother, for sure, but that was because he had everything I’d ever dreamed of, so I was allowed to be. If I’d had that chance, I wouldn’t be cautious. I’d kill it, go all-out.
“Give it here,” Jonesy said to me, coming in for a high-five. “That was good. This team is going places this year, I tell you.”
I met his gloved hand and grinned at him, but my father heard that. He ventured a look into the stands. “If we can get a sponsor, maybe.” Worry lined his face. “Can’t get much further without one of those.”
“It’ll happen,” I told him. There’d been lots of interest already. After Brody had gotten first in the Cally 200, his third first-place finish in a month in the Xfinity Series, word was out. Our phone hadn’t exactly been ringing off the hook, but yesterday, we’d gotten a call from a big-time auto parts store that seemed promising.
“I hope,” my father said, just as the screech of tires filled my entire universe, and we all craned our necks to see what was happening on the oval. As if my worst nightmares were coming alive in front of me, Brody’s white car must’ve been tapped by another car, because it was spinning out, fishtailing and whirling until it was facing the wrong direction.
My spine straightened. Shit.
Had he made that bold move I’d been willing him to make? Bold moves were risky, and they needed to be made with zero hesitation. Had he—
The rest of it happened so quick, too quickly, I could hardly react. The next car smashed into my brother, T-boning his car at full speed, sending it airborne.
Adrenaline and dread hit me, my heart speeding up as time stood still.
Brody. Brody’s in there.
His car hung, suspended in the air, for one heartbeat, two, before coming down on the driver’s side against the median. It bounced off it, back onto the track, where it was hit by yet another car before skittering, broken and smashed, to a shuddering stop. Small pieces of my parents’ big investment littered the track, and thick black smoke filled the air. Orange flames started to lick the sky.
“Holy fuck,” Tom shouted, letting go of his gas can. The rest of the team just watched with helpless confusion and horror.
My father came out from around the wall, throwing his earphones down. My dad wasn’t one to cuss, so when he shouted the mother of all curses, his eyes wide with desperation, I knew what I’d seen wasn’t all in my head.
More chaos erupted, but this time, nothing about it was controlled. The crowd hushed. I had started to run before the yellow flag had even come out, and by the time they were waving it, I was halfway to the wreck. Men with extinguishers had put out the flames, but there was thick smoke and dust in the air. There were hands on my arms, grasping for me, trying to hold me back, but I broke free. I had to be there. Someone was screaming Brody’s name, and as I looked around, I realized it was me.
Eyes fastened on the door, I waited for Brody to pop out, to wave and say he was okay.
But he didn’t. Seconds passed, and he still didn’t emerge.
And I knew it was bad.
I faltered, tripping in the fog of smoke as I neared the broken wreck. Drivers survived wrecks like this all the time, but I’d never seen one this devastating in person. Vicious, teeth-clenching, making the sport of racing seem like absolute lunacy. I’d never known anyone personally who’d been in one. My throat was now completely dry as I made my way closer, choking on exhaust and smoke. Ambulance lights flashed, and a siren screeched behind me, adding to the chaos.
Strong arms grabbed me from behind as I made it to the ambulance. It was Tom, yelling at me to stay back as I watched the men drop the window net. After peering inside, they brought forth tools and began ripping the door off the car, cutting through the roll cage in order to peel the roof back and out of the way. Their actions were quick, desperate.
Oh shit. It’s bad.
I jockeyed closer, needing to see even as I dreaded getting my first glimpse of my brother. They’d removed his helmet and gotten a neck brace in place… but his head wasn’t what they seemed worried about.
When the roof was finally off, they lowered a back board inside, tying him down to it before lifting him out. I gasped when I got my first look. There was blood, but that wasn’t what scared me the most.
My brother looked… crumpled. And with his eyes closed, he looked almost peaceful. “Is he…?”
God, please don’t let him be dead.
The EMTs placed him on the stretcher and buckled him in, crowding around until he once again disappeared within the swell of bodies. People were running, bringing things back and forth, bags of fluids and other tools and instruments I didn’t recognize. The faces of the EMTs were rigid, revealing no emotion. My lower lip trembled.
I couldn’t believe that only minutes before, I’d been joking with him. What had I said to him before the race? If you can’t do it, bro, this girl’s dyin’ for her chance.
Oh, god. What was wrong with me? How could I say that? I’d probably jinxed him. We Jameses were an intensely superstitious family, and now I was convinced of it: I’d done this.
I heard a murmur arise from the crowd. He’s alive, they were saying. But it’s bad. Really bad.
My heart pounded, strangling me, fully lodged in my throat.
They lifted the stretcher and loaded him up into the back of the ambulance. My father motioned to me. “Come on.”
