Braking Points (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

I'd landed the kind of deal every young, unknown athlete dreams of, one that would bring me sponsorship money, national exposure, and the chance to be tied to a great cause. Beauté was a hundred-year-old cosmetic company selling a full line of products in low- to high-end department stores. Though the name was French for “beauty,” Beauté was an American corporation founded in and still run from Atlanta, with a long tradition of supporting women's health efforts and non-profits.

They were launching a new line of products—“Glorieux,” pronounced “glor-i-oo,” meaning “glorious” in French—tied to a new initiative: promoting breast cancer awareness and research through a partnership with the Breast Cancer Research Foundation or BCRF. To support the campaign slogan of “Active, Healthy, Beautiful,” Beauté chose six young, up-and-coming female athletes from a variety of sports as models. One was me.

In return for Beauté sponsoring me for the next two years in whatever car I drove, I'd participate in their advertising campaigns, make appearances for the company, and get involved with fundraising and awareness efforts for BCRF.

Holly sat cross-legged on her double bed, filing her nails. “You're beautiful, Kate.”

“I feel like a fraud.” I poked at my left wrist, noticing the bruises were mostly yellow now. “Plus the company, the campaign—they're so damn
pink.
So girly. I'm not the most feminine woman around, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “This is the real problem.”

“I'll feel out of place. Who am I to represent beauty? I'm waiting for them to decide they've made a mistake.”

“Maybe Jack made a mistake too and will fire your behind.”

“What? Hell no, driving's what I do.”

Holly slid off the bed and stood in front of me, hands on hips, her temper making a rare appearance. “Being female is also what you do. Women come in all shapes, sizes, and degrees of femininity. Maybe they picked you because you
weren't
girly and feminine. Because you're a tomboy. Because you're a female who kicks some ass. Dammit, Kate. Own. Who. You. Are.” She jabbed her index finger at me with each word.

“Even if I'm hated enough that someone tried to…” I couldn't say the words.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you racing? Why is this your career?”

“Because I love it, and I'm good at it.”

She nodded. “What's your goal?”

“To win races. To drive every kind of racecar and every racetrack I can. What's your point? You know this stuff.”

She threw her hands in the air. “You didn't tell me you're doing this to be popular. If Jack wants you to drive, do you care what Nash Rawlings thinks?” When I shook my head, she went on. “Then you don't care what hundreds of Nash Rawlingses think.”

The extrapolation from one guy to a sea of Kate-hatred was hard. “I guess?”

Her voice was like steel. “Don't let sexist, ignorant fools win because they made you doubt yourself.”

I sighed. “No pity party?”

“Say it. Mean it.”

“Hang on.” I shook out my arms, rolled my shoulders twice, and sat up straight. Took a deep breath. “If people pay me to drive, I don't care what all the Nash Rawlingses out there think. Or if they hate me. I'm female, and I'm a racecar driver.”

Holly watched to be sure I meant it, then softened. “Shoot, you respond pretty good to a smack upside the head.”

“Sorry.”

“What's that again? I can't hear you.” She sat back down on the other bed.

“I'm sorry I'm being an idiot.”

“I'm used to it.”

I threw a pillow at her.

Entering Beauté's corporate headquarters the next day, I held on to Holly's words. Nancy, the head of their public relations staff, met me in the lobby and immediately dispelled my lingering fear Beauté would cancel my contract.

She escorted me to the meeting room, explaining that since we'd talked earlier in the week—when I called to explain the situation and how I was dealing with it—she'd been in communication with Matt and Lily, Tom from Sandham Swift Racing, and even the Elkhart Lake Police. While Beauté wouldn't make its own statement, they were ready to respond with complete support if the question should arise.

Nancy squeezed my shoulder as we paused outside the meeting room. “We're behind you one hundred percent, and we want you as part of this campaign. Let me know if there's anything you need from me.” She pressed a card in my hand before handing me off to a marketing representative.

I didn't know what I'd done to deserve this company and this deal, but I wouldn't let anything ruin it. I put on my best “meet the public” face and prepared to be the best tomboy corporate representative they'd ever seen.

Besides me, there were eight corporate staff members in the room and three other female athletes—spokeswomen—a rower, a soccer player, and a jockey. The basketball player and the marathon runner wouldn't arrive until the next day, for the official press event. Once introductions were done, Beauté product experts spent an hour covering the beauty lines the company sold, specifically the new line we'd be representing.

