Chapter 1
Cash Ryatt
I’m great at two things—winning and fucking.
Depends on the day, but I always take my skill set seriously when it comes to women and my career. I go big, especially when screwing up my life.
“Good job, Cash.” Hansen’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Good is relative, I suppose, but Westcott Racing’s race engineer isn’t bad for my ego.
To be the best again, I need to get my head off how I just fucked up. And per the last team meeting, I need to sport a “sunny disposition” when I come off the track for the owners’ benefit. Apparently, my bad moods aren’t good for business.
Sunny and losing aren’t synonymous, and getting overtaken on the last corner pushed me into seventh position on the grid tomorrow. “Fucking hell.”
“Bring her around, Cash,” Hansen instructs over the radio. As my race engineer with Westcott Racing, I give him the respect he deserves. “You did well today.”
I flex my fingers around the steering wheel as anger surges through my veins.
How can he say that when I’ve made it twice as hard to top the podium tomorrow?
“Good job, my ass,” I snap back over the radio.
I don’t have a cool enough head to go into the issues of the tires spinning out instead of sticking.
I take a deep breath and slowly release it, easing my anger the best I can. For now.
Hansen doesn’t say anything else. He’s smart enough to let me get my frustration out of my system on the cooldown lap.
As soon as I pull into the pit, the crew surrounds me, and I release myself from the confines of the cockpit.
“Sunny disposition” slips through my thoughts, and I try for a smile behind my helmet.
Yeah, not happening. I leave my helmet on, saving my harsher reaction for the privacy of the dressing room, out of sight of the press, team, owners, and spectators.
Why does everything in this sport have to be so goddamn public all the time anyway?
Money.
I’m not naive enough to be deluded by what makes the world and this sport go round.
Not anymore anyway. Principle One racing is a rich man’s sport.
There aren’t just millions on the line. There are billions to be made.
Despite the warnings I’ve been given, With my visor down, protecting my face and hiding my mood, I head toward the paddock to get weighed so I can bolt to my driver’s room right after.
I don’t get five feet before the team’s manager glues himself to my side and matches my pace.
Not everyone is as good as Hansen when it comes to timing .
. . “We’re happy with seventh, Cash.” My back is patted, causing me to look left.
My helmet may be limiting my field of vision, but I already know who it is from the gruff voice.
Three years tobacco-free can’t fight against the forty he had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Darren Ellis has been in the racing game almost as long as I’ve been alive, so I trust his wisdom.
He adds, “If this were the race, we’d have points on the board.
I’m not upset by this result, and neither are the sponsors. ”
More importantly, his opinion matters and carries weight.
That he sounds happy is the calm I need in the middle of this turmoil.
We keep walking, and he says, “I get it, Ryatt. You want pole position, but we’re a new team.
That we’re in the top ten in our first year of racing means we’re doing everything right. ”
“The crossover on—”
“The last turn. Yes, we’re looking at the footage. The wheels spun twice, which gave Leandro time to pass.”
“The spin makes me think it’s the track, not the tires,” I grumble, knowing damn well we have no control over the track. “There’s no rubber left at this—”
“Don’t worry.” He stops walking. When I turn back, he says, “We’ll have it figured out before the race tomorrow.”
“It’s my job to worry about it.”
“No, it’s your job to drive that car as fast as you can tomorrow. It’s our job to fix the issues.” His gaze travels over my shoulder. “Anyway, you have other things to worry about.”
“Like?”
When I glance over my shoulder, he replies, “Play nice. The owners brought their family.”
“Oh yay,” I mutter, remembering the memo I got yesterday, and start walking. The faster I go, the quicker I’ll be done.
The crowd of Westcott purple parts for me as I head for the paddock.
I touch a few hands as I pass, my gloves blocking any real connection, which is how I prefer to keep my life these days.
It’s a lot easier this way. Looking ahead, I have maybe thirty feet to cover until I’m away from the onlookers and can leave this unofficial meet and greet in my rearview mirror.
Announcements blare overhead, but I’m focused ahead and specifically on the left.
White shirt against tanned skin.
Brown hair mixed with some blond, which reflects in the sun.
My attention is set on the woman ahead . . . the woman who is too busy to look up from her phone to notice me. I pause, waiting for her to see me. This is a meet and greet, after all. Everyone is only here to greet or to meet me. Except her.
