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  “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 mou
stache 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?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Stuart had the same question when I saw him that night. He also asked the corollary. “Who knew you’d be at the hospital?”

  “Holly. Everyone in the interview room, including the camera crew—who could have told Felix later. Or told the Ringer. Told anyone.”

  “Do you think the Ringer did this? He’s not usually active.”

  I grabbed a stack of napkins and followed him to a bench outside the Bruster’s Ice Cream on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, three miles from my hotel. “I didn’t find a Ringer post about it yet, but both the Ringer and Felix are out to get me. At least with Miles Hanson fans, like those yahoos yesterday, I know why—can even understand it.”

  “Obviously the Ringer has a habit of bullying—and no, I don’t know who the Ringer is. As for Felix….”

  “Do you think Felix could be the Ringer?”

  Stuart looked blank, spoon poised over his hot fudge waffle bowl.

  “I know, weird idea.” I scooped up a bite of my peanut butter cup sundae. “Holly didn’t think so either. I keep pairing them because they’re both after me.”

  “It’s an interesting thought. I don’t think Felix knows how to interact with a woman as a peer—professionally or personally. I don’t know why, but I’ve never seen it. Maybe Jack would know more. I think one of his brothers, or an uncle, raced at the same time as Felix.”

  “I’ll ask Jack.” I took another bite. “Good idea to get dessert.”

  He smiled sideways at me. “I thought I’d change things up with you. Coffee seemed too adult.”

  “You’re calling me a child?” My tone was teasing, matching his.

  “I have to be awfully serious all day at work. With you I like to lighten up, have a little fun. Try mine.” He extended his spoon with chocolate ice cream and chocolate fudge, and I let him feed it to me.

  I couldn’t resist a playful, lighthearted Stuart, damn him. But mixed with the pleasure I felt in his company was a kernel of unreasonable anger at him and Ellie. I should have been able to enjoy a new lover, to be comfortable touching him, being with him. Instead I felt tense and prickly because of my questions and fears.

  “Where did you go, Kate?” He ate more dessert, watching me.

  “Sorry, lots on my mind.”

  “About that.” He frowned. “Maybe you could stay with me for a couple days after this weekend. So we can talk. Stay in the guest room if you want, but give us a chance.”

  I felt relief out to my fingers and toes. I can deal with racing first, him later. “That would be good. I can’t think straight now.”

  “You’ve got a few problems, don’t you? People spreading stories about you spun the wrong way, plus making you look like a diva to the press.”

  Just before he picked me up at my hotel that night, I’d found articles online about my “duplicitous behavior” at the hospital. Most included quotes from a prominent women’s activist group and a cancer-support organization taking me to task for a “blatant cry for attention at the expense of ordinary heroes trying to beat the odds.” I’d also found a public statement from my BCRF contact refuting the stories, but it wasn’t widely disseminated. Being unjustly accused still stung.

  Stuart went on. “Also, someone tried to poison you.”

  “Don’t forget trying to run me down.”

  Stuart looked at me, disbelief on his face. I realized he didn’t know about the incident in downtown Atlanta, and I quickly explained. For a long time, he didn’t speak.

  “Are you all right?” I finally asked.

  He got up to throw his empty cup in the trash, and when he sat back down, he ran both hands through his hair, stopping at one point and pulling on the roots. When he removed his hands, the curly bits I liked flopped down on his forehead.

  “Don’t get yourself killed, Kate.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Try harder.”

  I went from mellow to annoyed in a heartbeat. “I’m handling everything as best I can. Don’t get bossy on me. I know it’s your natural tendency—”

  “Give me a break,” he cut in. “I’m saying this because I’m worried. Because I am panicked at the thought of you in serious danger.”

  Warning bells went off in my head. “If this is about racing—”

  “This is not about your job.” He sounded disgusted. “Do not confuse me with ignorant boys in your past who tried to prove their manhood by making you something less than you are. I would never stop you from racing.”

  “Holly told you stories.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “This is about you being run down on the street or poisoned in a bar. I’m not willing to lose you.” He rested his hand on mine.

  I nodded. “I don’t want to be lost.”

  “Good. Then keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

  “I also don’t want to be told what to do.”

  “Your team tells—”

  “By a boyfriend, Stuart.”

  “Then I’m asking.”

  I nodded and bent my head to finish my ice cream. A minute later, I threw my own cup away and pulled the two lists of names from my purse. “There’s a way you can help. Tell me who else was at Siebkens or near Atlanta those nights.”

  He looked them over. “You have me down?”

  “We were being thorough. Holly’s there, too.”

  He mentioned a dozen people at Siebkens, including my father and someone else from the bank, plus some journalists whose names I recognized but didn’t know by sight. He had no input for Atlanta, but conceded that anyone who lived i
n the area could have been there—if they’d known where I’d be.

  That raised an interesting point. Maybe the hit-and-run attempt was opportunistic, not planned. Or even a simple, unrelated accident. I put the names away and held out a hand to him for the walk back to his car.

  “It’s still hard to believe someone tried to kill me,” I said. “Trust me, I’m taking it seriously. I know there’s an army raining everything from gossip to physical violence down on my head. I’m collecting names, but I have no clue—beyond members of Miles Hanson’s fan club—about reason.”

  “Maybe you should shake things up—I can’t believe I’m saying this.” He stopped me next to the car, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t mean poke an alligator with a stick. But instead of being passive, at the mercy of whatever the bad guys do next, maybe you should take control. You’ll be happier being active.”

  He was right—moreover, what he didn’t say was also right. I’d been passive since the accident in the race, ducking or running away from the insults. Trying not to rock the boat, except when I’d held emotion in too much and lost my cool publicly.

  I searched his face, the affection and support in his clear, green eyes making me gooey inside. “Shaking things up might make them worse.”

  “What’s worse than feeling helpless and out of control?”

  “Good point.”

  If I could only figure out what “take control” meant.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I woke up the next morning, my head buzzing with Stuart, a killer, lists of names, angry fans, pranksters, a new sponsor to please, existing sponsors to please, tweets to send, a race to run, a season championship on the line, and deals to set up for the next racing year. Plus my father to deal with and new family to meet—if I went to his party. I needed a workout to clear my head.

  I ran a mile down the road outside my hotel before I realized running alone on a deserted, public street wasn’t a great idea. I returned quickly, watching all directions for a possible attack, and finished in the hotel gym.

  After cleaning up, eating a late breakfast, and packing my race gear in my Jeep, I picked up three dozen doughnuts, a spread of cured and jerkied meats, and an assortment of bottled beer—a further thanks to the team for fixing the car I’d wrecked. Then I headed out to the racetrack, pulling in to Road Atlanta around eleven. I relaxed as I drove through the paddock to Sandham Swift. Finally, I can focus on racing.