Chapter Ten
MAC DRONES on and on. And freakin’ on. With his silly laser pointer too. The rhythmic cadence of his voice isn’t doing me any favors either as I stifle a yawn by biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. With a flick of his wrist, the red dot flies from one portion of the map to the next. There are five sections in all during the IC. The organizers have a sadistic streak. Their choices involve the most dangerous terrain Terra One has to offer. In previous years, all I had to worry about were my fellow drivers. This time I’ve got to think about not dying because of what I will be driving through. Oh, the audience will get a kick out of this year’s events. No doubt. I really should be listening, but I’m distracted. Too distracted. By the deaths of Hubcap and Whiplash. By Slipstream’s relapse. And, most of all, by Zamara’s presence at the garage.
Brody has refused to give me details about the case no matter how many times I call him. When I gave in to riding all the way to HQ for answers, the most he said was no other bodies have surfaced with words carved on them. He chided me for coming up with a conspiracy theory linking the two deaths together.
In the three days since I first visited Slipstream at Open Arms, I’ve returned twice more. Both times he looked marginally better. His doctor is trying a new treatment, and his body seems to be responding well. The last time he was already sitting up on his bed with some color on his cheeks. Mistress Anne still believes he isn’t well enough to participate in the IC, and I agree with her, much to Slip’s annoyance.
Zamara is proving more useful than I care to admit. She’s already helped Mac organize a strategy for the IC. She’s collated all the stats of the drivers participating and collected detailed data sheets on each of them. I’ve yet to go through everything she’s put together. To further test her, I brought her along my practice runs down Mount Giga. During the most recent one, she managed to stay conscious until the final quarter of the course. That’s an improvement I wish I didn’t witness. I may really have to make good on my promise to bring her along.
My gaze slants toward her across the table filled with sheets and sheets of racing scenarios. She’s busy taking notes, listening to Mac intently. A lock of hair tumbles out of the clip she has on. The finger I’ve been tapping on the table grows damp with sweat. I suddenly have the urge to twirl said finger around the springy curl. While I remind myself she’s the boss’s daughter, and by virtue of that fact, off-limits, she absentmindedly reaches up and tucks the strand behind her ear. The movement causes the teardrop earring she’s wearing to jiggle, catching the light. Like a magpie, I’m transfixed by the shiny object.
“RC!” Mac barks.
As I am startled back to life, my knee jerks and collides with the table’s edge. I yowl, doubling over at the explosion of pain. Everyone in the room, including Screw who hasn’t said a word since this strategy meeting started, rolls their eyes at me. I feel their exasperation from across the room, but I’m too busy rubbing my abused knee to care.
After a drawn-out sigh, Mac says, “Clearly our fearless leader’s mind is elsewhere this evening. We only have two days until the Starting Line of the Impulse Cup, but we’ll adjourn for the night and pick things up tomorrow.” He turns off his laser pointer while Zamara begins gathering the papers strewn all over the tabletop.
Screw grunts his assent and gets up. I raise my hand at him, and he stills, narrowing his gaze at me. I sit up and inhale, wincing at the dull ache in my knee.
“Let’s move forward with reinforcing the chassis for the first leg,” I say to him.
“You worried about the weather?” he asks.
“Among other things. The Electric Flats isn’t named that way just for kicks.”
“I’ll make sure everything is grounded.” Then he walks out of Mac’s office. I shake my head, knowing I need to make amends. Not paying attention when we’re trying to win this year is an insult to everyone on this team. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help me focus.
Pushing off my chair and hurrying out of the room, I leave a grumbling Mac. I look over my shoulder and catch Zamara soothing him. A spike of irrational jealousy goes through me. Before I can overthink why I’m feeling murderous toward my racing analyst, I make my way to the second floor of the garage. I give the door to my room a wistful glance before shuffling to my office at the end of the hall.
The computer I never turn off hums as if in greeting as I cross the length of the space. I keep the air conditioner cranked up to avoid overheating the CPU. So much work to do. I flip a switch and yellow light drenches the desk, bookshelves filled with racing and automotive manuals, and a potted plant standing guard at a corner by the window. The parted curtains reveal a view of smaller buildings and several shabby homes.
A gunshot cracks.
I wait, listening.
Three blocks away. Nothing to worry about. Living in the east quarter makes people good at gauging the distance of trouble from their current location. Lips pursed, I pull the curtains shut and grab the half-filled watering can by my desk and dump the rest of its contents into the ceramic pot a blossoming dwarf orange tree calls home.
After setting the watering can on the floor beside my happily fed plant, I pull my desk chair back and sit at the lip of its cushioned seat. If I lean back, I’ll surely fall asleep. To stay awake, I
