Braking Points Read online

  “I’d like to redeem my fist in his face, I tell you that much.”

  “He’s got a post quoting an industry insider saying, ‘Just because she’s better looking than most drivers doesn’t mean she can drive. Sexy doesn’t mean talent—usually the opposite. That’s just how it is.’ And then—”

  Holly interrupted. “Was that last bit a quote?” At my nod, she went on. “It’s Felix—his tic is saying ‘That’s just how it is.’”

  “That’s what I need. Felix and the Ringer working together. Lastly, the Ringer makes fun of the beauty company—suggesting they scraped the bottom of the barrel by picking me for beauty.”

  “That’s flat out unacceptable.” She pounded the steering wheel with a fist.

  “I can’t take offense. It’s what I thought.”

  “Talk about no class. A gentleman would never insult a lady like that.”

  “Maybe he’s not from the South. He gets snippy about all the pink. ‘Will poor Mike and the pit crew be forced into pink firesuits? Will Sandham Swift bear the indignity of a pink car? Will we all have pink stuffed down our throats and be unable to object because objecting means we like cancer? And how will BW Goods, the other key Sandham Swift sponsor, cope? Will Kate V. try to start a new trend in pink cammo?’”

  I was out of breath, torn between indignation and laughter.

  “He’s got a bug up his butt about this. And you.”

  “The thought of the over-the-wall crew in pink suits and helmets is awesome. He sounds threatened. Defensive.” I paused. “Could the Ringer be Felix?”

  “They have a similar bias against you. I’m not sure the language is the same. Felix sneers privately. The Ringer likes scoring points off you publicly.”

  “But Felix is a journalist, used to spinning events a variety of ways. Have you ever heard rumors about the Ringer’s identity?”

  “Not a whisper.” Her grapevine had no peer. If she hadn’t heard anything, there wasn’t anything to be heard.

  “Have you tweeted today, Kate? You have to tweet regularly.”

  “@katereilly28: Join the #ALMS and Sandham Swift Racing at the Mall of Georgia this afternoon. Learn about racing, score giveaways, and meet drivers!”

  After checking in to a hotel next to Highway 85 in Suwanee, Holly and I got back in my Jeep and headed eight miles further down the freeway to the Mall of Georgia, arriving half an hour before the official three o’clock start time.

  The three-hour community event the ALMS was hosting took place in a square, cordoned-off section of parking lot, right in front of the open-air section of the mall, next to the Barnes & Noble store. Around the perimeter were tables under pop-up tents for the ALMS, key partners and sponsors—such as Michelin, Pirelli, Porsche, and Kreisel Timepieces—and a dozen regular ALMS competitors. At least half the teams, including Sandham Swift, had extra-wide tents housing a racecar along with crew and drivers. Two pop-ups in the center sheltered information tables and three Series-logoed street cars—a Porsche, a Corvette, and a track-package Mazda—used for taking VIP guests around the track before races.

  Holly’s team, Western Racing, wasn’t involved in the event, so she wandered off to talk to other people, while I went straight to our setup. On one side of the large tent, Jack typed furiously into his phone and Mike helped Tom set out the team “hero” cards: summary information and full-color photos of cars and drivers, printed on eight-by-ten cardstock. At the other side, two crew members from the 29 car chatted with its drivers, Lars Pierson and Seth Donohue, while a third, cigarette dangling from his mouth, sprayed cleaner on the Corvette, rubbing away fingerprints and dust with a soft cloth.

  A Series marketing person trotted over with a schedule of the afternoon’s events and a request from Stuart that I find him for a quick word. The nerves jumping around in my stomach told me I was still conflicted about him—my feelings, his past, my friend. For a millisecond I considered avoidance as a strategy. That wasn’t fair to anyone.

  I walked to the Series tent slowly, studying the afternoon’s schedule along the way. Activities were planned every twenty minutes, including pit stop demonstrations and tech talks about a driver’s racing gear and tire technology. Sandham Swift was listed under “Other Giveaways” because Beauté would hand out information, makeup samples, and signup forms for the 5K next weekend.

  Stuart met me a few steps away from his tent. “Kate, hi.” He put a hand on my shoulder and ran it down my arm to the elbow.

  I went still, flushing at the thought of our night together. I was uncomfortable being at my job and thinking about sex. “We’re going to have to talk about how we handle this during races.” I stepped back, causing his hand to fall. Enough of my life was fodder for public commentary. I didn’t need to broadcast my romantic leanings also.

  He stepped closer, but didn’t touch me, and spoke in a quiet tone. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. And ask if we could meet tomorrow night for coffee or dessert after a dinner I have to attend.”

  “I’m doing all right, I guess.” I paused. Did I want to see him? Of course I did, but I was afraid of making a mistake. Of being hurt. “Sure, coffee’s fine.”

  “Is this not what you want?” He didn’t mean the beverage.

  I paused, gathering my thoughts, trying to find the words. Aware every successive moment made the answer more “no” than “yes.”

  I opened my mouth, not sure what would come out. “Yes. I do. But I’m not ready to deal with a relationship.”

  “You want to date other people?” His voice sounded choked.

  “What? Of course not. There’s no one else. I like being with you. But…I’ve got a lot going on right now. I’m trying to build my career. I don’t know if I have the time or the energy for a relationship.”

  “You shouldn’t have to work at this, Kate. It should just be.” His eyes searched my face. “We’ll take it as it comes.”

  “OK.” Part of the knot in my chest unraveled, but the rest of it was still there, uncomfortable. I eyed him. “If we’re being honest here?”

  “I hope we are.”

  “The thing with Ellie and you. That really rattled me.”

  Stuart raised an eyebrow. “Her death or the fact we were engaged?”

  “Both.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m still in shock over her death, and the idea I was the target? I can’t think about it or guilt will overwhelm me. Then learning you’d known her. Been in love with her. It’s hard to deal with.”

  “You’ve had relationships before also. High profile ones.”

  Everyone always knew about Sam. “One. I don’t expect you to have had no past. But I knew her. At least, I thought I did.” I bit my lip, needing to get the next words out. “I thought I knew you, too.”

  “You do know me.”

  “Maybe? This—and with someone I knew—takes adjusting to. Making it fit the rest of the picture. I need time to get used to it.”

  He looked frustrated. “We’ll start with coffee tomorrow.”

  I nodded and left, hoping to get my emotions straight before I saw him again.

  Partway back to my team’s tent, I ran into Felix, who stopped and put his hands on his hips, the chrome on his ALMS race-winner’s watch catching the light. “If it isn’t Princess Pink.”

  I waited silently, my arms crossed over my chest.

  “What’s the matter, Princess? The racing world too tough for you?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No. It’s irritating some people have bad manners, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. You are nothing I can’t handle.”

  His face flushed, and he stepped closer. “You don’t belong here and you don’t deserve to be here. I have no problem making that clear.”

  I looked around for someone who might be a witness, and he understood.

  “No one will believe you,” he gloated. “I’m th
e nice guy, remember? Say something, and you’ll look like the whiny bitch you are.” He leaned closer, his smile a combination of satisfaction and meanness. “But I’m not the only one after you.”

  He whistled as he sauntered away.

  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 insisted. 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.