A lump forms in my throat. This is worse than I thought. It’s a classic “doomed if you do, doomed if you don’t” situation. Denying the boss’s daughter is like spitting on the boss’s face. I may as well sign my death certificate now to save the coroner the effort later. Saying yes means I’m putting Zamara’s safety in my hands. I have enough to worry about during the Impulse Cup. Adding babysitting to the list is like sugar in the gas tank. Basically, everything goes boom.
“I guess I don’t have to remind you how much I love my daughter….”
I swallow said lump, thorns and all, and make my decision. “Sir, the Impulse Cup is no place for a novice. If I want to win against Ace and Bedlam, I need a navigator who will survive let alone help during key portions of the race. For me to do my job to the best of my abilities, I must respectfully decline having Zamara on my team.”
The atmosphere in the room shifts. The calm dissipates, replaced by a heavy tension thick enough to cut through. I hold my breath. My heart stops. I don’t fear death. I stare the bastard in the face every time I get into my GT. At least at the speeds I drive, I die quick. In the hands of the boss and his expert torturers is a different story. They can keep me alive indefinitely. And in massive amounts of pain. Then, like streaks of lightning across the sky, booming laughter bounces off the walls. I hold in the instant relief. Laughter is no indication of my survival. I endure until the boss is reduced to huffing chuckles.
“One thing I continue to admire about you, RC, is your balls,” he says between gasps. “You have a set that rivals Brody’s.”
I let the grin slip at the compliment. My mentor sports a wicked scar down the length of his neck for his so-called “balls.” In my mind’s eye, I know the corner of Brody’s lips curl upward a fraction.
With all traces of his mirth gone, the boss dismisses me with the reminder of winning this year’s Cup. On my feet, I thump the center of my chest with a fist, then turn on my heels for the door, which also blends into the walls. It slides open when I near it.
A scowl forms on my features when I spot the girl standing at the end of the hallway I enter. Her brown hair falls in lush curls down her back and over her shoulders. The strands stop just above the swell of her breasts. The pink of her sweater matches the hue of her cheeks and lips. She studies me with keen eyes the shade of expensive jade. I rake my gaze over the entire length of her body, taking in the tightness of her jeans and the leather boots she stuffed them into. When my eyes return to her face, the pink has turned several shades darker.
My initial intention is to pass by without acknowledging her presence. I’ve been successful at it for years. Sadly, when I reach her, my temper snaps and I slap the wall beside her head. She gasps, leaning against the wall for support, as she looks up at me. I loom over her, inhaling the tantalizing scent of jasmine wafting from her skin. I close my eyes a moment, collecting my thoughts.
When I’m sure I won’t flay her alive, I stare into her eyes and ask, “How dare you put me in that position with your father?” Venom drips from my question. The way her shoulders jerk upward tells me she feels the sting.
She’s trembling as she says, “You wouldn’t have said yes otherwise.”
A savage grin stretches my mouth. I gesture toward the room I left with a tilt of my head. “Who says I said yes in there.”
The tip of her tongue darts over her lower lip while sweat dots the upper. “You refused?”
“Zamara….” I exhale all my anger, weak against the wide-eyed disappointment she treats me to. No wonder she has her father, the most powerful man in Terra One, wrapped around her pinky. I won’t deny the beauty of the boss’s daughter. She’s grown into a magnificent woman. For an insane second, I imagine bridging the gap between us for a taste of those plump lips. The image of my head on a spike for “defiling” the first daughter forces me to focus. “The Impulse Cup is the most grueling race of the year. You know all races lead up to the marathon. What makes you think you’d make a worthy navigator?”
Determination enters her eyes. I’m suddenly aware of her body heat and the curves inches from touching mine. She wouldn’t be the boss’s daughter if she didn’t have backbone, I’ll give her that much.
“I’ve studied all your races, RC. I know how you drive better than Mac,” she says, still trembling like the last leaf clinging to a branch against the autumn wind.
The mention of my garage manager/race analyst reminds me of my responsibilities. I step back, creating the space needed to think clearly. I flip my hair over one shoulder and sigh. “Watching my races is different from actually being in the car with me. I’m sorry, Zamara, I can’t be held responsible for your life during the Cup.” I pin her with a withering glare the second
