“What makes you think I know anything about him?” The question is useless since Brody knows me better than anybody. The exasperated look he sends my way says he’s not buying my innocent act. I scan the entire length of the body. “He calls himself Hubcap. He held the number ten spot on the Index. I’ve seen him at Gatherings. We’ve raced once or twice. He’s a decent driver but is more bark than bite. I think that’s why he stayed at number ten for so long.” I shrug—an economy of movement. “As you know, the rankings barely change because of the point system. Each race completed, depending on your standing, first, second, third, etcetera, adds to how many points you have per year. It’s what determines who can participate in the Impulse Cup.”
Brody rubs a hand down the length of his face. “I asked for info on the dead guy, not a lesson in Gathering dynamics. Baby girl, you really do have motor oil in your veins, huh? Your mother must be turning in her grave. She had high hopes for you.”
A barked laugh escapes my lips. “My mother became the leader of a chain gang at fourteen. I doubt she disapproves of what I’ve accomplished.”
Like a mountain moving, Brody shifts so his entire front is facing me. I refuse to face him back, content staring at the guy formerly known as Hubcap. “RC, driving for the boss isn’t a life. You could be—”
I raise a hand, stalling the rest of his words. The “you could be so much more” speech never fails to bring my blood to a boil. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, counting down from ten. When I’m sure I won’t snap at the man who can kill me with his thumb, I breathe out through my teeth and open my eyes again.
“Brody, driving is my life.” I finally face him. His eyes widen a fraction, then narrow. I’m sure he sees the conviction in my expression. He’s seen it many times before. “I wouldn’t trade anything for what being inside my GT makes me feel. If you want to know more about him”—I gesture at Hubcap—“I’m not the person to ask unless you want his racing stats and how he neglects the alignment of his car, which is why he always pitches to the left during a quarter-mile drag race.” My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it and continue. “We’ve been through this countless times. I drive. That’s what I’m good at. I’m not cut out for anything else.”
“But here at HQ—”
“What?” I interrupt him again, my tone heating. “And be part of the boss’s security detail? I will be so bored to death I may turn homicidal just to see what would happen.”
Hurt flickers in my mentor’s gaze. My mouth opens, but I stop the rest of what I wanted to say. Brody is devoted to his job; surely he should understand. His same dedication is what I feel for racing. Nothing is getting in the way of me winning the Impulse Cup this year. Nothing.
Unable to stand the tension-filled silence I caused, I fish out my phone and stare at the message from my race analyst. Then I start heading for the door. “I have to go. Mac says the organizers just posted the race route for the IC.”
“RC….”
The pleading in his voice is what convinces me to stop. I wait.
“What made you stay, then?” he asks. “You could have left as soon as you called in the body.”
I glance over my shoulder at the rectangular aluminum table. “I may not know much about Hubcap personally, but I still know he didn’t deserve such a gruesome end. The Gathering will mourn the loss.” I push through the door, saying, “The only honorable death for a racer is on the road.”
AS THE sun sets, bathing Terra One in golden orange light, I maneuver my motorcycle into a two-story brick building. The structure is surrounded by smaller buildings and several shabby homes that make up the east quarter. Shanty Town. Not poor per se. More less fortunate yet getting by. The first floor consists of the garage, Screw’s quarters, and Mac’s office/bedroom. Upstairs, three rooms line the hallway: a spare room, my bedroom, my office. Shutting off the engine, I kick out the stand and lean the bike on it. When I remove my helmet, my hair falls in ribbons around me. I shake out the strands so they settle into place. I make sure I’m parked at the far side so my bike isn’t in the way of the work going on.
“Welcome back, Ms. RC,” Trevor says, stepping away from a raised car. He’s in the middle of an oil change, having inserted a hose that will clean the filters. He removes his cap and scratches his liver-spotted forehead. Tufts of gray hair puff out in all directions. I love the old mechanic. He wandered in one day like a stray cat and never left. I’m grateful for him and his solid presence. He’s like a grandfather to us all here at the garage.
As always, he keeps the space organized. All the tools hanging on the modular wall-storage system, from drills to different sized buffers, are aligned and clean. Everything on the shallow shelves is cataloged and grouped for easy access—cans of car wax on one side and bottles of window cleaner at the other. The rolling toolbox is open, but everything is in its place. The tools are encased in protective foam so they are easy to lift and replace. Even the project carts overflowing with all manner of auto parts are side by side as if waiting patiently for the attention of their lord and master. At the front portion of the garage, Trevor is king. He’s more obsessive than Screw and I combined.
“How’s everything?” I give him a smile and he blushes, painting his already rosy cheeks pinker.
