Page 24 of Battle Scars

All of that is nothing compared to being helpless in a racecar with a madwoman—one who is hell bent on seeing me piss my pants so that she can pull one over on me and make me believe that she’s as safe as can be on this track.

I have to admit, she’s both right and wildly wrong.

She’s probably safest in her car if we check it every day to ensure that it hasn’t been tampered with. She doesn’t own the facility, so we’ll have to set up some kind of surveillance around the garage and track or coordinate with the track security to make sure things stay tight.

I’m sure the boys are scouting good spots to watch from while she takes these turns at breakneck speeds. I’ll check them, too, when my legs can work again.

Where she’s wrong is because if I’m watching from up above and she’s down on the track, I can’t cover her with my body if she’s in a bad spot. I can’t pull her to safety, and that makes me the most nervous. When she’s driving, we’ll have to have someone else in overwatch while I’m on the ground near her.

I get it, this is her job and she has to be able to do it. I want to punch her father for making her compete for what he was given just because she’s a girl. That’s bullshit.

If Macy and I had ever had a daughter, I’d have treated her like I would the boys. Actually, that’s a lie. I’d want to spoil and protect her just like Adrienne’s dad has. But when she handed me my ass somewhere, I’d concede that any child who came from my genetic code, be it male or female, would be a badass and I wouldn’t stop her.

I hear her happy laugh as Adrienne takes another turn and shifts gears, squealing along with the tires as she pulls into the shoulder so that we can exit the track.

Adrenaline coursing through my body doesn’t usually bother me but there’s something about being in this tiny fucking car with this gorgeous woman as she pulls off her helmet and shakes out her hair, sending all of the blood beating in my still functioning heart down to my still very alive cock.

It’s alarming to realize my body still works after my wife died. My heart clenches at the thought of being with a woman who’s not her… but this woman beside me, she’d love. I have a feeling that I could, too, if I gave into this attraction.

But then I remember the way she laughed as she accelerated into that last turn, and I know that someday, I’d lose her. Maybe not the slow agonizing way that I lost Macy, but I’d lose her all the same, and it’s only by the grace of God, I survived that kind of loss once. I know without a doubt that I wouldn’t make it a second time.

As I take her in—the sweat on her skin, the smile on her face—I’m not sure I have a choice.

Maybe it’s inevitable.

Maybe I never had a choice at all.

Maybe I should have laid down and died with my wife because living might be more than I can handle.

ELEVEN

LESSON LEARNED

Adrienne

Two weeks later…

Inervously stuff a strip of sour watermelon candy tape into my mouth as I stare at the outfit I’m supposed to wear for this photoshoot.

Why did I sign up for this? Right now, I’m not sure.

I can do this, right?

Right.

This photoshoot is about women in racing with a spotlight on me and my crew. Sure, we’re outnumbered by men on the crew by a lot, but the girls and I are women in racing. And yes, it has a sexy twist to get attention, but once we have that attention, we can show the world what women are capable of.

As soon as our call time hit this morning, we were ushered into hair and makeup, not something you usually see around a professional racetrack, but it was fun to get to be a little girly for a change. The girls and I laughed and cackled as our hair was rolled up in victory rolls and a vintage red lacquer was painted on our lips and nails. If we weren’t all in our matching wardrobes of lululemon leggings and crop tops, you would think we rolled right off the pages of WWII pinups.

But then we walked into the locker room to change, and I swallowed the watermelon candy ribbon whole. One look at the outfits and I knew this was a mistake. Sure, I dress a little sexy. I’m young and I have a nice body, and that’s not me being conceited. That’s me knowing how many hours I train to prepare for my sport because I am a professional athlete, but this is a little more than I expected.

The girls look adorable. Like modern-day Rosie the Riveters with red polka dot bandanas tied around their curls. They were given red satin demi bras to wear under white girly tank tops, their men’s coveralls tied low around their waists. It’s a fun and sassy spin on the men’s attire they wear every day. They’re going to look amazing across the magazine’s glossy pages.

Me, on the other hand? I’m not so sure about this.

I stuff another candy ribbon into my mouth and chew. Then I strip off my clothes, down to my panties. I pull on the black satin demi bra that is not my size, because it’s about two cup sizes too small. It feels like my nipples are barely contained, that’s it. And then I step into my racing suit. It’s not skintight, but it’s also not baggy like the coveralls the girls are wearing. It has a wide elastic belt that cinches the material at my waist.

“Well,” I say to myself. “I guess it’s now or never.”