Magnetic Shift (10 page)

“Relax. Colton’s waiting outside. He’ll drive you there. Dean had an early meeting he forgot about. I swear that man would lose his own head if it weren’t for me.”

“Colton’s going to drive me?” My gut crawled back down to the pit of my stomach and landed with a horrible splat. Please, please let it not be on his motorcycle. Please.

“He’s waiting for you by the garage. Here. Take this.” She handed me one of Annabelle’s yogurt treats. “Can’t have you leaving here on an empty stomach.”

So much for sticking to my fantastic plan of avoiding Colton. “Thanks, Lorna.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Have a good first day.”

First day. I hated first days. Ever since my first day of high school, the thought of experiencing something new made me nervous, sweaty, and feeling icky all over. The first time my new lightning-induced ability emerged was on that day. Some stupid bully made a crack about my mama being dead and my emotions had erupted. Desks and chairs came to life, rose up, and circled the room. Even the stall doors in the girls’ restroom wouldn’t stop banging and twisting when I tried to retreat into one of them to get away from all the screams. And let’s not forget activating the sprinkler system. The principal had found me hours later, collapsed on the tile floor in one of the stalls with a nosebleed. Saying that my life was never the same after that would be an understatement. It’s also why I never went
back.

After I ripped open the yogurt tube and sucked it empty, I found Colton leaning against the doorframe of the open garage door, holding an extra helmet and a riding jacket. His shiny black Ninja 650 rested on its kickstand next to him.

I shoved the empty yogurt tube into my pocket and propped my hands on my hips. “You’re nuts if you think I’m getting on that thing.”

“Well, the way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice.” He moved toward me. “I hate you.”

“Hate me all you want, but you’re late, and I’m your only option, so let’s get a move on.” A sly grin spread across his face as he helped me with the protective gear and buckled the helmet strap under my chin. He sat on the bike and motioned for me to get on behind him while he fastened his own helmet then reached back, grabbed both of my arms, and wrapped them around his waist.

“Now, just relax and let yourself lean when I lean, okay?” I gave him a nervous nod. “Alright, let’s go do this thing.”

The engine wound to life and my chest filled with butterflies.

What if I accidentally let go? What if I fell? God, what had I gotten myself into? Colton threw back the kickstand with the heel of his left boot, flicked his right wrist to rev the engine, and took off.

I squealed and closed my eyes, hoping that if I couldn’t see anything, I could pretend it wasn’t happening, but the high-pitched whine of the bike’s engine, the pressure of the wind around me, and the feel of Colton’s hard abs through his jacket kept bringing me back to reality. A slight throb tapped at my
temples, but nothing threatening, thank God. I molded myself against his back and forced myself to open my eyes. This wasn’t so bad. Not as scary as I thought it’d be. Actually, it was kind of fun. I decided to let myself relax and enjoy the experience.

We made it to the shop in record time, regaining the minutes I’d lost that morning. Most racing shops were out in Mooresville—Race City, Colton called it—but DSG Racing’s glass and concrete complex was based out of Atlanta.

I followed Colton through the main entrance and into a huge high-ceilinged lobby. Colton approached the large reception desk near the back wall. “Hi, Becky, is Dean free?” Colton asked the dainty woman behind the desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Tayler. Yes, his meeting ended twenty minutes ago. He should be in his office now. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Becky, this is Lexi. Do you have her building pass ready yet?”

“Ah, yes, the new recruit.” She turned and pulled out a plastic key card attached to a retractable clip from a drawer behind her and placed it on the counter. “Glad to have you aboard, Miss Adams.”

“Thanks.” I took the pass and clipped it to my pant pocket as I followed Colton into the elevator.

We got off on the fifth floor. Colton walked me to Dean’s office at the end of the hall. “Welcome to DSG Racing,” Dean said with pride, greeting us at the door. “What do you think?”

He had a massive office with a large oak desk and a big picture window overlooking the park across the street behind it. Wall-to-wall shelving full of awards, trophies, and framed certificates lined the wall to my right. Behind me, framed
pictures of the crews and cars at various tracks hung over the love seat. To my left a large window overlooked the shop below, where the crews, technicians, and specialists were busy building and testing the ProNation and Cup series race cars.

“Impressive,” I said, gawking down at the shop.

“You ready to get started?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Well, let’s get at ’er, then.” Dean showed me the way back down to the shop. Assembly lines ran along both sides of the arena-sized warehouse. Crews down the left side worked on Colton’s 129 Angel cars—I do mean cars, plural—and on the right, the 396 Watson’s Steel and Lumber ProNation car. Link’s car. It was like looking into mirror after mirror after mirror. The cars lined both sides, all tweaked with the specifications for different tracks: restrictor plated, not restrictor plated, short tracks, long tracks. In front of them, the car Colton drove last weekend sat on blocks, hood open and motorless.

“Is something wrong with it?” I pointed.

“Oh, no, we always strip the motor out to test the engine after every weekend.” Dean pointed to a room on the far end. “We test the engine’s horsepower output to see how much it’s lost throughout the race.”

“Wow, I never realized how much work needed to be done post-race.” I watched as swarms of workers analyzed data and tinkered with parts.

“Colton,” a crew member called out to him.

“Stewart, hey!” Colton looked back. “I’ll catch you two later.”

Dean waved him off, and Colton headed to fist bump and man-hug some of his crew members.

“What will I be doing?” I asked Dean, eager to get to work.

“Well, since dismantling things seemed to be your specialty, I thought I’d set you up over here.”