The “Glorieux” products were meant for active women, meaning they were waterproof, sweat-proof, and guaranteed not to run. One of the first rules of our contract was to only use Beauté products, to be supplied by the company. They loaded us up with facial cleanser, toner, moisturizer, foundation with SPF, concealer, blush, lip stain, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, eyebrow gel, and powder in the right shades for our complexions. And stuff to remove it all. They assured us professionals would demonstrate how to use everything.

“We also encourage you to experiment,” chirped the vice president of product development, a stylish, flawless woman in her fifties.

After that onslaught of information we got a break, and as we helped ourselves to coffee, I learned the jockey, Tina Burleigh—finally someone shorter than me—felt as out of place as I did. A fellow tomboy in a sea of femininity.

I leaned close to her. “Did you know we needed eyebrow gel? That it existed?”

“If it's not mascara or lip balm, it might as well be from another planet. You know, I'm still not seeing myself as the embodiment of beauty.”

“I said the same thing to my best friend yesterday. She told me to shut up and get over myself.”

Tina almost choked on her coffee. “She's got to meet my brother. He said the same thing.”

We continued chuckling as we settled back into our seats around the long, oval table. Next up, the marketing team explained where ads would be used, how the partnership with BCRF worked, and what phrases we should know and spout at every opportunity. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about seeing my face on a billboard, but I was eager to attend BCRF fundraising events as a Beauté rep—starting with a 5K and half-marathon in downtown Atlanta next Sunday.

Over a leisurely buffet lunch, the Beauté staff asked each spokeswoman to talk about the challenges of being a professional female athlete in our fields. Tina and I had different experiences than the others, given we both used “equipment” to do the work, and we competed on the same playing field as men. But we all had experience being discounted because of our gender, and we quickly found common ground. It dawned on me I'd receive more than sponsorship and free makeup out of this contract—I'd also gain a ready-made network of colleagues for support and friendship.

To end the day, makeup artists sat us down and put eighteen products on our faces. The corporate team handed me a logoed duffel containing a six-month supply of more cosmetics than I knew what to do with, as well as corporate-branded polo shirts, scarves, a windbreaker, and a knit hat.

I staggered back to our hotel room a mere eight hours after I'd left and collapsed face-up on my bed. My head was bursting from the corporate information and new talking points I'd stuffed into it.

Holly leaned over me, inspecting my face. She grinned. “Sugar, you look downright female.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

I finally thought to check voicemail on my new smartphone after thirty minutes of sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching Holly play with the products I'd been given. My new outgoing greeting referred all media inquiries to Matt and Lily Diaz, so I had only five messages to listen to.

The first one nearly made me drop the phone, Miles Hanson, telling me he was fine, agreeing about shared blame, and hoping we'd meet again in better circumstances. “You stay out of the walls, now, hear?” was how he signed off. I felt giddy.

I returned Stuart's call first, only to be shocked by the news he had for me. He hadn't left Elkhart Lake on Tuesday because he'd returned to the police station to answer more questions, including some about his prior relationship with Ellie.

“Your what?”

“We were engaged a number of years ago.”

“Engaged?” My voice went up as my stomach fell. “Why didn't you—”

He broke in. “What? Get married? Tell you?” He paused, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair. “We were together a year, and engaged for two months. You know what she was like. Once in a while she'd make a last-minute decision—a complete reversal of what she wanted the day before. And never budge. Our engagement was like that. One day, she didn't love me enough and she was gone.”

I was silent, remembering the occasions I'd watched Ellie change her mind like that—about the paint scheme on her helmet, about her decision to go to college instead of going racing. I was surprised she'd done so over an engagement. Over Stuart.
She knew him well. First. Better than I know him now.

“I never saw it coming. Turns out, I missed a lot about her.” He sounded tired. “Why didn't I tell you? It never came up.”

I wondered what else I didn't know about him.
Would I have gone to him if I'd known about Ellie? Was he really over her? Did he kill her because she'd betrayed him?
My breaths were shallow, and I realized I was becoming hysterical.

“Kate, the police know I had no reason to kill her—and less reason to kill you.”

“You heard about that?”

“Yes, and I'm worried about you.”

That was more than I could handle from my new lover who admitted being dumped by a good friend of mine—who'd died from poison intended for me. My head hurt. I don't remember what I said, but I got off the phone.

Holly leaned in the bathroom doorway. “You all right?”

“I'm not sure.” I filled her in. “I know the idea is crazy, but…could he have killed her?”

“I thought you were the target?”

“They don't know for sure. Could Stuart kill someone? How can I even ask that? I slept with him, I like him.”

She shrugged. “Anyone could kill if they had to, but I don't think he had a reason to kill her—or try to kill you.”

