Chapter 5
FIVE
The arena is electric as I kill the truck’s engine and sit back, a wide grin on my face beneath my helmet.
My breathing is heavy, the residual adrenaline sharp as I close my eyes, allowing the glimmer of success to slide into my veins at surviving my first official race.
I even managed to land a cross-thread, a trick where you jump and land intentionally off, appearing like a crash that you then save.
Typically, the roof of your truck hits the dirt before flipping back over to land on all four tires.
I fucking did it.
And I somehow even managed to come in sixth among the nine drivers. Rome, Tyler, and Jordan all beat me, but despite my bravado before the race, I did better than anticipated on my first go.
Demi is nearly as giddy as I am when we meet up and make our way out of the arena.
We chat while I shower in the empty women’s locker room, quickly washing off the sweat and grime.
I fill her in on the conversation I had before the race, and go over the list of suspects once more.
While we haven’t been able to narrow things down much, we’ve begun creating a list of major suspects, like Tyler, whom we found used to be good friends with Rome until he left for the Cup Series, Liam, who is jealous he took one of the coveted full-time driver seats, and Phil, whose tickets have been selling out much quicker with the ongoing chaos.
As I dry off and quickly dress to head into the room for the small post-race press conference, we discuss ways to monitor the trucks for future sabotage attempts.
Demi’s been working to access the security systems, but since we move from location to location so often, she would have to relearn each system from the start, which isn’t feasible.
“Where the hell is he?” Courtney, the circuit’s publicist, asks as I sit at the table behind the placard with my name on it. She’s pacing the room, tapping on her phone, her jaw tight. All of the main drivers are at the table, except for the one who is supposed to sit next to me.
Roman DeLuca.
“He probably has better things to do,” Tyler says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. His face is set with irritation, the way it always is when Roman’s name comes up.
“He’s contracted to come to this,” she says through gritted teeth, practically seething.
I know this, of course: it was one of the conditions for becoming a driver for Monster Smash.
Each tour stop includes media obligations, with interviews during at least one meet-and-greet session and a press conference at the end of the city’s stop.
Phil is trying to turn this into a real circuit that fans watch and track, rather than just a traveling entertainment show.
“I don’t think he really cares about his contracts, Courtney. We all know Phil isn’t going to hold him to it,” Tyler says bitterly, and I file it away to add to our suspect-motivation list.
“I don’t—” she starts, but stops when the door opens. “Rome, thank goodness. I was getting…” Her words fade out, her brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell are you wearing?” She sounds deeply agitated, which confuses me for a moment, but when Roman comes into my line of vision, I understand.
Because the man is naked.
Okay, so naked is a bit of an exaggeration, but not a huge one, not when his wide chest is on display, dark hair speckling across it, his tousled hair slicked back and still damp. He’s wrapped a towel around his waist, though when he steps, a pair of black boxer briefs are visible.
“I’m working with what I’ve got, Court,” he says, winking at her before sitting between Tyler and me.
Tyler glares at him. I continue watching, baffled by what I’m seeing.
After the show, we all had about thirty minutes to wind down, clean up, and head here.
I’m wearing a Heartbreaker-branded T-shirt and comfortable shorts, and the rest of the drivers are in similar attire. It seems Rome decided to make a splash.
“See something you like?” Rome asks, settling back into his seat and giving me his signature panty-dropping smile.
Too bad for him, I hate wearing panties.
Instead, I give him a very drawn-out once-over, taking him in from head to toe. I linger a bit longer on the spot where the towel still covers his boxers before looking back up to meet his eyes.
“Not particularly,” I say, fluttering my lashes.
Our microphones must be on because the room erupts into laughter.
I smile wider, liking that I knocked this cocky man off his footing when his jaw tightens for just a moment before he grins again, leaning back with his arms crossed on his chest. Muscles bulge as he does, and the way my eyes track the movement with a mind of their own confirms I am, in fact, a huge fucking liar.
His eyes light up, and my stomach drops, knowing he saw it. But before he can open his mouth, Courtney speaks, telling the reporters waiting that they are free to ask questions.
