8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
E ngines purr and rev, thumping deeply like motorboats at idle, while screeching tires lend a cacophonic background to the constant chatter and the emcees announcements. The clouds that massed yesterday made good on their promise of rain, the smell of wet asphalt mixing with burnt rubber and gasoline. Thankfully, the rain didn’t last, and now the sun is breaking through and the preliminary qualifying runs are happening as planned. Ezra and Ryan rushed to adjust the setups for the slick track conditions, but there is really nothing you can do except hope the drivers know how to compensate and control their cars.
Wyatt and Griffin have already had their first runs on the track and received decent scores. They are waiting on their second run to see if they will be part of the top thirty-two drivers to progress to the Tandem events tomorrow. Practice this morning went well, and Paul is happy with both the output from the cars and the driving from the guys. Cole is keeping an eye on the other drivers, taking copious notes in a spiral-bound notebook filled with chicken scratch that he can use for comparison should Wyatt or Griffin come up against these guys tomorrow in the bracket.
And me? I’m bouncing between being a booth bunny, where I’m parroting back shop info and car specs to anyone who visits the booth, to holding the huge umbrella on the grid before the guys had their turn on the course. Later, I’ll return to umbrella girl mode when we have a driver meet and greet for anyone who progresses to the tandem elimination rounds. I guess I’ll be posing with the drivers and cars should our guys make it through.
My promo outfit seems to be a hit and I have had some people recognize me from the videos that Network D and the ADL shared. “Hey, you’re the chick from the 350Z call-out!” has been a familiar conversation starter. Every time someone recognizes me, my spirits soar and I get giddy butterflies. Posing for photos with fans and telling them where to find Paul and Smoke and Mirrors has made everything up to this point worth it.
“Fuck yeah, I dominated that round. It’s too bad my boy Wyatt didn’t. But it’s okay, bro, you can cheer me on tomorrow from the stands.” I spin around to find Griffin and Wyatt back at our booth. Griffin is looking way too pleased with himself, and I’m guessing from his self-congratulatory tone, he made it to the tandem round.
“Hey, sorry you didn’t make it,” I say to Wyatt as he nears me.
He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me against his side. I teeter a little in my tall, spiky heels, but he steadies me. “No sweat. I get to spend more time being a promo model with you now. Can you show me how to pose for photos?” He tries to arch his back and stick both his ass and chest out while wearing his driver’s fire suit. I smack his chest and laugh.
“You’re such a dumbass. You can sit at the booth and educate people on the work that has gone into our cars, convincing them we can make theirs even better.”
I look back toward the booth to see who is hanging out there and catch Griffin’s stare. He looks away, but not quick enough to disguise the look on his face. Is it jealousy? Does he have a problem with Wyatt touching me, or just me in general? I’m distracted when people come up and ask for photos of Wyatt and Griffin, and even a few with me.
“How did Griffin do with his first tandem round?” I ask Wyatt when he comes striding back to the booth. I was in the stands passing out promo when he started, but Paul asked me to come back to the booth, so I missed the two races he was in.
“The first race he was the chase car, but he killed it. He pushed Sergio Torres on every drift, and showed some serious style when they hit the S-turn. He kept his spacing tight, even when shifting corners. He left Sergio in his tire smoke when he was the lead car with some serious speed and the angles were all sick, hitting all of the clipping zones. He won the round and will be advancing up the bracket.”
Wyatt grabs my hand and twirls me in a circle before his hands settle on my hips to still me. He’s grinning, those dimples of his needing to be acknowledged. His Smoke and Mirrors T-shirt fits snugly and his dark jeans hang on his lean hips, drawing my eyes down the length of him before they snap back up to his face.
I step back so his hands fall away. I love the attention and want him to touch me, but I also want to be professional and keep my job from becoming a big clusterfuck of awkward.
“Sounds like a good start to the day. Do we know when his next race is?”
“Probably in an hour or so. He’ll be back up here soon. I’m sure you’ll hear firsthand just how incredible his runs were. At least he didn’t do any crazy celebrating when he advanced. I lost twenty bucks to Ryan because I bet he would do something crazy. He may be turning over a slightly new leaf this season.” Wyatt sounds almost unbelieving of this new side to Griffin, and I can’t blame him.
“We can only hope. I was talking to a rep for Forden Tires and telling them about you guys when I walked back from the track earlier. They knew who both you and Griffin were, and seemed interested to see how this season goes. I got a business card and he said I should follow up with him after the event to talk about possible sponsorship options.”
