My father always told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up.
So I became a woman in a man’s world.
Turns out I had bigger balls than a lot of the men. They didn’t take too kindly to that. Add on I also happened to be the daughter of the most powerful man in the entire state—well, let’s just say I wasn’t winning any popularity contests.
I didn’t care, though. I wasn’t here to win prom queen. I was here for respect, which I thought would be a lot easier to earn than it was.
Thing was, if I had a dick between my legs and a lot less money in my bank account, I’d likely be the most popular asshole on this track.
But I wasn’t packing that particular anatomy (even though my name suggested otherwise) and my pockets weren’t empty at all.
I was an asshole, though. Experience taught me that trait. Survival gave it practice. Being the only female pro racecar driver on this side of the country required a lot of endurance. Sometimes my endurance came down to a lot of cussing and refusing to take anyone’s shit.
So I settled for grudging acceptance from my peers and satisfaction that regardless of what anyone thought I deserved to be here.
I proved it. Time and time again.
It was also another reason I was like a piece of meat stuck between these guys’ teeth.
You’d think a bunch of macho, athletic, and driven men would be more secure with themselves that having a “girl” on the track with them wouldn’t be such a ball buster.
But it was.
I once suggested perhaps it was the length of what was in their pants that made them so insecure… It got me a couple lewd offers to see for myself (barf) and earned me exactly zero points toward the respect I thought I deserved.
Whatever.
I learned a long time ago you don’t always get what you deserve.
You get what you earn.
I earned my spot on the racetrack, and it had nothing to do with Daddy’s money.
End of story.
At least I wished it was. The hard truth was there would be no end to this story until I hung up my car keys, which I had no plans to do in the near future.
I would have to fight and claw for every victory, every shred of opportunity, and each drop of success.
Despite what most people thought, I was determined to make my career without my father’s influence. Maybe some kids with successful, wealthy parents were happy to take anything that was handed to them. Hell, I’d actually seen reality shows on TV based on the concept.
I wasn’t one of those kids.
My father wanted a boy, something he’d never been shy about letting me know. The reason my name Josephine was shortened to Joey from almost the second I was born.
Maybe it was some kind of male successor thing. You know, he wanted a man he could hand over the reins to his empire one day. Maybe he’d been married enough times to know he didn’t want to deal with a daughter (God forbid she turn out like any one of his three ex-wives!), because a child wasn’t someone he could divorce.
Or maybe, and this was a thought I seldom allowed myself to have, he just thought women were weak.
Regardless of what his reasons were (I’d never asked), he’d gotten a daughter. His only child. I turned out a lot more like him than anyone ever thought. It’s likely the reason my mother (ex-wife number three) took off with a hefty divorce settlement, moved into his penthouse in Paris, and never called, visited, or wrote.
Ironic really, my father hadn’t wanted a girl because I might turn out like my mother, and my mother ultimately left because I was too much like my father.
A therapist would have a field day with my family.
I would say one thing about Ron Gamble. He didn’t leave when the going got tough. In fact, he seemed to thrive on a challenge. And he loved me. I might not have been what he originally planned, but unlike all the other men around me, I’d earned his respect.
I’d like to think, after twenty-two years, if asked, my father would say he was glad he’d gotten me instead of a son.
Maybe it was that which made me so incredibly driven.
Wanting to prove to him I was just as valuable, if not more so, as a son would be.
Or maybe I was just stubborn.
Defeat on any level wasn’t something I would ever submit to. My father knew this, yet still, sometimes he tried. Well, not necessarily to defeat me. More like sway me. Change my mind.
It rarely happened… me changing my mind.
It wasn’t going to happen now, with this. I could guarantee it.
Still, here I was. Sitting in my father’s study after being summoned to what I knew was going to be yet another attempt at swaying my decision.
Balancing a clear, rounded tumbler in my palm, full of top-shelf scotch, I waited for my father to finish his phone call. The leather club chair was soft and supportive against my back. I relaxed into it and sipped at the amber liquid. I liked the warm trail it left as it slid down my throat. It was comforting somehow. Familiar.
Most people would be nervous as hell being beckoned by Ron Gamble. They definitely wouldn’t be relaxing in a chair and watching him with open interest bordering on boredom as he finished up some mundane but necessary business call.
I was his daughter, and the chair I was sitting in had been in this room since I was born. The man sitting behind the desk, admittedly intimidating, wasn’t just a powerful man to me. He was the man I spent every Christmas morning with, unwrapping gifts and drinking hot chocolate.
