Braking Points (10 page)

Chapter Nineteen

He could try, but Felix Simon wouldn't intimidate or beat me—especially not when I had a recording of his threats he didn't know about. I kept walking.

Juliana stood in front of the Sandham Swift tent, typing something into her phone. She turned at the sound of my footsteps. “Kate, I want to apologize—for Felix—I don't…” She ended with a shrug.

“You couldn't have stopped him. Do you know how the tape got out?”

She looked embarrassed. “Someone back at corporate insiste
d. I tried to block it.”

I made a mental note to have Matt and Lily send the full recording to SGTV and demand its airing. “It's OK, I did it to myself. So what are you here for today?”

Before she could respond, a big-haired mother and her gorgeous teenage daughter approached us. “Excuse us,” the mother said.

Juliana and I both turned, and they zeroed in on her.

The daughter gushed. “Weren't you Miss Alabama?”

Juliana shifted her posture and smile, suddenly looking two inches taller and a couple molars more toothy. “I sure was, honey. What's your name?”

She was Annamarie Jordan, fifteen, from Alabama, and in town for a regional pageant. Her older brother was race-mad and insisted they stop at our event before a trip to the mall for pageant supplies. Confronted with an idol, the girl was torn between pageant-taught poise and outright hero-worship. I grinned, enjoying the show.

“What's the best advice anyone ever gave you?” Annamarie asked.

“That's hard. My mama—God rest her soul—molded me into a competitor by giving me the iron will to win, and the knowledge nothing would stand in my way if I worked hard. ‘Be the best' she'd say, and if I didn't win she'd ask why I hadn't wanted it enough. If I was participating, I was 100 percent committed—finding and emphasizing whatever edge I had. Want it, and find a way to be on top.”

Annamarie and her mother hung on every word. I was shocked by how life-or-death Juliana made pageant competition sound, as well as how her mother motivated her. But I kept my mouth shut, taking a photo of the once and future queens posing together with matching stances. After they departed, Juliana turned back to me, still glowing.

“You're a rock star, Jules!”

She dimmed the wattage. “I was once.”

“I've always envied your presence. It's so effortless and magnetic.”

I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in months, Kate. Now, it's your rock star turn today, and I think you've got fans looking for you.” She gestured to people standing under the Sandham Swift tent a few yards away with posters and hero cards in their hands. I headed that direction.

We were busy for the next hour talking to fans, signing autographs, and answering questions about what it was like to drive a racecar. In front of the tent, two young women in khaki shorts and pink Beauté/BCRF polo shirts handed out makeup samples and signup forms for the upcoming 5K. In the background we heard the announcer directing people to different tents and activities.

The whirring wrenches of the pit stop demonstration thinned the crowd at Sandham Swift, though four fans stuck with us. A blond guy with a moustache chatted to our crew near the car, while his wife, who clearly believed in using makeup to hide the aging process, spent a long time with the Beauté representatives. Another was George Ryan, the fan from the Beauté event the day before, who stood at the edge of our tent taking photos of all four drivers.

The last was a short guy in his mid-thirties, with dark-brown, straight hair, thinning on top of his head. Like others I'd spoken with today, something about him was familiar. We interacted with so many people over the course of a racing season, I was forever asking if I'd met someone before. But I was pretty sure this guy was a repeater.

He surprised me by producing a press release from the Beauté event.

“Were you there? So was he.” I pointed to George, who walked over.

“I think I saw you.” George introduced himself.

The new guy shook hands with George, then with me. “Jeff Morgan. What you said yesterday was great, Kate. Obviously I don't buy makeup, but I'll encourage others to support you—and the non-profit.”

I picked up flyers for the 5K. “Do you live in Atlanta? You can join us next Sunday to benefit the BCRF. You too, George.” I handed one to each of them.

“All depends how tired I am after the race the day before,” George responded.

The new guy bobbed his head. “Me too, but I want to support the people supporting my favorite driver. You'll be at the walk?”

“All of the spokeswomen will be, and a couple people from Sandham Swift or the Series. It'd be great to see you there.”