“Roman! Roman!” reporters call, and Courtney points to a pretty blonde who stands, a coy smile on her lips.
“Roman, I can’t help but notice you came a bit underdressed,” she says with a giggle. Rome gives her a beaming grin, and I force myself not to roll my eyes. There are cameras everywhere, after all. Tyler seems a lot less worried about that, a small groan leaving his lips as his head shakes.
“Yeah, well, it seems someone played a bit of a prank on me, took my clothes from the locker room. Thankfully, they left my underwear, or it would be a different show altogether.” There’s a loud, boisterous laugh from the press, and Tyler looks even more annoyed.
Interesting. “I hope none of you mind too much. I didn’t want to leave you all waiting by running to my hotel room to get a shirt.
” I stare at him as he speaks. He’s confident and easygoing, as if none of this fazes him, but for the briefest flash, I see it there once more: nerves.
Something that shouldn’t be in place on a man so self-assured and arrogant, but it plays along the lines of his face all the same, hidden behind that mask of his.
Now, why would a man like Roman DeLuca need fake bravado at all?
“No, I don’t mind at all,” the reporter says, fluttering her lashes.
“Are you two going just to flirt the entire time? If so, I’ve got better things to do,” Tyler snaps, glancing between Rome and the woman, his jaw tight. “Some of us actually take this job seriously, not like some big joke.”
“Ohh, uh, no, I’m so sorry—” the woman says, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“No need to be sorry, Ty’s just grumpy I kicked his ass, is all.
Just like the old days, huh, Tyler?” Roman’s gaze has turned to a glare.
Tyler’s face goes a bit redder, with embarrassment or anger; I’m unsure.
Thankfully, before it can escalate, Courtney points to another reporter to ask a question, and a man stands.
“You got your first win since returning to the circuit—what do you think changed?” the man asks.
To my shock and horror, his face turns toward me, grinning wide, and all the attention in the room zeroes in on me as well.
This—the attention, the fame, the spotlight—is very much not part of the plan.
I figured I would just fade into the background, a woman in a sport dominated by men, a token player in this game, but he’s putting all eyes on me in a way I don’t know how to feel about.
“Got some worthwhile competition. I wanted to show her what the champion looked like.” Despite my best intentions, a blush burns hot on my cheeks.
I’m relieved when Courtney picks another reporter to ask Tyler a question, but even when the attention shifts away from me, I can feel Rome’s eyes on me.
The questions continue for a bit, one reporter asking me how it feels to be the only woman in the circuit, to which I answer diplomatically but honestly: it feels fantastic, and I’m having the time of my life.
Before time is up, one last reporter asks Roman if they’ll see him out at the city’s best clubs, and if so, where he’ll be so they can catch him.
He tips his head toward them, smirking, all shining bravado and charisma for miles, before shaking his head.
“No, no. I won’t; I’m on my best behavior right now.
Gotta be a good boy.” The room erupts in laughter, and Courtney then thanks the reporters for their time before guiding us back into the greenroom.
Once the door closes behind us, the mask falls from Rome’s face, frustration replacing the good ol’ boy grin that was just there.
“Okay, who was it?” he says, anger sparking on his face. “Who stole my clothes?” My eyes widen at the quick change.
“What are you talking about?” Oliver asks, looking at Rome with confusion.
He’s one of the few drivers who doesn’t seem to have any real issue with Rome.
Quickly, I look around the room, desperate to capture the responses of everyone around as I realize what’s happening: I’m witnessing the aftermath of a potential sabotage in real time.
“Someone snuck in while I was showering and stole my clothes like this is some kind of high school bullshit. Now I want to know—who did it?”
“Rome, calm down, I—” Courtney says, her voice appeasing as she reaches for him, but he steps away.
“Someone is trying to fuck with me, and you all can play the game as if it isn’t happening, but I know it is. I’m fucking tired of it. Someone here is fucking with me, and I want to know who it is.”