A lot of people didn’t know it, but Ron Gamble wasn’t just all about business.
He might have always wanted a son, but he never treated me with any kind of disdain or disappointment. I knew he loved me from the time I was born. He never acted like I was a chore or even a bother. I was the one who felt the need to prove I was worthy of the love he’d already given me.
Another round of scotch slipped across my tongue as he hung up the phone. Anticipation had me sitting up a little straighter. I wasn’t nervous to talk to him, but I knew I was likely in for yet another fight.
He wasn’t just my father. He was my sponsor. It was his company, his money, that paid for my racecar and entry fees into the big pro races. I was part of the racing team he built. So technically, he was my boss.
Did I mention I wasn’t too great with authority?
It led to some shouting matches over the years.
My newest decision was the conduit for the most recent ones.
I wasn’t up for it tonight, the arguing. But I would do it, because letting anyone see I was tired wasn’t an option. Instead, I took another gulp of the alcohol and sharpened my gaze.
Dad was still dressed for the office, even though it was almost eight o’clock at night. He’d been home a few hours, but he’d come directly in here to work. I hadn’t been home when he first arrived, but I didn’t have to be. I was familiar with his routines.
His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, the tie around his neck long gone, and the white sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up. A glass that looked just like the one in my hand was at his elbow, empty.
Papers covered his desk, but not in an unorganized way. I knew without asking he could likely recite every single document in front of him, and he knew exactly where each sheet of paper belonged.
“Need a refill?” I asked, gesturing to his glass. The salt-and-pepper look in his full head of dark hair didn’t make him look any older than his fifty-five years; it just made him seem more distinguished.
“Wouldn’t say no.” He pushed the glass toward me with one finger.
I abandoned my own glass to a nearby table and crossed for the bottle of scotch. “Long day?” I asked when it was full and already at his lips.
“Even dreams take work, kid,” he replied.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sentiment from his lips; it wouldn’t be the last. I never really understood it until I started racing. A dream is just that. A wistful thought, a want. Sure, dreams come true… but in most cases, they did so because it was something that was worked toward.
Gamble wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was born to his parents (my grandparents), who struggled their entire lives to make ends meet. His father worked two jobs, sometimes more, to feed his family, and his mother cleaned homes for other people.
Everything he had today was a result of his own effort and belief in himself.
“There’s a plate of dinner in the kitchen for you. Want me to go heat it up?” I asked, moving toward the door.
He shook his head and waved me back. “Later. Let’s talk.”
I crossed back to my chair and dropped down. Dark curls fell into my eyes, and I shoved them back. My hair always got in the way.
“GearShark Magazine called,” he announced.
I blinked. This wasn’t what I was expecting. “Okay…” I hedged, not really sure what this had to do with me.
“Seems those rumors”—he began, emphasis on the last word—“are finding their way into the press.”
Aaand, there it was.
I sighed. “They aren’t rumors, Dad. You know I’m serious about going indie.”
He studied me over the rim of his glass. He had a penetrating stare, the kind that could make even the most rock solid a little squeamish. “We talked about this.” The glass made a firm thud on the top of the desk when he set it aside.
“No,” I said with restrained annoyance. “You told me no, and I told you I wasn’t your puppet.”
“I pay for that car you race.”
I rolled my eyes. “You want to throw that in my face? I already told you I’ll get another sponsor. You know I could.” It would be hard… Turns out it wasn’t just the drivers who didn’t like women in racing, but the sponsors as well.
Having a female injured or possibly killed in a racing accident would apparently be more hazardous for business than a male driver. This was one of the reasons my father sponsored me. I hadn’t wanted him to at first, but just like with a lot of things, sometimes it was all about who you knew.
The minute my father put up money to sponsor me, several other smaller businesses did, too.
And besides that, I trusted my father and the team of people he employed. I could trust them with my car.
“You’re under contract.” He reminded me, as if I needed a reminder.
I lifted the scotch to my lips. “I’m well aware, which is why I didn’t enter any preliminaries for the NRR. It’s why I’m sitting on the sidelines for the first season.”
We’d had this conversation more than once. It was always the same. I said I wanted to go indie, and he told me no. I didn’t know why, but me switching from pro to indie wasn’t something my father wanted me to do.
I sighed when he just watched me. “You know all my contracts are up for renewal this winter. All of them but yours. You could easily transfer it to the indie side. Hell, you own the division.”
“Not all of it,” he corrected.