“Because she betrayed him? Because he still loved her? To keep me from finding out about their history?”

“You writing for telenovelas now? Take a breath, sugar.”

I took three and felt my heart rate slow. “It has to come back to motive. Dozens of people in that Tavern had the opportunity to put something in the juice, but there's got to be a reason.”

“We don't know why anyone would want her dead, but we sure know people who want you dead.”

“I can't face the idea that Ellie died
for me
because I pissed off a bunch of Miles Hanson fans.” I dropped my head in my hands.

“It's the obvious explanation, for now. But it's no one's fault but the person who killed her, remember?”

I nodded.

She spoke again. “Enough of this. Focus on one thing at a time. Deal with the rest later.”

I wiped thoughts of Stuart and Ellie from my brain and called Grandmother and Gramps to check in. My conversation with Grandmother was brief, both of us avoiding topics that might lead to my father. Gramps wanted to hear how my “girly day” (his words) had gone.

The other two messages were from Lily Diaz, reviewing various media requests, and from Juliana, officially requesting an on-camera interview. I called Lily first and confirmed I should say yes to Juliana, plus do phone interviews Lily set up with three print reporters. I called Jules to set up the on-camera for the next afternoon, suggesting coffee beforehand.

At that point, Holly forced me to sit at my laptop for a Twitter tutorial. I created my account as @katereilly28, because my name alone was taken.

“What if you aren't driving for Jack?” she cautioned. “The car number won't mean anything.”

“My mother and Gramps were both born on the twenty-eighth of different months.”

“That works. Now set up Twitter on your phone.”

Holly pointed me to a number of people to follow, including her, the Series, other teams, and the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

“Now what?” I looked at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Tweet something. Figure it out while I play with your makeup again.”

Twenty minutes later she reappeared for an update.

I felt like a bear coming out of hibernation. “I haven't done anything. I fell down a rabbit hole of Twitter.”

“That'll happen. Tweet something, now.”

I typed, watching the character count with fascination as it ticked down. “@katereilly28: Ready or not, here I come. Trying to figure out Twitter. Looking forward to Petit next weekend. See you there?”

I put my arms in the air. “Yesssss!”

 

Chapter Fourteen

My priorities Saturday morning were a good workout in the hotel gym, a hearty breakfast, and a three-block walk to the Beauté and BCRF press event at Centennial Olympic Park. Holly skipped the workout, but joined me for the second two. We arrived at the park an hour before start time, as camera crews set up tripods and assistants ran around with clipboards.

The tent next to the stage was the preparation and make-up area. Once there, I changed into my pink polo shirt with the twin Beauté and BCRF logos, and a stylist threaded a scarf through the loops of my black twill trousers, tying it in a jaunty square knot. I met the two spokeswomen who'd been missing the day before: the pro basketball player, a tall Asian woman, and the marathon runner, who was short, dark, and wiry.

As the six athletes were prepped and styled, we shared stories of getting the call from Beauté and making the trip to New York for our first photo shoots. After the Beauté social media rep walked by, waving her phone in the air and calling out, “Don't forget to post about this!” we also swapped Twitter names, followed each other, and retweeted BCRF and Beauté posts.

I was relieved to find the others equally nervous about being the face of a beauty line. As Tina put it, “I'm used to the spotlight, but not to looking good in it.”

“I'm safe,” Carrie, the rower, declared. “If I'm not dripping with sweat, no one will know who I am.”

“At least you're used to talking about sponsors, Kate,” noted the basketball player. Siena was her name.

“I'm surprised you've gone five minutes without naming names,” Tina teased. “Isn't that in your contract?”

I smiled. “They pay the bills, we talk about them. We practice interviews and sound bites about as much as driving. But this is different.” I looked around at the others. “This is bigger than my team or sponsors. More important.”

Though we were all nervous, each was proud and excited to have earned the chance to affect a larger community. Even without Racing's Ringer chastising me, I knew I was a standard-bearer for women in my sport, a role model for young female racers. The day had finally come when I had the platform to do good on a larger scale.

The irony was that as Racing's Ringer took me to task for not doing more, this sponsorship deal had already been signed. I wondered how he'd take today's news.

“Uh oh.” Holly browsed the Internet on her phone while I sat in the makeup chair, a man working on my hair and a woman putting lip liner on me.

“Ut?” I couldn't move my lips.

“He's at it again.”

“Ashing'sh Inge?”

“Yes, Racing's Ringer. Do you want to ignore it, or know now?”

I pointed to the floor, meaning “now.”