“Enough with the dramatics, Rome. Not everything is a personal vendetta against you. For all we know, you were still drunk from last night and didn’t remember to bring your clothes into the stall,” Tyler says.
It happens so quickly I almost miss it, but in an instant, Tyler’s back is to the wall, Rome holding him there with a hand on his chest. The room goes utterly silent. Anyone sane would be scared, with a man as big and angry as Rome pinning them to the wall. But Tyler just smiles.
“Not sure how showing up naked and then getting into fights plays into your have to play nice to get back in the big leagues plan,” Tyler taunts as if he couldn’t care less about the threat before him.
Well, well, well. I wonder what that means?
“Is that your plan? Fuck with me, make me lose out on getting back into Indy to make yourself feel better about never being good enough for it?” Tyler’s face transforms, the teasing attitude disappearing as he pushes Rome’s hand off his chest before shoving him away.
“God, you really are so self-obsessed, aren’t you? Not everything revolves around you,” Tyler spits out. Rome slams his palm against the wall, the loud sound filling the room.
“Except I’m the one shit keeps happening to, and no one seems to fucking care.
” I try to gauge reactions as quickly as I can, but everyone looks as shocked by this outburst as I am.
“Fuck this shit,” Rome says after a moment, stepping back and moving toward the door.
He flings it open and slams it shut behind him.
The room remains still for long seconds after he leaves.
“What the fuck is his problem?” Jordan murmurs, breaking the silence. It seems to snap everyone out of their frozen state, prompting them to grab their things and start moving.
“Who the fuck knows. I told Phil he shouldn’t be here. He’s a loose cannon,” Tyler says, rubbing at his neck. “He probably isn’t even missing his things, just wants the attention.”
“Not a fan?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“No one is. No one wants him here. He only came because he couldn’t race anywhere else,” Tyler says, shaking his head.
“I don’t know, he seems to have a few friends here,” I say, which is true. During practice, he almost always has a few people around him, chatting and asking questions.
“They’re all idiots who think he’s going to pull them up with him when he goes back to Indy,” Tyler grumbles.
“And you’re not?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“No, I’ve learned my lesson that the golden boy only cares about himself.” Well, if that isn’t just the perfect segue.
“Oh, that’s right: you knew him before, didn’t you? Were you guys friends?” I ask, trying not to be too obvious. Tyler looks out the door Rome stormed through.
“We were.”
“And then?”
“And then he got into IndyCar, and he got too cool for us plebeians down here,” Tyler says, venom in the words.
“Come on, that’s not fair, Ty,” Oliver says. From my research, the three men were good friends back when Roman was in Monster Smash from ages eighteen to twenty-two, until he joined his father’s Indy team. It seems one of them doesn’t have completely bad blood with him, at least. “We all got busy.”
“We had a pact to stay friends, and he is the one who didn’t hold up his end,” Tyler snaps at his friend; his eyes show anger, but beneath that is hurt he’s failing to hide. Oliver looks at him, telling me there’s more to the story. Before they can settle into a silent conversation, I poke at it.
“So he stopped talking to you guys when he joined IndyCar?”
“The only time he talks to us now is when he deigns to grace us with his presence for the occasional special event,” Tyler says.
I nod, secretly wishing Demi were here to catch this, but we’ve been forced to maintain a practical distance so as not to raise an alarm.
No one else has an assistant in the back rooms. “He’s just a spoiled brat who thinks he’s too good for this place.
He’s only here to prove to the board that he can stay out of trouble so DeLuca Racing takes him back next season.
” My mind reels at this news, and even though I remember seeing a few articles about scandals, I realize there’s much more we need to learn about Roman DeLuca’s life before Monster Smash.
“Anyway. I’m done talking about that asshole. You guys want to grab a drink? You can bring your friend if you want,” he says as he slings a bag over his shoulder. I agree quickly, texting Demi the name of the bar we’re meeting at, eager to tell her everything I just learned.
We’ll have to start keeping a closer eye on Tyler because there’s suddenly a crystal-clear motive in front of me.