I waved off his words. “You know what I mean.”
My father started the NRR (New Revolution Racing), but it quickly grew so large it needed more than just him heading it up. Now there were three big owners of the corporation, with a lot of sponsors and employees under them. My father was one of the three, but since he was the man who started it all, he had the most pull.
“I already have a driver in the NRR.”
My back teeth clenched, and I forced them to relax. “And Drew’s the best. If he keeps going the way he is, he’ll bring you the championship trophy at the end of the season. But you can have more than one driver, just like you do on the pro side.”
He moved like he wanted to say something, but I cut him off.
“Plus, I’m part of the reason Drew’s so good. I did help train him.”
“I wonder what Drew would say to that?” He pondered.
“He’d probably tell me to shove it,” I said, amusement making me forget some of the irritation this conversation caused.
Drew was just another reason I wanted to switch to the indie side. Having a real friend on the track was something I’d never had before. Trent, too. He might not be driving, but he was in the pit, and I knew he was an ally.
“Most people in your position would be grateful. They wouldn’t be trying to get out.”
His words made me hot and cold at the same time. He didn’t understand my reasons. He likely thought I was just being fickle and wanting in on the new in thing.
I could try and explain, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t sure he’d get it anyway. Or maybe he would.
I wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Most people probably bet against you when you started your first business at nineteen,” I quipped.
His eyes sparked with amusement. It was a look I was familiar with. It meant he was proud of me but also didn’t necessarily want to show it. Kind of like when a child does something inappropriate and has to be scolded, but the parent really just wants to laugh.
Slowly, he sat back, picked up the scotch, and took another drink. I didn’t squirm in my seat or fidget. I knew what I wanted. I wasn’t going to change my mind. I drank my whiskey and stared back.
“You’re in the middle of the season. Races you’re already registered for.”
Was that a crack in his staunch position of no?
I forced my face to remain as it was. I wasn’t about to get all excited over the possibility I was wearing him down. I knew better.
“I honor my commitments. I’m still all in for this season with the pros. I’ve been training and working with Hopper and the rest of the staff at the speedway almost around the clock.”
“I know.” He nodded.
“The season will be over this winter; my contracts will be up for renewal. I can make the change and be ready for spring preliminaries and the summer race season.”
The pro racing season was long, nearly ten months. The NRR season was shorter, spanning only the summer months for the actual season races. Preliminaries were held in the spring, and while they technically weren’t part of the season, most would argue they were. At least, that was the way of the NRR for now. In a few years, that could change. If it continued to grow in popularity, more races would be added.
It was pretty much luck a lot of my sponsorship contracts were up for renewal this winter. It was the perfect time for me to make the switch.
“GearShark wants an interview,” he stated, not responding directly to my words.
Shock had me gawking at him like he’d just announced baby aliens landed on the roof and would be moving into my bedroom.
“With me?” I asked, dubious.
“Why not you?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “You know why,” I replied. “You know I never get as much mention as the men.”
“Like I said, they’re interested in the rumors you want to leave the pros and cross over into indie territory.”
It kinda pissed me off they were calling now. Like the only reason I was suddenly worth interviewing was because I was doing something they probably thought was foolish. I could imagine the headlines now:
Female racer can’t hack it with the pros, goes indie!
or
Ron Gamble’s daughter making a big mistake.
“Tell them to call someone else for the empty corner in the back of their rag,” I told him. I didn’t even care I sounded bitter. It was hard not to have a chip on my shoulder when it felt like everything worked against me.
“It’s a feature interview.”
I glanced up. He’d shocked me again. Why in the hell would the fact I wanted to go indie make me a featured headline?
It didn’t matter anyway.
“You told them they were barking up the wrong tree, right?” I said, settling back into the chair, disgruntled.
“Actually, no.”
I glanced down at the scotch in my hand. What the fuck was in this? I was hearing things. “I’m sorry, what?”
Dad chuckled; it was a warm sound. His looks had changed over the years. His hair had become peppered with grey, his face more creased with lines.
But his rich laugh never changed.
“A feature interview is a good opportunity for you. Look what it did for Drew and the NRR.”
“What are you saying, Dad?” I sat forward. I was ready for the bottom line.
“Finish the pro season strong, get the media good and interested in you…”
“And…?” I pressed.
“And then I will transfer your sponsorship contract over to the NRR.”
I jumped up out of the chair, a wide smile splitting my face. “Really?”
