Speed Trap (Fast Track to Love #1)
CHAPTER ONE
SUNNY
A red streak crossed the finish line as the sun fully breached the horizon pouring undiluted gold light over the scene for the perfect photo finish. I poked the photographer, making sure he got every shot, every angle, peering over his shoulder as he flicked through what he’d taken.
Satisfied with his work and knowing my boss would be too, I breathed out my relief into the chill morning air. With a little touching up, we had the perfect promo shots for my driver, Benson Crantz. Hauling my ass out of bed before the sparrows sang was totally worth it.
Keep telling yourself that .
I ignored the tiny voice that called me a liar with every shiver I suppressed beneath my branded white leather jacket and slapped a too-cheery smile on my dial.
“Perfect. They’re perfect. And thank you,” I added to our on-call photographer, Randy.
The man had crawled out of bed in the quiet hours of the night and, along with the rest of Benson’s team, hauled himself to the track at my beck and call. Randy was used to my last minute requests, mostly as my boss was an impulsive taskmaster.
I pushed blonde curls that clung to my cheeks back from my face. Those had been a whole lot bouncier at two am when I pinned them back in the dark before I left home. Blonde wasn’t my natural color—I’d highlighted my hair to help blend in, but the hint of my accent still gave away my Serbian heritage so many years after escaping my homeland.
“Never a problem, Sunny girl.” Randy grinned back at me.
I winced at the nickname as his gaze flicked my way. Randy looked me over, too-bright blue eyes lingering over my legs and stomach in the sort of objective, glazed over stare that usually stayed at the bar along with too many empty beer glasses. Unable to avoid him, he left me wishing I’d worn more clothes.
Like another full layer.
“Have you, uh, been up all night with someone? Or are you free?” He spoke slowly, as though I might not understand his intent.
I blinked at his cringe worthy attempt at a pickup line to a girl he clearly thought was dumb as hell due to an accent, glancing down at my ensemble. Beneath my jacket, my matching white one-shouldered top sat over black skinny jeans. A fleck of glitter ran through the material that reflected like a beacon in the brightening day. Pristine red Blahniks, my favorite heels, buckled at the ankle to complete the outfit. My heavily branded motorsport racing jacket completed the look. It was tailor made and cropped so I didn’t swim in it, but without it, I’d freeze my ass off at the track.
“Uh, no.” I offered the stuttering photographer a dismissive flutter of my wrist as my smile faded. “This is the unofficial uniform of Benson Cruz racing.” My assistant delivered a tower of takeout coffee cups and I hid behind them, grateful, though I did pass one to Randy. “Thanks again. Send the files to me?”
“Yeah, ?course.”
The weight of Randy’s heavy gaze followed me across the tarmac as I made my escape. My heels clicked in a regular rhythm as I worked through my morning schedule to their beat.
Benson likely had training and tweaking on the car to do—he couldn’t walk away without tinkering. Or he’d direct some underpaid grease monkey to tinker on his behalf. When he hit the gym later I’d be free to head back to the office. I’d left my laptop case there the night before which meant I couldn't park myself in the garage office. The lack of productivity ate at me, leaving me with the sole option of squinting at my phone for the next three hours. That wasn't happening.
I sipped my third reheated coffee, letting the now late morning ambrosia hit my system in a much needed fuel injection. If the photographer thought he’d been up for a while, maybe he should try working directly for Benson rather than for himself. There was no sleep for the wicked. For the scant hours I managed to catch through the week I must have been very naughty in a previous life because I sure as hell didn’t get the spare time to play up in this one.
“Sunny.” Our crew chief, Nigel, darted into my line of sight, rubbing the back of his neck with one large hand. “I need your diplomacy.”
“Diplomacy is not the skill that got me the job.” I smiled.
Nigel sent me a harried look. “He’ll lose his shit over this one.”
Ahh.
“What’s happened?” I picked up my pace as much as my heels allowed, trotting after him. “Nigel?”
His sideways look turned grim as shouts reached us. “You’ll see.” Nigel broke into a run, leaving me far behind.
By the time I caught up my breath came short, but when I rounded the corner into our pit garage I stopped breathing altogether.
Benson pinned a barrel-chested nugget of a man I’d never seen before to the wall by his grip on the smaller man’s shoulder. Bonus round, he yelled directly into the other man’s face. Spittle flew as Benson called his victim out for everything under the sun while the rest of the crew tried to pull them apart.
Gravel scraped as a nudge bumped my foot. I glanced down at where Randy crouched on his knees by my Blahniks, clicking away merrily. His lens rested almost on the ground as he stared up worshipfully at Benson to get his shot, a perspective which would make the action seem that much larger than life.
A shout drew my attention back to the action and just like the rest of the crew—apart from those trying to pry the men away from each other—I stood frozen, a bystander to Benson’s formidable temper tantrum in action. Having seen our boss fall in his regular insta-rage rage too many times to count there was no way I would step between the two men, though I offered his latest victim my sympathy. From a safe distance, of course.
Without tearing my gaze from the conflict unfolding before my eyes I bent to pluck the camera from Randy’s clinging hands, hauling him up by the strap that looped around his neck.
