Chapter 18
My head was pounding,like a bull was stomping on it, and there were two bikini model influencers asleep back in my hotel room. Well, maybe not asleep now, but waiting for me. Yet, instead of being balls-deep in some golden Californian girl, I was under this glaring fluorescent lighting that was making my head hurt even more.
I entertained some of the bullshit questions from the reporters, but when that fucker brought up Lucia, I wanted to jump the table and beat the shit out of him. I wouldn’t forget the face of Oscar Ruiz anytime soon.
I’d been so relieved that the stupid press conference was over that I almost sprinted from the room. I was already at the door, listening to some fucker praise me as if I was going to become his best friend just because he could repeat my stats, when I spotted the girl in the back.
Something about her body language made me stop. She was smiling, but it was more of a grimace. Her hands were at her sides, but her fingers were curled into fists. She was talking to one of the older journalists, who I didn’t recognize and who hadn’t asked a question.
A little more curious than my hangover warranted, I walked toward the group. I turned up just in time to hear him besmirch the quality of the team drivers, which I couldn’t have given a shit about, as I was used to it. Besides, my skills spoke for themselves.
But whatever barb he threw at the girl next had her rearing back, pain flashing through her expression like he’d slapped her. I didn’t know her, except for the shit she’d given me at the team get-together the other week, but she was still part of my team.
That was enough for me to interrupt. Besides, the mechanic behind her, Hayes, looked like he was ready to throw it all away and punch this old bastard in the face. I knew for a fact that punching reporters was bad for your career.
“Palmer. It’s time to get back to work.” I’d get her to run me through the sims or some shit, so she didn’t think I was coming over here to save her.
The journalist turned around and started waffling about some bullshit that I couldn’t be bothered wasting brain cells on digesting. I dismissed him as a waste of my time and the oxygen surrounding us.
“Watch yourself, Passero. This one is a black widow. I’ll let Brick know I saw you.”
Again, she pulled back like she’d been struck. I didn’t know who the hell this Brick guy was, but the little driver clearly had some secrets. She grew a pair of balls, drawing herself up to her full height. “Sure, tell him I said to go fuck himself too. I mean, if he takes his cock out of your mouth long enough for you to get a whole sentence out.” I laughed as the man turned bright red, watching her stomp away.
Hayes leaned into his space. “Stay the fuck away from her, Ballantyne, or I’ll visit you somewhere a little more private and we can talk about this like men.” He marched after Palmer, and I was left standing there with the shit stain.
The guy looked at me, shaking his head. “This is why women shouldn’t be in motorsports.” He said it like it was an obvious conclusion.
I looked down at him, screwing up my nose. “Don’t talk to me.”
Moving through the other team members, I headed out the back exit of the conference room. I didn’t really need to go to the sims, but it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the car already. I knew the computer guys had been tinkering with it so I could get used to the difference between a Formula One car and an IndyCar, without booking in track time. Track time was expensive, and honestly, not that helpful at this stage.
That was the excuse I gave myself for heading to the sim room, and while I did, I Googled the name of the sweet little driver with the smart mouth. There were at least five techs in the sim room, but not Tally, so I headed to an empty office and sat down in the office chair as I binged the history of Tally Palmer.
There was a surprisingly large amount of information about her online; I could track her stats right back to when she was a kid. She was good, and if she’d been a boy, she might have been scouted by some of the Formula academy teams, rather than being left to progress to NASCAR.
Not that she hadn’t done well in NASCAR. There were pictures of her at sixteen, holding a trophy for one of the lower level championships, and it seemed she’d lazed around in there for a few years before being picked up by Ryclo Racing. I sifted through her stats, and although I’d never personally driven in NASCAR, I was impressed by the short videos of her skills. It was wildly different to open-wheel driving, way more Wild West Wreck’em derby than a sport for gentlemen. Or gentlewomen.