He chuckled again and nodded. Then, like any parent, he had to go and ruin it with a bunch of conditions and yapping. “But Hopper is going to manage you.”
“But what about the pros?” I asked, perplexed. Hopper worked with me and the rest of the pros my dad sponsored now.
“I’ll find someone else to help take his responsibilities.”
I frowned. I liked Hopper. Working with him was definitely not a hardship. He was a friend, but I didn’t want him to feel like he was being pushed out of a job he loved just to babysit me.
“He wants to do it,” Dad said, reading my face.
“He does?”
“Apparently, no-rules racing appeals to him as well,” Dad quipped.
I grinned.
“You’ll also be attending more events with Drew. He’s the face of the NRR, poised as the first champion. His press will be good for you.”
I nodded, readily agreeing. But then I scowled. “People are going to say I’m only sponsored by you because you’re my dad.”
I hated it. But at the same time… my father opened doors for me.
“Prove them wrong.” He challenged. “Just like in the pros.”
A wave of fatigue washed over me. How many times did a person have to prove themselves? I wanted a fresh start… not a new beginning of the same thing.
As I grappled with my own thoughts, he continued. “When you aren’t at pro races, you need to be at indie ones.”
I just nodded. I already planned on that anyway.
“It’s basically double the work.”
He listed all these conditions like they were somehow death sentences and things I wouldn’t be thrilled to take on. He seemed almost regretful he was agreeing to transfer my contract.
“I’m not afraid of hard work.” Even if it does make me exhausted. It was a point I felt I shouldn’t have to make. I worked harder than any other driver he sponsored. I didn’t say it out of arrogance; it was merely a fact. A fact my father well knew.
He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking tired. “The indie world is different than the pros. The drivers are of a different…” He searched for a word. “Caliber.”
It was like a megawatt lightbulb flickered to life inside the darkened areas of my brain.
That’s why he doesn’t want me in the NRR.
I forgot about proving myself. I forgot about the work I was taking on. I was transported backward. To a different time. “I’m not that girl anymore,” I said, tight. “I haven’t been for a long time.”
“A division with no rules might be tempting, though.” He cautioned.
“Who’s talking right now?” I asked, my voice low. “My sponsor or my father?”
“Both.”
I wanted to laugh. If he only knew half the crap I dealt with being the only girl in my world, he wouldn’t even be bringing this up.
“I can assure my sponsor I’m not a bad investment. You’ve seen my driving, and you know my work ethic. I won’t do anything to jeopardize all the time and effort I’ve put into getting myself where I am today.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s the reason I’m agreeing to this.”
So it was really just the father in him talking, then.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Dad.” I vowed. “It wasn’t the pros that straightened me out or the rules of the division. I grew up.”
His voice was gruff. “I know I don’t say it often, but I’m proud of you, kid.”
That meant something to me.
No. Not something.
Everything.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“The interview with GearShark is next week. All the details are being sent over.”
A giddy feeling rose up inside me, like I was suddenly filled with all the bubbles a soda came alive with when it was first poured into a glass. “I’ll be there.”
I started for the door, assuming the meeting was over. I would heat up his dinner and then head across the house to where my rooms were and maybe take a hot bath.
“Joey.” His voice stopped me.
I turned back.
“There’s something about the interview I haven’t told you yet.”
Of course. Hadn’t I known I couldn’t possibly escape with only the third degree? “What’s the catch?” I asked.
“It’s not a solo interview. There is another driver being interviewed as well.”
I laughed, a harsh sound. I’d known it was too good to be true. For whatever reason, I alone wasn’t a good enough story. “Who?” I asked, already pissed at the unknown person.
“He’s an indie driver. I think they want to do a dual point of view about the potential crossover.”
Of course they did.
“Who is it?” I asked again. Knowing it wasn’t, but hoping it was going to be Drew.
“Lorhaven.”
The bottom fell out of my stomach. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I fumed, swinging fully around to face my father. “That guy is a class-A asshole. And he hates pro drivers.”
“Which is probably why they want his perspective.” My father pointed out, the business tycoon in him recognizing the spin the magazine could put on this.
I made a rude sound.
“It’s not too late to change your mind.” He reminded me.
I made a face. “I’ll do the interview.”
I wasn’t about to back down. It was exactly what men like Lorhaven wanted.
Everyone, including GearShark, thought they had the upper hand. They thought I was just some piece on a chessboard, a rook instead of a queen.
They were wrong.
I’d prove it.
All of them could kiss my ass, including the man who thought he was so epic he only needed one name.