“No shit? Shelby, you are too good. We have talked to those guys so many times and never gotten a business card or anyone to acknowledge that they could sponsor us. You must have been extra charming.”
“Oh, you know, just doing my job. I’ve been posting photos and short videos all day of the booths, drivers, and cars. Those event hashtags are totally working in our favor and getting lots of new followers, likes, and shares. Even some of the other teams and drivers I have been showing have commented. It’s pretty cool how this sport has totally taken off, but everyone involved seems to be so down to earth.”
“Hey, motherfuckers, you can bow to your upcoming drift king. This competition is mine. Cole and I watched a few tandem rounds and those suckers look like shit. I’ll be cleaning house and taking home a podium win today, for sure.”
And just like that, I eat my words about people being down to earth. Griffin is peacocking around our booth, the top half of his black fire suit pushed down to his hips, exposing the tight black T-shirt he’s wearing beneath. His colorful sleeve of tattoos draw my eyes as usual as I watch him raise his hands in early victory. He’s getting worse with each advancement. I think he will be back to his unsportsmanlike conduct to follow his future wins. We are trying to keep him from ruining the work we are doing to establish S&M as a mature, well-behaved team. It seems like he can’t even help himself.
I worry when he finally heads back to the pit for his next round. He’s a good driver, so it’s not that I think he will lose, even though it’s any man’s race. I worry most that when I call the rep for Forden later, they will pretend to not remember me, or Smoke and Mirrors, because of what I expect from Griffin.
I’m busy signing hero cards and handing out flyers at our booth when Wyatt gets the call from Cole. Griffin had a “one more time” round because the judges couldn’t decide who had won from the first two runs. On his third run, he was the lead car, and his opponent, Charlie Sweeten, clipped his bumper and sent him into a spin that landed the Supra nose-first into a wall right at the start .
Cold dread pools in my stomach as Wyatt rushes out of the booth with Paul. “Wait, what can I do?” I call to their retreating backs.
Paul slows and turns but doesn’t stop. “Just stay here and watch the booth. We’ll be back when we know what’s going on,” Paul says to me before he sprints after Wyatt.
I hope Griffin is okay. Oh my God, I totally hope the Supra is in drivable condition. We only have five minutes to fix any damage if Paul calls a competition timeout, otherwise no vehicle servicing can be made during the tandem runs. No wonder Wyatt took off so fast. They will all need to assess the mess and do any repairs they can in the shortest amount of time possible.
I wait around for an hour, much longer than I had expected, before anyone makes it back to the booth. Wyatt returns first with a noticeable slump in his shoulders.
“Please tell me what’s going on. I’ve been dying to know if everything is all right.” I grab Wyatt’s shoulders to make him tell me and he smiles sadly, his dimples remaining hidden.
“The Supra is toast. We called a comp timeout and tried to fix the damage from the crash, but the intercooler was pushed into the engine. There’s some major damage and nothing we can do to fix it here. We had to forfeit, even though we are sure Griff would have taken the one more time round. It sucks so bad.” Wyatt pushes his glasses up with his hand to rub his eyes. The black frames settle back on his nose and he eyes me with a stare that causes me to feel the heavy disappointment right along with him.
“We can fix it and try again next week at Sonoma. I’m sure we can find parts and get everything perfect in a few days, right? ”
I’m grasping, hoping they have the spares and the time to fix something like this. I know Dad and Henry would be giving a month-long service estimate to a client with that kind of damage, but maybe S&M can do better.
“No, we can’t. It’s going to take weeks that we don’t have to fix it. There’s no way we can get it to Sonoma in a week, and we’ll probably miss Sacramento the week after that, too. Griff won’t be able to compete until the Supra is fixed, and I feel bad that I still have the opportunity. He’s going to be so pissy and not happy to have to tag along and not race. Fuck. This is why we need backup cars. Even if they are just some basic cars with nice modded upgrades, he could have a chance. Hell, Griffin could drive a boat of a Cadillac and make it perform like the most built up S14 Silvia.”
“I have an idea. I have no clue if it will pan out, but I have to follow it. Hang here and watch the booth for me, I have a call to make.”
Wyatt stares at me like I’m crazy, but nods and heads back to our table while I grab my phone from my purse and run off to find a quiet area—easier said than done when every few seconds I hear burnouts and the braaap-braap of a revved engine.
I dial quickly, my fingers shaking with possibilities. If this works, we might have a chance of having both our drivers competing until the Supra is repaired.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears as the call is picked up. “Henry? Is Project Black Sheep ready to be track tested? I need some help.”