There was an article about the death of her father in a carjacking, and right beneath it was a huge article on the death of a driver named Buck Willtot. I read through it, frowning at the amount of times her name came up, considering she’d apparently been nowhere near the crash. When the article mentioned that her and Buck were dating at the time, lightbulbs in my brain flashed on.
Like the old superstition of women on ships, some believed that women had no place in motorsports. It was a sport for men, like pressing some pedals and moving a wheel was somehow too complex for womenfolk.
I couldn’t be too superior about it, because Formula One was also pretty bad, especially in Europe. I’d never believed women couldn’t race. If they trained for it, there was no reason they couldn’t drive. At this point, I’d appreciate the challenge from whatever gender wanted to come for my crown.
Finally, there were the opinion pieces about why she was dropped from her NASCAR team, and even more articles calling her the downfall of the Willtot racing dynasty. I looked at the dates on the articles.
Less than a year ago.
“You know you don’t actually need me to do sim runs.”
I didn’t even look guilty as I glanced up beside me, at the woman I was reading about. She would’ve had to be a hell of a lot closer to read the words on my screen, and I would’ve smelled her sweet, summery scent well before then.
I shrugged. “You’ve raced the tracks. I would like to discuss lines with you before I climb into the machine.”
Tally narrowed her eyes. “Really…” She seemed suspicious, which was probably fair, considering what I would actually like to have been doing were the two blondes in my bed, about ten miles in the other direction. Inhaling deeply she wrinkled her nose. “How about you come and see me when your blood-alcohol level isn’t enough to kill a horse?” Her voice was stern, but her lips twitched.
I raised both my eyebrows. “I am sober as a judge.” She snorted, and I grinned. “Okay, well, a little less than a judge. But I could still outrace you and anyone else in this building.”
“You think?”
I nodded solemnly. I wasn’t being boastful. I definitely could. “Even in that rally car driving you Americans are so fond of. NASCAR,” I snorted.
“Wanna put your money where your mouth is?” She was shorter than me, a little thing, maybe just over five-four, but she was fiery.
“I don’t want your money,” I said in that pompous voice that sometimes passed my lips, picked up from spending too much time with rich fuckers.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a saying. Not all of us are multimillionaires, Passero. If I win, you have to do at least three workshops for Moss Aguilar’s Karting Academy. If you win… well, name your price.”
What did I want from this girl? “If I win… Hmm, I don’t know. You take me to a NASCAR race and change my mind.”
Something dark flashed across her face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Deal.” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s go, Pretty Boy. You’re about to get your ass handed to you.”
She pulled me into a room next to the sim room, and inside were two computer set-ups with huge screens and the kind of booths you’d see in arcade driving games. With a grin, she stuck her head back out the door toward the main area of the garage.
“I’m about to kick the great Rocco Passero’s ass in iRacing!” Several heads looked up, and she all but danced back into the room. “Same car. Same specs. May the best racer win?”
She stuck out a hand, and I shook it. Her skin was soft and warm, and maybe I held it just a little longer than necessary. She blinked those big green eyes up at me, and they were alight with happiness. It was a thrill I knew all too well—the chance to show everyone what you were made of.
The mechanic who’d looked like he was going to thump that journalist appeared, along with at least a half a dozen other VANT Racing employees. He walked over and ran a hand down her spine. It was a familiar gesture, one that claimed her subtly, both to me and every other person in the room. Were they dating?
“Are you sharking the Italian, Tally?” he murmured softly, and she looked up at him with big doe eyes. Yeah, they were definitely having sex. I didn’t examine the disappointment in my chest. Was it his baby she was carrying? The journalist had implied some kind of relationship between them.
She shook her head, but she was grinning. “Nope. He made a big claim, and now he has to back it up. Come on, Passero. Let’s do this.”
Shaking my head, I climbed into one of the little pods. I’d been familiarizing myself with the steering wheels for the IndyCars, but this one was different again. More like one you’d find in an average car.
Tally quickly cued up the race, and I did a little practice lap. Once I had a feel for the controls, I was ready. I turned to her, a smirk on my face. “May the best racer win.”