“I'll do it! And can you sign the press release for me?” He and George moved away as other fans approached for autographs and the two of them stood nearby, talking and taking photos of our Corvette.

Holly hurried up, phone in hand. “The Ringer—I think he's here today.”

I read the blog post from her phone. “‘Seen and heard today in Georgia: Kate Violent making nice at an ALMS community event. Strangely, she's
not
wearing pink, but her two makeup minions are. Nice boost to Ms. Violent's oversized ego. She does seem to be taking her new role seriously, encouraging fans to sign up for a 5K next weekend in Atlanta to benefit the BCRF.'”

“It's got the eyeball logo,” she said, pointing to the screen. “He could be here.”

I looked around at hundreds of people in the ALMS area, then realized the futility of the gesture. I looked back at her phone and scrolled to the next item. “Did you see the next post? It's an open letter to Miles Hanson, asking if the rumors are true he'll make an appearance at Petit next weekend, and if so, suggesting he change his mind because, ‘Who knows what Kate Violent might do to you this time for more media attention.'”

“For Pete's sake.”

“I'm not sure if I'm more frustrated the Ringer is here, that he's snotty for the twenty-third time, or that Miles might show up next weekend.”

“A photo of you and Miles would calm his fans down.”

“Here's another post. He says, ‘Trouble at Home for Kate Violent? Not only is trouble raining down on Kate V. from all sides, but I also hear she should look close to home for another possible source. Am I sure? No, but the connections are hard to ignore. Sometimes it's as simple as A-B-C-D…all the way to Z. Get some popcorn, Readers, this is getting good!'”

“That's weird. I wonder what he means?”

“And who.”

She looked at her watch. “I owe the Porsche folks another hour of strapping kids into a racecar, but I'll help you figure it out after that.” She hustled away again.

With fifteen minutes left before we could close up shop, the crowd dwindled and the light started to fade. Our crew was over at the transport trailer, parked against the freeway in the least-used corner of the mall lot, preparing to load the car back up. Three men swaggered through our event. They were large, round-cheeked and sunburned, wearing shorts, NASCAR t-shirts, and tan work boots. Friends on a construction crew, maybe. They stopped and stared when they reached our booth.

“Sheeeee-it, boys,” one of them said.

“It's her,” said another.

The first one spoke again. “Ain't it bad enough the Cup race was
ruined
for me today because Miles couldn't run? Now we gotta see the bitch caused the problem?”

“That kind of language is uncalled for.” Mike appeared next to me and crossed his arms over his chest. “How about an apology?”

I felt heat rise in my neck and face. “Forget it,” I murmured.

The three men stood silently, defiant. I returned their glares, refusing to back down. Jack moved to my other side and Tom stepped up behind me.

The third guy, who hadn't spoken yet, walked forward, coughed, and spit a wad of saliva, chew, and I didn't know what on the ground two feet from me. He curled his lip and returned to his friends. I wanted to gag, but didn't react.

The second one snickered, reaching a hand under his t-shirt to rub his chest, exposing boxer shorts bunched above low-riding shorts—more than I wanted to know about his clothing choices. “Don't know why they let her on the track anyway. My dog could drive better than her.”

At least there's
some
talent in his household.
I kept that to myself.

The impasse was finally broken by the appearance of Stuart and a huge, scowling security guard who looked capable of taking on all three fools at once and wiping the floor with them afterwards. I allowed myself the hint of a smile.

He approached them and spoke in a low tone. “Move along now. Show's over.”

For a split second the trio looked like they might protest, but they settled for more sneers and dirty looks, then left in a hurry.

Mike and I exhaled at the same time. Jack looked grim and made Holly—who arrived a minute later, sorry to miss the excitement—promise to stick with me.

“You heard the man, Kate V. I'm with you. Ready to head back to the hotel?”

“Do you really have to call me that?”

“Yes, sugar, I really do.”

 

Chapter Twenty

The only contact I had with the outside world that evening was a phone call from Zeke, who didn't bother with a greeting.

“What in
hell
is going on, Kate?”

“I'm not sure. Which problem are you referring to?”

“How many do you have? I'm talking about whatever you did to Felix.”