I followed him to a back room that housed rows and rows of aluminum shelving full of car parts.

“What is all this? Looks like the stock rooms back home.”

“Well, it’s sort of the same thing, only these don’t all work. These are salvaged parts from wrecked cars and malfunctioning ones that still have usable parts attached to them, but we never had the manpower to assign someone to dismantle them.”

I gawked at each row of shelves as he led me to the front of the room. “So, it’s like an auto parts graveyard?”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckled. “Basically.”

A large stainless steel counter stretched along the wall ahead. It had three sinks and racks of open-front bins fixed to the wall above them.

“So, your job will be to dismantle these completely, clean every part—nuts, bolts, everything—and put them in the proper bins. The large parts can go on these shelves over here”—he pointed to some empty shelves off to the side—“to be analyzed by the techs to see what’s good and what will get tossed. You up for it?”

My lips crept into a smile. “Hell, yeah!”

I longed for the peaceful distraction that came with working with my hands, the release of pent-up emotions and pressure from the iron levels in my system in small controlled doses when no one was watching. It’s how I’d been able to stay in control back home. There were far too many witnesses on the other side of that wall, but I was confident that the work would keep me calm and give me back some balance.

“Good. All the solvents you need are behind the cabinet doors under the counter, and everything else is in the large toolbox at the other end there. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks.”

Dean turned back toward the doorway. “If you need anything, I’ll be in my office for most of the day. Don’t be shy.”

“I won’t,” I called back as he disappeared around the corner. Alone at last.

I took a deep breath and eagerly raided the toolbox for tools I needed but wouldn’t use, laying them on the counter next to where I’d be working. I filled four buckets and all the sinks with solvents, oil, and brake cleaner, and got to work.

This was where my ability didn’t feel so much like a curse. When away from curious and prying eyes, it had its advantages. My fingers hovered and twirled over bolts and nuts, unscrewing them with ease, and levitated them into the solvents, oils, and bins with a flick of my hand. I had a one-girl disassembly line going, all while keeping my ears peeled in case someone came to check up on me. I couldn’t let anyone see my mechanical version of the magic mop and water bucket scene from Disney’s
Fantasia
.

I lost track of time and almost didn’t hear the heavy footsteps coming in behind me. In a panic, I reeled back my magnetic hold and let the handful of bolts that were currently making their way to the bucket fall to the counter. I cringed at the loud noise, but ignored the mess and dove for the socket wrench. I pretended to struggle with a nut on the starter I had in front of me. I had just enough time to take a quick glance down at my reflection in the stainless steel countertop to make sure my eyes weren’t bloodshot and red before the footsteps got too close. I
never could figure out how much time or energy it took for my eyes to change.

“Looks like you’ve got a good rhythm going,” Colton said, leaning against the rack closest to me. “Dean was right, you’re good at this.”

“Thanks.” I put the socket wrench down and lifted my goggles over my head.

“You should probably wear gloves, though.” He pointed at my grease-covered hands.

“I can never get the hang of working with gloves. Can’t get a proper grip with them on.”

“I know what you mean.” He pushed off the rack and moved closer. “You ready to break for lunch?”

“Is it lunchtime already?”

He nodded. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Most of the guys are ordering in, but I thought we could go to the diner next door. What do you say?”

My mind screamed
no
, but my heart thumped
hell, yes
.

“Sure, why not?” My lips spoke before I could stop them. Traitors. I was going to have to watch out for that in the future.

“Wash up and meet me out front.”

The Park Side Diner overflowed with various industrial park employees, but we found a booth near the back corner. It felt a little too intimate for my taste, but I didn’t have much of a choice. The waitress took our orders and returned with our food not fifteen minutes later.

“So, you ever thought of going to school to be a licensed mechanic or technician?” Colton asked, taking the first bite of his club sandwich.

“Never really thought much about anything after high school. The plan was to wait until I turned eighteen, and then move the hell out of Roy’s place and into the cottage Mama left for me. Besides, I could never afford it.” I sliced into my fish and chips and shoveled the first forkful into my mouth.

“How about now, though? You could probably save up enough throughout the season for one semester and get a loan for the rest. Dean told me you were fast-tracking your studies. You could probably get into college by next fall.”

“Fast-tracking only gets me graduated one semester ahead of time, meaning I’ll be done in January. I doubt I’d be able to get in then. Like I said, I never gave it much thought.”

“You could come back and work for Dean.”

I cut up another piece of my fish. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

A quick flash of disappointment shifted into a puzzled look. “Why not?”

I had to have imagined it—as if he cared whether I came back or disappeared after this season.

“Dean hired me out of pity. If I was certified, I’d want to be hired on skill alone.”

Colton took another bite of his club and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “Dean didn’t hire you out of pity.”

“Yeah? What else would you call it? Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I don’t know if the racing world is all that safe for me.”

“What makes it any less safe for you than it is for me?”

Shoot. Bad choice of words. I stabbed a few fries in the small cup of ketchup on the edge of my plate. “Never mind. Can we talk about something else?”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

I tossed the fries onto my plate, unable to eat another bite. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Okay, fine. I just wanted to get to know you better, that’s all.”

I leaned back from the table, away from him, and folded my arms. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing to get to know. I’m an abused little girl without much of a life or a future. I’m a statistic. Now, can we drop it?” I looked away, unable to stare at the hurt on his face while he ate the rest of his lunch in silence. I forced a few morsels down, paid for my meal, and returned to my job without as much as a “see you later.”