Chapter 1
Ten years ago
Mack Williams was born with her foot on the accelerator.
At least that’s what her dad said nearly every day of her life. He’d said it when she was four and rode a bike down the metal slide at the city park, breaking her arm in two places. And he said it when she was eleven and won her first dirt track race by half a lap. And every single time she made a podium, which was often. He said it tonight too, as she buckled in for the biggest race of her life so far.
But she intended to do more than just mash her foot on the throttle; she was going to win it all.
She closed her eyes and absorbed the low growl of a dozen V-8 engines revving in preparation for the Kings Royal at Eldora, arguably the most famous sprint car race in America. Even through her helmet and earplugs, the sound of multiple nine-hundred-horsepower engines screaming mere inches away made her ears ring. She would probably be deaf by fifty, but she didn’t care. That sound flowed in her ears, through her blood, into the very core of who she was.
She’d qualified midfield, a surprise but nothing she couldn’t handle. Her dad teased that she’d done it on purpose: “You love showing everyone you can pass them without sweating. Such a damn spectacle.” He wasn’t right, but he wasn’t entirely wrong either. Mack loved passing carsand winning races, and she loved the attention that came with putting on a good show.
Above her, giant stadium lights illuminated curtains of dirt sweeping through the air and clinging to anything within reach, including the visor of her helmet. She didn’t bother to clear her line of sight; soon she would be completely peppered in a fine layer of rich, fragrant clay. Two dozen aluminum-tube-frame sprint cars circled the track on the last warm-up lap before the green flag waved and all hell broke loose. Petrichor filled Mack’s nostrils and her heart hammered with anticipation of the ear-splitting, filthy, revving-up-to-fight-every-second beginning of a sprint car competition.
And after she won this race, she’d channel her energy into pure debauchery, like she had the night before and the night before that. For another driver, her lingering hangover and aching thighs might be a distraction, but for Mack, racing and partying were twin flames. She’d stumbled into her bed around three in the morning, buzzed and high and well laid by a motorcycle racer she hooked up with when their paths crossed. And tonight, if she won,aftershe won, she’d treat herself to another night of booze and smoke and sex. Just the thought of how she’d celebrate made her adrenaline spike.
In the span of two short seconds, the cars ahead of her bunched tightly together and accelerated toward the start-finish line. A hot current flooded Mack’s body, and she reacted before her brain registered the sweep of green from the flag stand, slamming her right foot down hard on the accelerator, full throttle.
Time to show these little boys what a big bad girl could do.
Electricity traveled her body until it reached her head in an incandescent rush. She was going to win this damn race. It didn’t matter that she was only twenty, or that she was the only woman on the track. Since she’d first hopped into a quarter midget car, she’d raced against men, most of them ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty years older than her. Age and gender meant nothing to a race car, and Mack had more talent in her pinkie finger than most people had in their entire bodies.But more than talent, she had desire. No one wanted to win more than she did, and she’d busted her ass to get to the top of her field before she could legally buy a beer. She may party hard, but she worked harder.
She raced through the field, swerving and pushing and throwing her elbows all the way out, barging her way up to fifth place before the race was half over. With three laps to go, she’d ticked her competitors off her list until she was in second place. A decent enough finish for some but not nearly good enough for Mack Williams. She’d win or wreck out trying.
Her blood pumped in time to her heartbeat as she hunted down the driver in front of her, Ricky Russo. The white flag waved, signaling the final lap of the race, and Mack pulled within inches of Russo’s back tire. Steadying her front wheels, Mack stomped down on the throttle as if the V-8 had anything more to give. When Russo went high at the entry of turn two, Mack let her car drift up from the inside line to the middle of the track, forcing Russo to either stay up high in the dirt or release the throttle and fall in behind her.
It wasn’t a dirty move; it was racing.
Mack was strong, but her legs shook with the effort to keep the pedal even with the floorboard. Placing her left foot on top of her right, Mack slammed down on the throttle and shot toward the start-finish line. Her front wheel hit the line an inch before Russo’s.
She’d done it. She’d won Eldora.
First woman to win it, and the youngest ever.
The electric current in her body exploded into a lightning bolt of ecstasy, and Mack felt tears of joy smart in her eyes before she quickly stopped them. There were many rules for women in motorsports, but the golden one wasdon’t ever cry. It didn’t matter if she won the biggest race of her career or broke every bone in her body, if she let tears fall, she’d be forever known as The Girl Who Cried.
Mack steered her car to the center of the famous track, unbuckled her harness, and pulled herself out of the car. Using the roll cage, she hoisted herself onto the wide panel on the top of her car, ten feet inthe air. The crowd roared and Mack screamed back, drawing energy from the noise and lights and movement. Up here, she was a queen, a goddess, unbeatable. Her dad called her Spectacle, and she loved the nickname. She wanted everyone to see her, and to see her win in spectacular fashion.
Eldora was the biggest win of her career so far, with a six-figure purse, prestige on a national scale, and hopefully, the attention of more fans, more teams, more races.
She looked toward the grandstands and spotted her dad, cheering like a madman. He’d lost out in the heat races earlier in the night, but she knew that her win was as good to him as one of his own. He was a seven-time series champion, but Mack was beginning to beat him more and more often. She also spotted in the crowd the motorcycle racer she’d been hooking up with, holding a handle of Old Fitzgerald. Her mouth watered in anticipation of the celebration to come.
Tonight, she’d party until she was naked and hanging her head in a toilet. Tomorrow, she’d hit the gym and the phones, playing up her victory to get something bigger and better.
She was so close to getting everything she wanted.
She thrust her fists in the air and absorbed the cheers of more than twenty thousand fans into her body. She’d known she could win this race, she proved she would win, and soon she would prove that she could win at any track, against anyone.
Chapter 2
Present day
4 weeks until the Indianapolis 500
Mack parked near a row of brightly lit garages, unclipped her seat belts, and shut off the engine. Her body ached, tired from fighting an unfamiliar car through the corners, and her hands shook with the adrenaline crash that came after a race. From the grandstands behind her, Mack heard the announcer calling out the heat order and she gave herself exactly one second to feel sorry that her name was swallowed in the ruckus of the next wave of cars taking to the track.
There’d been a time when she’d known how to use that energy—channeling it into another race, another man, a stupid prank—but now she winced as she set her feet on the gravel. Her knees buckled and she caught herself before falling forward.
