Banging Wheels (14 page)

After a draining chase, she was finally on his tail. She could feel the sweat soaking her scalp, trapped in her hair, compressed by her helmet. For a brief moment she thought about how bad it always was when she took her helmet off — she really needed to go for a bob cut in future seasons. If there were future seasons. Then she thought about having hot sweaty sex with Drake, their bodies sticking and sliding and him grabbing at her tangled locks. Then she put the thought out of her mind. She had to win today. She was so determined that she was shaking, gripping the wheel.

It was one thing to catch Drake, but quite another to pass him. She tried out-drafting him down the main straight, but he was wise to it, shifting to block the inside line and giving her nowhere to go. She tried easing back then taking a run at him, so she’d have the momentum when they exited the corner. But he read her like a book. She tried barreling down the inside, but he smartly slapped the door shut, like a firm, muscular hand slapping a silky backside.

She was beginning to run out of ideas, when it happened — he made a mistake coming out of a 90 degree bend, and she darted out from behind to pull alongside. But he still had the inside line for the next turn. And you really didn’t want to be on the outside. Even slightly offline here the track was dusty, and it was all so tight that corners simply weren’t the place to pass. But she was all out of options. There was no point casually rolling in behind him and finishing second. It was first or nothing. She had to try.

As the corner approached, every last little bit of her nerves were begging her to brake, to let the corner go, but she needed to hold out to the last — just one more meter.

Into the corner they went, side by side, with her on the outside. The car skittered nervously on the dirty part of the track, her hands holding the wheel with total precision, like a surgeon. The slightest bump from him, and she’d be in the barrier — race over — and he’d be champion and she’d have lost. And maybe worse. Because hitting a barrier is not like falling into a pile of cushions. You can have a serious accident in a place like this. It was a moment of utter trust.

Around she went, inches from him, and inches from the wall, on a knife-edge of adhesion. And then out the other side they came, still side by side, but with one crucial difference — she had the line for the next corner. She slammed the door shut and took first position.

Damn it.

Every sinew in his body wanted to nudge her, like he’d done so many times to so many other drivers. It would have been so easy — the slightest touch and she’d have been off. But that wasn’t the way he went about his racing now. At least with her. Would he have done it to someone else? It was hard to say. But there were greater things at stake here. Winning at all costs wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, at least not when it came to Callie. He’d learned that the hard way.

He’d fight on until the last, but he knew that realistically it was all over. This was exactly her kind of circuit. He’d gotten better at this kind of layout over the course of the season, and he’d nailed a lovely, clean lap in qualifying thanks to being in a good state of mind, but all this chuck-the-car-around stuff just didn’t suit him and probably never would. He was a precision driver, not a hustler. He saved the hustling for his relationships. And maybe even that was coming to an end.

It had been a strange start to the race, though. What was all that about with the team manager? Travis had told Drake that Callie had to do an extra installation lap, but that he didn’t. It seemed odd, and his reasoning didn’t make sense. Travis had said something about her new engine, but he himself had a new engine too.

He was pretty sure that someone was up to something, but what? Was he being punished for backing down? Only time would tell. The loss of control was unnerving. He suddenly realized how much of a pawn he was in this whole game — how much his success was reliant on others.

Drake got his head down and got into a rhythm, but realistically he knew that this race had likely just gotten away from him. He watched as she pulled away, her rear-end stepping out in a controlled manner as she expertly read the grip levels in each corner. He found himself thinking about her own rear end, imagining kissing it, giving it a soft, juicy bite, seeing her turn around to look at him. Damn it, even in situations like this he couldn’t put her out of his mind.

But he had to. His chances were slim, but he needed to win this race. These remaining laps wouldn’t just define the race, or even the season — they’d probably define the rest of his life. He couldn’t afford to fail — he’d come too far and sacrificed too much. He had to stick it to all those assholes from his past. The thought of them — and especially of his ex — watching him, of him suddenly appearing unbidden on their screens as a big-shot racing driver — was a thought that kept him going. And the thought of failing on that same big screen was one that put him in a cold sweat.

He dug deep, focusing hard, reaching for his innermost reserves and grit. But try as he might, slowly, inexorably, that sashaying back end of hers slipped further and further away.

Callie was completely in her stride now. With total confidence, she started putting in the lap times, watching as the blue of Drake behind her got ever more distant, until she could only see him in her mirrors when she was on the straightaway.

