Chapter 8
EIGHT
“What is this I hear about you showing up to press naked?” my dad asks, avoiding any greeting as I answer his call.
I groan internally, knowing better than to do it aloud.
I should have seen this coming. Not only is he the co-owner of the IndyCar team I am currently suspended from, but he’s the one who always did most of the disciplining growing up.
My mom was around just long enough to get a nice payout when they divorced, and then it was just my dad and me.
He took me along to work instead of handing me off to babysitters and nannies whenever he could, which gave me the opportunity to fall in love with all things that go with it from a very young age.
As I got older and my father also became my boss, that line got a bit blurred.
“I wasn’t naked,” I grumble. “I had on boxers and a towel.”
”You know what I mean. It’s not giving the image you need to come back, Roman.
It’s encouraging this playboy shit I told to grow out of.
” My stomach churns with the reminder. “I was able to get away with suspending you pending an improvement in your image, but you haven’t done anything to help that.
Blind items, old photo leaks, the crash, and now this? ”
“The crash wasn’t my fault!” I say, my irritation bubbling over. “How the hell was I supposed to know the truck was going to seize like that?”
“It’s just a sign that you aren’t operating at your best. You know an engine—if you had your head in the game, you would have heard something was off.
” He’s right, of course. That day, Tyler had been giving me shit, telling me I didn’t belong anymore and that he was going to embarrass me in the standings, and I was determined to prove him wrong.
My ego was winning out over common sense, and it ended in disaster.
“Sponsors don’t see the minutiae, Roman.
They only see the big picture. They see recklessness, partying, arguments.
” My jaw tightens, knowing a response won’t help me here.
“This is why I wanted you to lie low, stay out of the papers and off the track—any track. If you’d listened to me, we wouldn’t have this issue. ”
“I couldn’t not race for a year,” I mumble, feeling like a child.
“You could have; you’re just too stubborn.
You’re not some unknown driver anymore, like you were when you were eighteen.
I warned you the press would follow you no matter where you went, but you wouldn’t listen.
” I bite back a dozen arguments, but before any of them can slip through, someone calls his name in the background.
“I have to go. Just… try and stay out of trouble, okay?” my dad says, exasperation in his tone,
“I’m always on my best behavior,” I say, attempting to sound light and uncaring, the way everyone expects me to be.
“I’ve heard that before,” he grumbles, then lets out a deep sigh. “Love you. Don’t do anything too stupid.”
“I’ll try. Love you too.” The phone goes dead before I throw it onto the bed, irritation brewing in my veins.
It’s bullshit because I unknowingly got wrapped up in some scandal, so I can’t do what I love.
Instead of racing, I have to spend the next year being on my best behavior.
And when I say out loud that someone is fucking with me, no one believes me.
Why would they? To them, I love the drama, live for the spotlight.
That’s the major flaw of creating the persona of the bad boy of Indy all those years ago.
All I’ve ever wanted was to race, to be behind the wheel, to hear the roar of the engine and feel that adrenaline in my veins as I take a turn a bit too close, the thrill of passing someone in a death-defying move.
My earliest memories are at the track, spending summers on the road with him while mom was off on some trip, when he’d let me drive late after everyone else left, the lights of the track the only thing illuminating the way.
I knew even then it was what I wanted to do with my life. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I had it for a moment, until my own ego and I needed to prove I was more than people’s worst expectations of me.
Instead of dwelling on things I can’t change, I head to the hotel gym, determined to work off this irritation stewing in my veins.
Even though I’m not racing, I’ve made sure to maintain both my exercise and practice schedules for Indy, another reason I haven’t been out partying.
Even if I weren’t trying to be on my best behavior, I wouldn’t have the time, not when I’m essentially working two different jobs.
In the mornings, I practice with the Monster Smash crew, making sure I’m attentive and aware of everything they need from me; in the afternoons, I spend at least an hour on the race simulator, maintaining my skills however I can.
It’s not the same as being in a car, racing against other drivers, but it’s good to keep my skills sharp, since there isn’t always a local track to practice on.
I’m standing near the weights, preparing for my next set of reps, when she enters: blonde hair in a high ponytail, a light purple workout set hugging every curve of her body, shorts that cup her perfect ass in a way that should be illegal for public viewing, and legs that go on for days.
She’s wearing socks with little frills around the ankles and white sneakers, and her ponytail swings as she walks toward a treadmill in the corner, a pair of giant headphones on her ears.
She stares at her phone for a bit before smiling, setting the treadmill to her preferred settings, and then begins walking quickly, arms swinging, mouthing the words to a song.
For some reason I can’t quite understand, I’m completely infatuated with Lana Carson.
She’s only been here for two weeks, but I find myself looking for her every time I walk into the arena.
I thought it would fade, but she seems to be another wrench in my carefully laid plans, a distraction I very much do not need.
Late at night, when I’m bored and reminiscing about all the ways I got myself into this shitty predicament, I’ve taken to researching her, desperate to learn a bit more about the mysterious woman.
That’s how I know she grew up racing dirt bikes and ATVs, getting trophies while touring with her older brothers and dad, a former all-star motorcyclist. According to a motorcycle magazine, his wife left soon after their daughter was born, and he left the circuit to raise the three kids himself.
Despite her obvious skill, she stopped racing altogether when she turned eighteen.
That’s when she went to college and seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, aside from the occasional social media post. Her account was a personal one, posting sporadically about travel, nights with friends, and random food pictures, before it transformed overnight after the announcement that she would be driving Heartbreaker.
I watch her as I move through my workout, alternating between weights and the punching bag.
Every few minutes, she changes something—the speed or the incline—but she keeps moving on her treadmill, ponytail swaying to what I think might be the beat of a song.
