CHAPTER TWO
GRAY
The incessant buzz of the alarm clock snapped me to attention, disrupting my semi-pleasant dream about going to some vacation island somewhere and just wasting the days away. It looked like Hawaii and felt like Hawaii, and suddenly the urge to go there was strong—stronger than the morning wood I had, which was slowly vanishing. Dimly, I shook my head, trying to clear it of any images this early in the morning. It was then I realized that there was a definitive pounding there, almost like a hammer was being thrown repeatedly on top of my head with no plans of stopping.
Damn headache.
With a groan, I sat up and rummaged inside the cabinet of my bedside table. I’d had enough headaches to last me a lifetime, and aspirin was the only remedy that really worked—that, and a good gulp of cold milk. I dry swallowed that aspirin now, then stumbled out of my sheets and straight into the shower, where I stood under the blessedly hot water.
Fifteen minutes later, I was feeling refreshed enough to get to the kitchen and prepare my breakfast, which consisted of that cold milk and some easy-cook eggs and toast. My nutritionist often advised me to get power drinks in as well as lots of vegetables, but three times a week I let myself indulge, considering I wasn’t going to be this young to enjoy them for long.
I was just halfway through when my cell rang. I glanced at the caller ID, which indicated that it was my PR agent, Mark Thompson. He never called me this early in the morning, and suddenly a sinking feeling started in my stomach, making me not want to pick it up.
He called two more times, and both were directed to voicemail. I took an hour to go to my apartment building’s gym and get some workout in, and by the time I was back, there was a message waiting for me on my phone.
Check social media.
I did, browsing the pages until I found what Mark wanted me to find. The sinking feeling in my stomach started again as I saw pictures of me and a woman getting pretty chummy inside a club—the second woman I’d flirted with. But that wasn’t the worst thing.
There were also pictures of Annabelle as she straddled my lap in the car, and incriminating evidence of us locking lips with our hands hidden. This had to be after she made me come, and some nosy bystander spotted us and decided to have a little fun. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what we were doing—or had been doing, so to speak.
And it didn’t take a genius to know my boss was going to be pissed.
Fuck.
I sent a text back to Mark, telling him not to worry about it. He often endlessly worried about stuff, and I knew it was going to turn into an all-out railing session that I wasn’t ready for. Mark texted me back to call him, but I ignored the message and got ready.
After all, I had a race to get to.
*****
The race track in my hometown in Florida was one of the biggest in the state, and even though it was just a minor racing event, there were already plenty in attendance by the time I got there. Some of the pit crew I’d had some drinks with last night were already at work by the time I got to the garage, and a general round of greetings came before they all got back to work. My crew chief, a 40-year-old mechanic pro named Roger Stiles, got to business right away, discussing with me the updates they did to the race car and what I needed to watch out for. I didn’t spot my boss, aka the car owner, anywhere, and I took that as a good sign.
The only other big circuit race car driver in the vicinity was Doug Oliver, who was making a name for himself in the race tracks with his easy wins in both big and small races. He was one to watch out for, but I couldn’t really find any fault in that considering the eager kid was as social as a bee. Almost like he heard my thoughts, Doug turned his blond head in my direction and gave me a wave and a friendly smile, which I returned with a little salute. He was known for his easygoing personality and being the media’s darling, and our little chats in between races proved to me that the charm wasn’t an act. It probably had a lot to do with his Southern ways, because he was always hospitable no matter the occasion and never really lost his patience even at the most idiotic of questions.
I couldn’t say the same about me, considering I treated the media like the plague and would rather not have anything to do with them. Ever.
An absentee racer whose face I’d gotten used to was Scott McCall, who finished first place in last year’s Daytona 500. I knew his absence probably had a lot to do with his new family life and his wife, who was pregnant with baby number two. They were producing like mad, really, considering they only got married last year, but they looked pretty happy doing so and often looked like the perfect picture of bliss. I couldn’t blame him, considering his wife, Julie Davis, was as pretty as a picture—and the daughter of one of the most famous race car drivers back in his time, Jack Davis. Really, Scott was one lucky son of a bitch.