We raced to the back as the doors were closing and hopped inside. I stumbled to a vinyl-coated seat on the side of the opening for the stretcher, and my eyes fastened on my brother. They’d braced his head so that he wouldn’t move, but he was covered in a once-white sheet so I couldn’t see the extent of the damage to his body. He’d had a nice face, a handsome face. The ladies loved him, from what I’d seen. But now, it was so bloodied and swollen that I had to cover my mouth to avoid sobbing all over him.
My father sat on the other side of him, looking shell-shocked. “Brody,” I whispered, taking hold of his hand. It was limp, and so, so cold.
Just as I was beginning to think the worst, he opened his eyes and looked at me. I sucked in a breath and told myself to be strong for him.
It didn’t work.
Unable to stop the emotional release, I began to cry in earnest, big, pathetic sobs that shook my entire body. “Hey, buddy,” I said in a voice so choked with emotion that the words were barely audible. “Hey, bro.”
“Hey, Ems.” His voice was weak. “Guess I didn’t do so well.”
A bark of what must have been half laugh and half sob rushed out of me, and I ran my thumb in circles over his hand. “Had better days, but it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
He closed his eyes, drifting off, chest heaving under the sheet as I looked at my father. He was frantically punching in a call to my mother, who’d been left to mind the station in Wintersburg for the afternoon. I sat there, stroking my brother’s hand as the EMT checked his vitals and kept pressure on his shoulder.
“Is he… how is he?” I asked him. “Will he be okay?”
The EMT’s jaw tightened. “He’s stable. He’s suffered a lot of damage to his arm.”
I looked down at his hand, which was poking out from the sheet. The rest of the arm was covered. I wondered if he could even feel my hand stroking his.
We met my mother at the hospital, and the three of us sat huddled together, crying and shaking while waiting for news as they wheeled Brody into emergency surgery. I’d left all my things at the track, so I didn’t have my phone to call my friends and family to tell them what was going on. For a long time, we didn’t really know ourselves, because it was too early to tell. From what I’d gleaned, his right arm had been damaged at the shoulder, and the surgery was to repair it.
“It’s okay,” my mother soothed, hugging me tight. “As long as he’s here with us, I’ll take him any way God wants to give him to us.”
I nodded. She was right. Nothing else mattered but him being alive. Right then, I made a thousand promises. I’d never fight with him again. I’d never be a brat to him. I’d be the model little sister. I’d be happy whenever I had to serve as his pit crew, not jealous as hell. I’d never ask for anything ever again if my brother could just live.
Please let him live.
It was after ten o’clock when the surgeon finally came out into the waiting room to update us, five hours after Brody had been wheeled in. His mouth was set in a grim line as he sat down, not making eye contact.
Oh my god, it’s bad.
“He’s alive,” the exhausted looking physician said after what felt like a million seconds had ticked by. Like balloons releasing air, we all sagged in our seats in relief. “He’s stable and resting now. But his right arm was too damaged to save.”
I clasped my sweaty hands together and saw my mother grab my father tighter. “What… what does that mean?” I asked, but I already knew.
“We had to amputate it,” he confirmed, saying the words my mind refused to accept.
The doctor went on and on about how lucky Brody had been. How his brachial artery had been pinched, saving him from bleeding to death before they could have even gotten him out of the car.
I dropped my face into my hands, trying to imagine my strong, athletic brother… as an amputee. As much as I tried, I couldn’t. My brother, who’d been the quarterback of the football team in high school, who’d had the golden throwing arm. Who lifted weights like mad and flexed in front of the mirror at our makeshift gym in our backyard, kissing his biceps as a joke to make me roll my eyes.
Brody couldn’t have lost a part of his body. No way. This couldn’t be happening.
Lucky or not, I knew this would devastate him. We wanted him any way we could get him, but Brody? What did he want? I knew the inside of my brother’s crazy head the way I knew my own. And something told me that he wouldn’t see his arm traded for his life as a fair deal. I knew he’d rather…
No!
I wouldn’t say it. Think it. And I wouldn’t let my brother think it either.
My feet felt as heavy as cement as the three of us walked down the hallway to the intensive care unit, my mind screaming for this to please be a dream. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even a nightmare. This was reality, as evidenced by the machines beeping and whirring around us. Softly, we padded inside, surrounding his bed, but he must have sensed us, because when we were all assembled, one eye cracked open.
Did he know? I couldn’t tell from the bleary, dazed look he gave me.
“Ems,” he said softly, so softly I had to lean down over him.
“Yeah, bro. I’m here,” I said, fresh tears threatening to spill over as I reached for… nothing.
There was nothing to grab for on that side of his body, and I ended up touching the empty space where his hand should have been.
As much as I wanted to be strong for him, I couldn’t. The tears started to fall, streaming off my chin and onto that white, vacant place.
“You got your chance,” he croaked, his voice so fragile it made my chest ache. “I hope you’re ready to ride.”