“Are you kidding me?” My voice climbed two octaves. “Why would you say that?”
Felix was right, even my good friend thinks it's my fault we don't get along.

“Felix likes everyone.” He sounded confused.

“No, he doesn't. What did he say about me?”

Zeke paused, and I pictured him on the other end of the phone, habitually pushing against a piece of furniture with one foot to lean his chair back on two legs. He had the build of a fireplug and a smile made for toothpaste ads—straight, even, white teeth set off by his tan skin and white-blond hair. He didn't sound like he was smiling now. “He pointed me to recordings of you losing your cool.”

“Minus the bits where he and a jackass fan provoked me,” I put in.

“Ah. What happened with you and Felix, anyway?”

“Nothing. The first time I met him he didn't like me. I tried to be nice until he told me I'd wash out of racing and blame everyone else for my inadequacies. And he threw Sam Remington in my face.”

“Why didn't you tell me? I'd have punched his bloody nose in!” Zeke's combination South African and Australian accent was stronger when he was emotional.

“It wouldn't have helped. I don't know why he doesn't like me.”

“He's spreading bad news to anyone who will listen.”

“As he told me today, everyone believes him, not me. He's got the Ringer listening—or
is
the Ringer. That's another one who doesn't like me.” I filled him in on the efforts of my PR team.

“Maybe Juliana can ask Felix why the vendetta against you,” he suggested.

“Good idea.”

“It's good to see her back in racing. I knew she'd be top dog wherever she was, because she had more will to win than anyone I'd ever met. Not the talent you had, but if will was all it took, she'd be world champion.”

“She seems happy. Eager to make her mark—she talked about wanting to be in the booth.”

“She'll have to leapfrog Felix to do that—unless he cracks up and gets fired for inappropriate behavior. There's an idea.”

“Don't tattle, Zeke. My big brother doesn't have to beat up the school bully.”

“We'll see. I heard Felix's marriage broke up not long ago—or maybe it was some other family problem. Issues going on outside of work. Maybe he's taking it out on you. I'll ask around.”

“Let me know if you figure out why he hates me.”

He agreed and asked about Ellie's death, as the official media communications he'd heard contained few details. We had a long-standing agreement that everything between us was off-record, unless he was officially interviewing me, so I explained what I knew and told him about the possible hit-and-run. He got upset again and offered to drive me to and from the track every day.

I promised to contact him anytime I had a problem. “For now, tell me who you know was in downtown Atlanta yesterday.”

He named a dozen drivers from the Star Mazda and World Challenge series. “We had a coaching meeting at a local go-kart track to prep for next weekend.”

“You're here already? I thought you were home in Charlotte.”

“We had a couple appointments, so we're here already, Rosalie and me.”

“What about people at Siebkens last week, Zeke?”

He rattled off twenty names. Most were familiar, but I noted a few new ones. We were silent a moment, then he spoke again. “I still can't believe Ellie's gone. Ethan's doing what he can, but he's overwhelmed.”

“You know Ellie's husband?”

“He's Rosalie's brother.”

“I didn't know that.”

He sighed. “They had a falling out a few years ago. She doesn't talk about him much. Short story, Ellie knew Ethan and Rosalie growing up. I dated Ellie a couple times, we stayed friends, and she introduced me to Rosalie.”

“Wow, OK.” I processed that for a moment. “Is Ethan—could I—”

“You want to talk to him?”

“To apologize, for maybe being the target.”

“It's not your fault, Kate, and he'd say the same. Call him.” He gave me the number.

We were saying goodbye when I thought of something. “Did you know Stuart and Ellie were engaged a while back?”

“Sure. Never thought Stuart was right for her.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why would I? You didn't ask.”

That was a man for you.

By the next morning, the Ringer posted “Standoff at the Sandham Swift Corral,” which discussed how Kate Violent got herself and her team in trouble. I practiced letting his comments roll off my back. The constant, snarky live-blogging of my life was tiring, but he was so predictably nasty about the incidents he reported, I began to find him farcical. I wished the rest of the world felt the same.