Perhaps the biggest absentee in the race was a name that was once said in reverence but now said with a touch of pity: James Kinnick. James was also in the Daytona 500 race with us last year. Unfortunately, the terrible pile-up accident that we had during that major event led to him being the most injured. He’d been in the hospital for a couple of months to recuperate, but even the rehab wasn’t enough to get him to walk the same way again, leading to his early, abrupt retirement.
Doug, Scott, and I were among the lucky few who actually survived that pileup, which was a miracle in itself. I’d been slacking off last year, but after that accident, I decided that I should stop doing so and actually try winning again this year. You only live once, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it away with semi-enthusiastic driving performance.
I took that mindset with me to every race since, including this one. Doug came over and chatted with me for a while, telling me good luck before he wandered off to talk to some of the other contestants. I wasn’t as friendly as him, preferring to keep to myself and my own crew.
Half an hour later, the race started. Doug and I went head to head along with some newbie I didn’t know much about, but I easily won during the last lap and grinned at the victory. When I got out of the car the media was already in my face, asking me questions about my win and how I managed to keep my winning streak intact in the last few months. That wasn’t necessarily true, considering Doug and a few others also won first place in some races. But the boost was good, anyway, and I answered them with the best answer: by working hard and practicing.
Then the questions took a turn for the personal as they began to ask about the two women I was pictured with last night and how they were related to me. The question came from a woman, who was pretty and looked genuinely interested.
I gave her a smile, one that was half-smirk. Then I turned to everyone who was paying attention.
“Those two women are acquaintances—well, the first one is. The second one was a lovely woman I met last night. Thank you for your interest in my races. Good day.”
And with that parting statement, I was out of there and walking back to the garage, not hurrying but not stopping when they called my name, either. I knew I was going to be called rude at some point for my deliberate negligence to be all charming with them. I could turn it on easy, but frankly, I didn’t care to most of the time. Gossip was part of the fame, and they could pretty much write or report whatever they wanted so long as it didn’t affect my winning streak.
The crew was busy taking care of the car again, and I announced that tonight’s first few rounds of beer were my treat. This was met with some cheers and back pats, with Roger shaking his head and jokingly saying that he’d rather be treated to dinner. I winked at him and said that could be arranged, considering he never really went out with us due to having a pretty busy family life.
There were already some bunnies, aka racer female fans, hanging around the track, most of them eyeing Doug while trying to fight for his attention as he proceeded to charm each and every one of them. Some were eyeing me, and I noted down some pretty ones before dismissing them when I realized I simply wasn’t in the mood today. Maybe tonight, when I got a few drinks in and got some hot chick in my car once more.
Really, that was the only way it worked for me, which was all kinds of fucked up and amusing at the same time.
My mood was pretty much high and soaring by the time I changed into normal clothes. Deciding to check out the bunnies one more time, I strode back to the track.
“Denton.”
And just like that, the good mood disappeared like a bubble being popped.
Still, I tried to be pleasant. I turned to my boss and gave him a quick smile, one that wasn’t entirely sincere. My boss was a new boss—Steve Elliot, the son of my old boss, who used to own the agency that sponsored my car and everything else that came with it. He was a nice man who treated everyone fairly and always put our thoughts into consideration before making any decisions. But he retired about two years ago, passing on the business to his son, who was fresh out of college and pretty much one of the most arrogant bastards I’d met.
Steve didn’t return my smile, instead carrying a rather sour expression on his face.
“We need to talk,” he bit out without preamble.
I kept the smile intact. “Only if you treat me to lunch,” I said easily.
That had him gritting his teeth, which had me grinning all the more. Finally, he nodded, then walked out first, with the air of someone expecting to be followed without question.
I told myself to let it go, to just suck it up and let it go. I called on all the patience I could find —which wasn’t a lot, to be honest.
Then I followed him, knowing that no pleasant conversation was going to be looming in the next few hours.