They only had seven laps to go now. Finish those seven without mistakes and she’d be world champion. Lucky number seven.

Damn it, she’d worked so hard for this. And she knew damn well she deserved it. Whatever the hell that meant. Perhaps her and Drake deserved it both. Hell, even Daniels probably deserved it. He had his weak points, but he was a slippery so-and-so given the right conditions, and so darned consistent. Rain or shine, he just kept bringing home the points. But as long as she kept her focus, it was going to be her bringing home the spoils. She just needed to keep focusing, not daydreaming, not imagining she’d won it yet. It wouldn’t be over until she’d crossed the line to the waving checkered flag.

It was then that she saw it.

Her lap countdown said 7 laps to go.

Her fuel meter said 6.5.

Wait — what?

Then it dawned on her.

That was it. That was what the extra lap was all about. New engine? Bullshit. Travis had just wanted her to use up an extra lap of fuel so that she’d run out in the race. These cars ran to tight margins — you had to put pretty much exactly the right amount of fuel in. Put even a lap too much in and your car would be that bit heavier — and that bit slower. In a world where every thousandth of a second counted, such fractions could win or lose you races.

She pressed the radio button, squeezing it harder than she needed to, almost willing it to break under her thumb.

“Tell Travis he’s a fucking asshole. Drake, too. The fucking pair of them.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t have enough fuel to finish the race.”

“What — how?”

“He told me to do an extra lap.”

The wheel was practically shaking in her hands with anger. It was everything she could do to avoid sliding into the wall.

“Okay, keep your head together. It’s not over yet. Lift and coast, lift and coast.”

She knew he was right, but still she kept gunning it. That’s what she wanted to do — just keep the pedal to the metal — but finally somehow she managed to wrench back control from her emotions. Ozzie was right. If nothing else this season, she was learning how to moderate her feelings when she needed to. She backed off, lifting and coasting and changing gears before the revs reached their peak. Every little droplet of that fuel was precious, and she had to eke them all out as best she could.

The truth, though, was that she was going to run out. She’d keep going right to the end — she was a fighter, damn it, she wouldn’t go quietly — but realistically she knew it was all over. A life of office drudgery, supermarket shopping and told-you-so glances from her mother — or even less subtle from her Aunt May — beckoned.

Drake kept pushing, pushing, pushing. He had to give it everything and hope she’d have a problem. These cars were very reliable, but failures did occasionally happen, and drivers made mistakes. Tires burst, engines blew and dropped oil turned corners into skating rinks. He had to make sure he was there to pounce if something happened to her. He hoped for it — it was a perfectly legitimate way to win a race, the championship even, if a little tough on the person who lost it. But they all accepted it. It was just part of the game.

Then, out of nowhere, he saw the back end of a car twitch into view, going into the next corner just as he came around one himself. Who was that? Had he caught the last driver? It only took until the next corner to find out. It was Callie!

He practically punched the air. Had she spun off and rejoined? No, wait — she was going slower. It could only mean one thing, that she had a problem. Fantastic! Then empathy kicked in. Tough for her — she’d easily done enough to win this race. But then, hell, he deserved this championship as much as anyone. You can’t feel too sorry — it could just as easily have been him.

As he hauled in the distance, he stared her car over for problems. This was crucial — if it was a brake problem, then he could suffer similarly. And if she was putting oil down, it would be him that ended up in the barrier. But after a long look, there was nothing apparently wrong with her vehicle, at least from the outside.

As he came onto the main straight, he had her in his sights. He got the draft, right up under her rear wing, pulled out and then once again, they were neck and neck. He didn’t look across. He felt too bad for her. It was a shitty, shitty way to lose a race. But this wasn’t just a race — this was for the title. This was the race to have a future in the sport.

He zipped past her easily — almost too easily — under braking for the next corner.

GET IN THERE!! WOO-HOO!!!

But something wasn’t quite right. It took a few seconds to click. Why was it so easy? Wait a minute — was she lifting and coasting? It made no sense — they’d agreed no team orders. Was this something to do with Travis? Had he been right to be suspicious?

He pushed the radio button.

“What’s happened to Callie? I though we agreed no team orders.”

“She's low on fuel,” said Steve, his Engineer.

Low on fuel? Sure, it was always marginal, but never so much so that a driver would have to back off anything like that much.

“How did that happen?”

“She did an extra installation lap.”