I felt buoyant that morning because it was time to start preparing for the next race weekend. I ran five miles, pushed myself on the weight machines, and talked to my grandparents. I solved my daily Twitter dilemma by retweeting items from Beauté and BCRF about the new campaign. I also started my mental process of relearning the track by watching in-car video from Petit Le Mans last year and visualizing laps. I liked to get my head in the game before I set tire on pavement.

I had two other items on the day's agenda. The first was a follow-up test to ensure I had in no way been affected by concussion. All ALMS drivers were required to be baseline tested for neurocognitive functioning at the start of the season, and then we were required to be tested after any diagnosed—or suspected—concussions. To be allowed to race again, we had to pass at a level similar to our baseline capabilities to prove there were no lasting effects.

Strictly speaking, I didn't have to take and pass the test, because no one ever suggested I was concussed after the last race. But I wanted everyone to know I was at the top of my game, and it was easy enough to find a testing center. By the end of the thirty-minute session—during which a computer program tested my memory, reaction time, attention span, and problem-solving skills—I was exhausted. But I gladly paid that price to prove myself 100 percent fit for racing.

The second important activity was an educational appointment. Through the executive director of the BCRF, I'd arranged to meet with women currently undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I took Holly with me to a hospital near downtown Atlanta, where we learned about the disease, as well as the courage it took to meet the challenge head-on. The individuals we spoke with made it clear they were ordinary women with no other choice. Their stories were incredibly moving, and I was more grateful than ever to stand for them.

We exited the hospital and walked into a barrage of reporters and cameras.
Is someone famous in there?
I wondered. Then I heard the voices.

“Kate! Kate! Who were you meeting with? What can you tell us? Were you bringing comfort to ordinary women with cancer? How did you entertain them?” There were only seven men, but they caused a lot of commotion.

My jaw dropped, and I stopped walking.

Holly tugged me forward, shouting, “No comment.”

“Come on. You drag us all out here, give us something,” one voice called from the pack. I ignored them.

We reached the car with two guys still following us, snapping pictures I hoped were useless. That's when I realized what I'd heard.

I turned around. “Wait. Will you tell me something off-record for a minute?”

The two photographers lowered their cameras, frowned at each other, and nodded.

“You said I called you?”

The short guy with curly hair and a moustache spoke. “I got a voicemail from you, saying you'd be at the hospital this afternoon with fresh details on your wreck with Miles Hanson and your efforts to atone by visiting women with cancer. So, do you—”

I waved a hand and cut him off, looking to the other guy. “Is that what you got?”

A brief nod accompanied the taller, balding redhead's skeptical look.

The first guy spoke again. “Now I'm pissed you called me out here. Gonna take me an extra hour to get home to my family for dinner.”

I rubbed my temples, trying to stop the pounding in my head. “First of all—no, still off-record. I didn't call you. I'm sorry,” I added, to counter their protests. “I didn't. I don't know who did, but I'll find out. Because this makes me look awful.”

The redhead nodded. “Sure does. Looks like you're using us for publicity without giving us anything in return. Give and take, you know?”

I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, striving for calm. I looked from one photographer to the other. “If I go on-record with you, will you report my whole story? That I didn't call you, but I believe I'm the victim of a bad joke?”

They both agreed, and I held an impromptu interview with them, both freelancers who focused on the sports world. I posed for photos, gave them my contact information for follow up, and promised them access at the track the next weekend. In return, I got their information and the promise of some good press, for once. They also said they'd look up the number “my” call came from.

Holly drove us back to our hotels while I made frantic calls to PR people at both Beauté and the BCRF to apologize and explain. Both reps took down the reporters' information, the BCRF woman promising to contact them herself.

After hanging up, I made notes on the men's business cards. “Colton Butler—he was the shorter guy with the moustache?”

“And the cowboy boots. Nice ones,” she commented, merging into the next lane.

“Trust you to notice shoes. Jimmy O'Brien, he was taller, buzz-cut balding redhead, toothy grin.”

“With a devilish glint in his eye.”

“I'll remember them.”

“You're avoiding the elephant in the car, Kate. Who called them pretending to be you?”