Her eyes stay trained on the phone in her hand. As if I didn’t just prove that this team is a real contender. As if I’m not the star of this show. As if I don’t even exist.
What the fuck?
People pay thousands of dollars for this opportunity, to have this proximity to greatness, and she’s going to stand there and look at her phone? Fuck that.
I swerve left, the device slipping from her hand just as I pass. Oops.
“What the hell?” Her voice is just a distant memory as I walk away, grinning like the bastard I am.
Wanting to relish the fact she’s now paying attention like she should have been, I slow my pace and glance back.
I’m met with blazing blues, lips pursed, hands fisted at the sides of her wound-up little body I wouldn’t mind unraveling.
The anger flushing her cheeks gives a hint of innocence that’s tempting to destroy with a good fucking.
Though when she cocks her eyebrow and narrows her eyes at me, I know the fire she exudes will burn.
Two layers of a racing kit won’t hide my body’s reaction that she pulls to the surface. The tinted visor doesn’t protect my eyes from her piercing glare either. I keep walking, turning my back to her.
I have a bad habit of finding trouble when I should be steering clear, and that sexy vixen is not only a distraction but a problem I don’t need.
Entering the shop, I pull off my helmet. I barely get it tucked under my arm when I’m shoved from behind. Although it’s too weak to send me forward, it’s the point that someone has the balls to push me at all. “What the—?”
Whipping around, I’m ready to lay into whoever has the nerve to touch me but am stopped when our eyes latch together.
I should have known it would be the firecracker with the phone.
One hand is clasped around the curve of her waist and the other holding that phone like it’s a lifeline.
I smirk. She’s hot. I’ll give her that. She’s also amusing.
Images of sinking into her, feeling the tips of her nails digging into my shoulders, those pink lips begging me to let her take me deeper. Fuck, and I bet those tits would look great pressed against a bathroom mirror. “You want my attention, babe. I’m all yours.”
Holding the phone up to my face, she says, “You owe me a phone.”
I step back, my gaze darting to the shattered screen and then to her. She’s prettier up close, even if the devil has taken over the details of her expression. “Accidents happen.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
I turn to leave. “Bill the team.”
“The team didn’t do it, asshole.” Her voice stops me, and I shoot her a look over my shoulder. She adds, “You did. On purpose. I saw you.” Of course, she did. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since. I grin. “So you owe me a new phone.”
Taking my time, I take her in, my gaze hanging on her perky tits just long enough for it to be noted. By her, of course. I know how to push a button or two myself.
“Eyes up here.” She crosses her arms over her chest with such authority as if the simple act has solved the world’s problems.
Closing the gap again, I leave a small space between us, close enough to get a hint of her floral perfume but far enough just in case she comes out swinging physically like she has verbally.
“I don’t take orders from anyone except those who sign my paycheck.
So run along and find another driver to harass.
I have no patience for an intolerable fangirl. ”
I’ve never found fury as fascinating as when it consumes her, shifting her body into a tension that I’m fairly certain is not doctor-recommended.
“Fangirl?” Her mouth falls open as her eyes widen farther.
“Me harass you?” The fire returns, an inferno burning her up as a storm brews in her eyes, darkening her blue skies. “You have some nerve, ass—”
“Marina?” The voice is firm but calm, the exact opposite of this little spitfire in front of me.
Good. Noah Westcott enters the paddock, rushing toward us. As an owner and the marketing director, he’ll be able to handle her better than I will. Then I see Loch and Harbor as well, flanking him. Fuck, let’s just make it an owner’s party, shall we?
They’re all good guys. Noah is as close to a friend as I’ll ever let anyone. But having all three of them at the track isn’t typical operating procedure and puts me on edge.
I wait, giving a small nod to signal toward the woman who appears justified in her stance as she grins in their direction. Her confidence is impressive, considering she’s about to be escorted off the property and probably banned for life from Principle One Racing as soon as security arrives.
“Marina,” Noah starts again. “I see you’ve met one of our drivers.”
Did they call her Marina? As in the youngest of the Westcott siblings, Marina?
As in, the little sister gifted a share of the team last year for her birthday? The same sister who’s an actress?
Shit . . .