“He dug up old stories of you behaving badly—he's calling them ‘unconfirmed,' which doesn't mean much. Three stories now, and he claims there will be more in a series of reports that will ‘expose Kate Violent's true character.'” She made air quotes with one hand around the last words.

The makeup artist was dusting powder over my face, so I could form words again. “Kate what?”

“He's given you a new nickname, something he's fond of doing. You're now ‘Kate Violent.'”

“But…”

“It's awful
and
catchy. Read the stories.” She handed over her phone as the hair and makeup team pronounced me done and instructed me not to mess anything up.

According to the Ringer's first “eyewitness account,” I was a poor sport. The story was from my formula days, involving Ellie and Juliana. It was true I'd bumped Juliana in the braking zone for a corner, sending her into the wall and me into first place for the win. What few had seen was Ellie attempting a kamikaze pass and hitting me, to start a chain reaction. Of course, the Ringer told only half the story.

The second incident concerned a specific regional race in which I'd “clawed” my way to the front of the field and “ruthlessly” blocked the faster drivers behind me. When a competitor managed to get beside me, I'd “shoved” in front of him—the Ringer triumphantly labeled this evidence of my violent temper—causing a wreck and ending the other driver's day. I closed my eyes and felt the shame and despair of that moment as a weight on my shoulders—even fourteen years later. I was eleven when it happened.

The facts were correct. My coach that year in the go-kart ranks was working on my toughness, my will to win. I listened to his voice in my head instead of my own and pulled the bonehead move, causing my first bad accident and sending Sean Ellis, now a friend and former competitor in the Star Mazda series as well as karts, airborne in a double-flip worthy of a gymnast. I'd learned that day to trust my own instincts, no one else's. Sean and his parents forgave me sooner than I'd forgiven myself. Now, I felt ashamed all over again.

I scrolled to the last story and laughed so I didn't cry—Beauté promised their makeup was waterproof, but I didn't want to test it. That story, also true, defined selfishness and aggression. I was eight, and it was my fourth race ever. I wanted to win, did something awful to make it happen, and figured out I didn't want to succeed that way the minute I took the checkered flag. I tried to make the race officials give the trophy to the kid I'd wrecked, but they wouldn't. I tried to get out of the winner's circle ceremony, but Gramps wouldn't allow it, wanting the shame of the moment to teach me a lesson. I accepted the trophy with tears streaming down my face, then went straight to the other kid's truck and trailer. Wiping away tears and snot with the sleeve of my racing suit, I stuttered out an apology, thrust the trophy at him, and ran off.

That day, I resolved to win fairly or not at all. But the Ringer didn't want to talk about kids growing up. He wanted to talk about what an asshole I was.

“Holly!” I hissed at her. “What do I do? Should I tell someone here?”

“What did your crisis PR people say about stuff from the Ringer's blog?”

“Ignore it.”

“You're prepared if reporters ask, right?”

“I have three responses to deflect the topic, plus I'm loaded with talking points.”

“Like my mama always said, if trouble finds you, so be it. But there's no need to go huntin' for it.”

I settled back in my chair. “Ignoring it.”

“Speaking of huntin' for trouble, when's that sponsor event?” Holly took her phone back.

“Tomorrow morning.” I looked around the tent, smelling makeup and hairspray, seeing women and pink. “Can you imagine a more stark contrast?”

I had obligations to Beauté as my personal sponsor, and I also had obligations to sponsors of the Sandham Swift Racing team, such as mentioning sponsor names when talking about the car and participating in events, activities, or photo opportunities with their representatives. At the crack of dawn Sunday morning, Jack, Mike, and I would meet reps from the 28 car's title sponsor, BW Outdoor Sportsman's Supply and Goods, or simply “BW Goods,” a national hunting superstore. We'd meet hunters, shoot guns, and—if we were lucky, I was told—pose with fresh kill.

I studied my face in the mirror. I was getting used to being made up, but I was more accustomed to seeing sweat, matted hair, and the creases my fireproof head sock made on my face. This was an enhanced me, closer to the feminine ideal—which made it not quite me. In my mind, “feminine” meant fluttery, giggly, helpless, and being swathed in ruffles and pink. But here I was wearing pink and makeup, looking softer, pretty. Maybe I could find a compromise between sweaty, athletic tomboy and prissy, perfect, can't-get-dirty girly-girl.

I caught Holly's eye as she looked at my reflection. “I'm not sure where I'll feel more out of place, here or there.”

“You've got more potential for girly than you let on, sugar, so I'd pin my money on tomorrow being more strange. Then again, maybe you put on your Kate Violent persona and let those guns rip.”