It’s not until I nearly drop a weight on my foot that I realize I’ve spent the last ten minutes or so completely focused on her.
Maybe it’s time to stop before I injure myself.
Though I could use some cardio…
Without thinking further, I rack the weights before moving across the nearly empty gym, stopping right in front of her treadmill. She looks down at me, a bit shocked to see me, before rolling her eyes. I smile at her irritation.
I love how annoyed she is by my mere presence.
It must be some kind of illness, though I’m not interested in seeking out a cure any time soon.
“Can I help you?” she asks, slipping a headphone behind her ear.
“You look so pretty when you’re annoyed with me,” I say, unable to resist pushing her buttons.
“Then I must be drop-dead gorgeous,” she deadpans.
“You know you are, but if you want a compliment, you just have to ask.” She’s breathing heavy as she glares at me, that ponytail swinging behind her.
“What do you need, Rome? I’m kind of busy.”
“What are you doing over there?” I ask, finally giving in to my curiosity.
“Strutting.”
“What the hell is strutting?” She’s panting, walking fast now at a steep incline, but can hold a conversation.
“A type of workout.” I tip my head to the side, a small smirk on my lips meant to bother her further.
“I don’t think it is.”
“Just because I’m not doing boring weights doesn’t mean it’s not a workout. I used to be a fitness instructor in college, and I taught classes on it.” The look I give her is equal parts confused and entertained before I start ticking items off on my fingers.
“Champion dirt bike rider, a fitness instructor, monster truck driver. Is there anything you haven’t done?
” She looks over at me, lips parted by her panted breaths, another image I have to fight not to picture in a completely different setting.
God, maybe I really am the asshole everyone thinks I am.
“How do you know I rode dirt bikes? You wouldn’t be looking into me, would you?”
“You think a driver’s gonna come in here with no name, no prestige, ready to shake the industry up, and I won’t look into them? Hell no.”
“What else did you find?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow. I give her my cocky grin, the one the cameras get most often, the one that usually has women going googly-eyed around me. The one that seems to bounce right off of her.
“I saw you look great in a bikini. Spring break in Cabo?” She reaches for something in her cup holder, grabs a hair clip, and tosses it at me.
It bounces off my forehead, and I rub at the spot, laughing.
“I also saw you’ve been out of the circuit for some time.
How’d you end up here?” She shrugs, looking beyond me, her eyes shifting the slightest bit.
Normal people wouldn’t see it, I’m sure—but I do.
I do, because like recognizes like, and I can spot when someone is purposely closing down, preparing to show a version that isn’t their true self.
“How everyone else did, I suppose: I got the call. Years ago, I applied, but never got far. Seems they were looking for a woman to bring in a new crowd, trying to temper all of the gross testosterone around here. They reached out; I was between gigs, and it sounded like a fun time.” I stare at her for a moment, but decide I’ll let her have this lie.
If there’s one thing I can understand, it’s wanting to bend the truth to fit in better.
Before I can say anything else, though, she asks her own question. “What had you so pissed before?” I lift an eyebrow, unsure what she means. “You were punching that bag like it had someone’s face on it.”
“So you were watching me?” Her lips tip, and she adjusts the treadmill again, taking her to a slow walk.
“It was hard to miss. Plus, I never said I didn’t like the eye candy.” I grin at her, and she rolls her eyes.
“So? What was it?” I contemplate giving her an easy answer, something fabricated or surface-level, but then I take in a breath and tell her the truth. Maybe it will help to talk to an unbiased person about this. Lord knows I haven’t had someone like that in years.
“I had a call with my dad this morning, and it didn’t go the way I wanted it to.
” She doesn’t speak, just keeps walking, that ponytail swinging as she moves, and I find myself hypnotized by it.
It must be why I keep going. “I’m supposed to be on my best behavior to get back into Indy, but shit keeps happening that’s making that harder and harder.
People keep trying to fuck with me to get a reaction out of me. ”
“The clothes,” she says, and I nod, watching her turn her machine off completely. “Do you know who took them?”
“No idea,” I say, even if I have a laundry list of people who would want to make me look bad.
Tyler, because he’s still pissed I made it into Indy when he didn’t.
Jordan, annoyed that I made him look like an idiot before the race.
Liam, because he wasn’t promoted to full-time when they brought me in.
And those are just the obvious ones.
“I’m an asshole, you know. Who wouldn’t want to put me in my place?” She stares at me for long, silent moments, assessing me in a way I don’t know how to feel about before she shakes her head.
“No, I don’t think that’s right,” she says. I let out a self-deprecating laugh, running a hand through my hair.
“I can assure you it is. Everyone tells me I’m an asshole.”
“Oh, no, that part—that part I believe. Everyone thinks you’re an asshole. But the reality of it?” She shakes her head. “No. It’s not real. It’s not you.”
“I’m as real as they get,” I say, trying to sound much more confident and assured than I am.
“You keep telling yourself that, pretty boy. But from one bullshitter to another, I can see through you.” My heart begins to race, and I slip my hands into my pockets, looking up at her and trying to get her as off-kilter as she seems to make me.
“Are you a bullshitter, Lana?” She looks at me, assessing, and I cling to the silence hanging in the air, eager to hear the lie, to try to dissect it the way she’s doing with my own words.
But before she can answer, there’s a loud clunk to my left, forcing my eyes from Lana’s, where a woman two treadmills down has just fallen, one that I’m pretty sure has been listening to our conversation all along. On instinct, I move to help her, along with the few other people around.
It isn’t until a hotel employee takes her down to the lobby for an ice pack that I realize Lana left without a word.