He scowled. “Until you beat my time, you’re not taking shit.”
His French accent made me chuckle. “Dude, leave the cursing to me. If you’re here anyway, might as well set it up for me.”
“I’m not doing shi . . . anything for you,” he corrected, which only made me laugh.
“Come on, we’re a team,” I grinned.
Gabriel walked into the light, and the wild curls on his head shook with his angry movements. “I think you’re the one who seems to forget that we operate as a team. This isn’t NASCAR, where it’s about the drivers, not the cars. You’re so focused on beating my time that won’t ever happen anyway, instead of focusing onyourbest time.”
“Beatingyourtime ismybest time.” I stepped closer to him.
“You don’t even have on a suit.” His glare traveled over my shirt and jeans with disdain.
I clenched my jaw before releasing it. “I don’t need a suit. I’m just blowing off steam.”
He moved within an inch of me. Our noses were almost touching because we were about the same height. “That’s your problem. You keep thinking that you can prepare like you prepare for NASCAR. This machine is not just a big-kid video game. Every time you step into this room, you need to be dressed like you’re on the track. You don’t think those execs are watching our every move, wondering if they bet right when they chose us?”
Malcolm would be yelling the same thing if he were here. But I’d never been the man to admit when I was wrong or ever to back down. “And maybe you need to make sure that hair of yours is braided before you step in here to make sure it fits under the helmet if you’re so concerned we’re in uniform when we step in here,” I retorted. “Either help me or get the fuck out of my way.”
His eyes narrowed, his nostrils briefly flared, and his chest heaved up and down. I glanced down at the fists by his side.
“Hit me if you think it’ll make you feel better. Just know that though you might beat me on the track, you won’t beat my fists,” I threatened calmly. “I came here for peace, and I intend to get it one way or another.”
Gabriel stared a second longer before retreating. The door slammed behind him, and I inserted my earbuds and started my fake car, and forgot about my phony relationship . . . until I found an empty bed and Kensie’s belongings were gone when I returned to the house on Fisher Island later that night.
I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Peace and sleep would be a long time coming.
For the next three days, with no communication from Kensie, I poured all of my restless energy into practice. I remained in the simulation booth around the clock, driving my crew insane. Even Gabriel seemed overwhelmed by my demanding schedule. Barely taking time to eat, my purpose and mission were to exorcise Kensie Garrett from my mind. I refused to acknowledge that she might have encroached on my heart. I was better off without her. If the press asked, I would say she returned to Houston to finish her degree and to let me focus on the upcoming race. Ms. Murielle wasn’t speaking to me, convinced that I’d fucked Kensie over somehow. Malcolm only shook his head when I refused to answer him when he asked about her whereabouts. As far as I was concerned, she didn’t want to be here with me, and I had to accept it.
On the third day of little sleep, my heavy eyes drifted closed. My body suddenly shook, and I opened my eyes as I hit the side of the rail. I tried to rectify my mistake by turning the wheel too sharply, and my car spun around to face oncoming traffic. I was struck twice by two different vehicles, and the force spun me around again.
“Fuck.” I dropped my head on the steering wheel.
“Fuck is right,” Malcolm growled in my ear from where he sat in the control room. “If this were the track, you would’ve crashed and possibly been killed.”
“Stop with all the drama, Mal. Crashes happen,” I yelled back, glaring up at him in the booth.
“Not to you, they don’t. Six years with no crashes, and those cars were a lot bigger. All the protective gear in the world won’t stop you from death if you don’t fucking watch it. That was a rookie mistake, turning the wheel like that.”
I waved my hand. “Run it again.”
“No. You won’t kill yourself or another driver on my watch because you’re too damn stubborn to listen. We can all see you’re exhausted. Go home,” he ordered.
“Run it.” Foolish pride set in.
“Who’s the chief here? If you don’t want to go home, go somewhere else, but get the hell out of here,” Malcolm thundered, the veins in his neck throbbing.
Gabriel interjected from the booth. “Maybe we all need a break. Gentlemen, we are a team.”
“Shut the fuck up,” both Malcolm and I demanded at the same time, right before grins eased around the firm lines of our mouths.
The rest of the crew laughed at a red-faced Gabriel until Malcolm grabbed his shoulder playfully. A reluctant smile crawled across the Frenchman’s face too.
“Hey, let’s hit the city, drinks on me,” I relented and slid out of the car while the ten members of our team shouted their approval. And before Malcolm could protest, I added, “Gabe and I’ll have one drink before we shut it down for the night. The rest of you enjoy.”
That answer seemed to please my best friend, who had every right to worry. Any mishap could result in death due to the car’s speed and small size. Or at the very least, a career-ending injury. I needed to get my head back in the race. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed Kensie. She was more of a distraction in Houston than here with me in Miami.
“Meet you in a few. I need to handle something,” I announced as everyone started heading out of the building. I grabbed my cell out of my bag and texted.