“Delete them.” I tapped the lens, uncaring if I left a perfect fingerprint as evidence on the glass, or not. “Every single one, Randy.”
He nodded in my periphery. The pictures on the screen he offered up blanked out as his trembling fingers worked the buttons, though like me his attention never wavered from Benson. Both of us managed our mini-drama on our own sidelines. Even filled with rage, and not a skerrick of the picture perfect driver in sight, Benson still had that oh-so-watchable x-factor that made him the stuff of legend.
On and off the track.
The man was born to be a diva.
Something in Randy’s expression changed, enough to distract me from the popcorn worthy event hosted in the pit. I whirled around in time to see a shadowy blur in black and white launch into the where the remaining crew attempted to dislodge the two men. Benson flew backward, landed on his leather-clad ass, and skidded a little on the cement floor. The group of mechanics flocked to their fallen leader, leaving the newcomer to tend to the previously attacked man.
I gave Benson a sideways glance to where he still lay on his side, his team pandering over him, though I noted the hand cradling his cheek. Not out of injury, but to protect his million dollar plus face, of course. No real harm had been done there except to his ego which cushioned his fall nicely.
That freed me—and my curiosity—to pick my way across the short distance, blessedly unobserved, to where the two other men stood. The taller silhouette leaned over the figure Benson had attacked. His long fingered hand rested on the nuggety man’s shoulder in the same position though in a gentler, more familiar grip as he checked him over.
Dark, wavy hair flopped over his forehead. Though I couldn't see his eyes, a sexy five o’clock shadow graced the edge of his jawline, providing sharp definition against the matching white leather racing jackets they both wore, though the badging differed from mine.
Recognition slapped me in an instant.
KC Hawking— Hawk —was Benson’s newest rival, a hot shot who had risen through the ranks of recent talent at a slightly faster pace than my driver. I thought back, but couldn't remember who had arrived onto the circuit first. Benson sensed the threat early on, and they had been at each other’s throats since they’d first raced during the last season.
And there had been a distinct strain of animosity between the two racing teams as the drivers went head-to-head on more than just the track. The arrogance—from both drivers—astounded me. Benson’s temper tantrum was the least of it. Paid the teams might be, but no one was hired to deal with the level of anger and stress their ongoing feud lay down.
I gripped my coffee too tight as I watched their interaction. A dribble of dark liquid bubbled over onto the back of my hand as I reached the driver and his friend.
“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I asked the shorter man Benson had attacked, ignoring the driver. “I’m Sunny Cooper. I’m on Benson’s PR team.”
Both Benson and Hawk were to blame in this situation. I was sure of it. Neither seemed inclined to back down and take their mutual animosity out on the track like the rest of the racing teams. If Benson hadn’t been the driver who hired me, I would have reported him in a hot minute. But if I could smooth things over between the teams it would make less of a media shitstorm when something inevitably leaked out.
I glanced over my shoulder to find Randy still taking pictures. Pressure expanded in my chest until I could have emitted a voiceless scream that went on and on. The level of testosterone overflowing the pit was unbelievable. I closed my eyes, tried not to snort in frustration and failed magnificently.
“It’s okay, I got it.” Hawk’s honey yellow gaze of his namesake pierced me when I pried my eyes open. A lopsided grin spread over his face, the expression he—and most of the other drivers—used as his media mask.
How attractive can an asshole be?
I blinked and looked away, willing my ovaries to calm their strut. “Uh, okay.” Eloquent, Sunny. So eloquent. I turned to the shorter man. “Are you okay? I am so sorry Benson got out of hand. He gets riled after he’s raced.” It had been a practice run, an untimed lap, but I wasn’t about to go into the incriminating specifics.
“Ryan Hadley. And you shouldn’t apologize for a man like that.” Ryan fixed me with a gaze too full of understanding for my liking. “The boys run pure octane in their veins.”
“That doesn’t excuse this sort of behavior.” I squeezed Ryan’s shoulder. The jacket wasn’t too padded; his bulk was his natural size. “Do I need to send for a medic? Can we offer you physical therapy?” It wasn’t my place or my job exactly, but I was used to picking up the shattered pieces Benson left trailing in his wake.
I checked over my shoulder. Benson was still surrounded by his groupies who had hauled his ass off the tarmac. For the moment everything seemed calm, but I knew how fast that situation could change.
“Nah,” Ryan shook his head, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Is it terrible to say I’m used to it?”
“Yes. It fucking well is,” a deep voice behind me growled.
I pivoted and came face-to-face with an angry driver of my own, though it wasn’t the one who employed me. The face KC Hawking showed the world slipped to expose the real man beneath, and I couldn’t work out which driver was worse. To me, they all fell into the same category. The only difference was that one paid me, and this one didn’t.
While Benson’s face had turned red right before he diva-ed right out, Hawk’s rage glittered in a cold fury that danced behind those golden primal hunter eyes.
And I was the tiny white rabbit, pinned by the predator. My coffee cup trembled as I clutched it too tight, denting the takeaway cup.
Prey, indeed.