Wrecked drive fast duet.., p.1
Wrecked (Drive Fast Duet #1), page 1
Wrecked
Book 1 of the Drive Fast Duet
Veronica West
Wrecked
Drive Fast Book 1
Veronica West
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9879731-0-3
Copyright © 2023 by Veronica West
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information address: author.veronica.west@gmail.com. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ebook Cover Design: Miblart
Paperback Cover Design: The Ravens Touch
Formatting: Bookish Problems
Editing and proofreading: Karen Washo, Utterly Unashamed, LLC
Contents
. Chapter
1. CHAPTER 1
2. CHAPTER 2
3. CHAPTER 3
4. CHAPTER 4
5. CHAPTER 5
6. CHAPTER 6
7. CHAPTER 7
8. CHAPTER 8
9. CHAPTER 9
10. CHAPTER 10
11. CHAPTER 11
12. CHAPTER 12
13. CHAPTER 13
14. CHAPTER 14
15. CHAPTER 15
16. CHAPTER 16
17. CHAPTER 17
18. CHAPTER 18
19. CHAPTER 19
20. CHAPTER 20
21. CHAPTER 21
22. CHAPTER 22
23. CHAPTER 23
24. CHAPTER 24
25. CHAPTER 25
26. CHAPTER 26
27. CHAPTER 27
28. CHAPTER 28
29. CHAPTER 29
30. CHAPTER 30
31. CHAPTER 31
32. CHAPTER 32
33. CHAPTER 33
34. CHAPTER 34
35. CHAPTER 35
36. CHAPTER 36
37. CHAPTER 37
38. CHAPTER 38
39. CHAPTER 39
40. CHAPTER 40
41. CHAPTER 41
To those who dream bigger than the world allows. To those who fight and never take no for an answer.
This is for you.
Chapter one
Letty
Wind whips through my hair.
The salty air is a balm to my skin.
I hit the gas pedal harder keeping an eye on the headlights in my peripheral. There is a curve coming up and only one of us can take it.
My heart starts to race.
Fire.
Why is it so hot?
No. It isn’t real.
The sting of glass on my skin.
I can’t get out.
Blackness crowds my vision.
No dammit, I can do this. I want to do this.
I need to do this.
I shift into fourth gear, the speedometer showing way over one hundred miles per hour, but I know this baby can do more.
The phrase ‘drive it like it's stolen’ could not be more perfect. I just couldn't help myself when I saw this royal blue Challenger just sitting there all lonely in our garage.
I knew we would be best friends. And I was right.
Miles fly by in seconds as we near the turn.
Five hundred feet.
My pulse is hammering but I missed this. Racing is in my blood. The smell of burnt rubber on the asphalt is a high nothing has ever compared to.
Four hundred feet.
My opponent edges closer. Our engines roar like two beasts in the night.
Three hundred feet.
I narrow my focus. Hands sweating and wishing I would have worn my gloves, I block everything out except for the road in front of me.
Two hundred feet.
It's now or never.
I shift into fifth gear and slam it hard. The car jerks ahead leaving my opponent no other option but to fall back or risk running off the road.
I make it past the curve and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. A deep sense of satisfaction envelopes me, settling into my body and more importantly my mind.
I feel alive. I. Am. Back.
This is exactly what I needed. I was losing my mind in that house. The walls were closing in. I felt like I would die from claustrophobia.
Shifting down, I slow the Challenger to an idle as I make my way to the group of spectators gathered around the end of the makeshift track—which is a nicer way of saying back country road. This is the spot for kids our age on the weekends.
A group of us meet up every weekend on this two-lane road to see who has the guts or the money to win. Some race for the adrenaline rush they get watching the speedometer ticking up, up, and up. Others use it to their advantage and barter for blow jobs or some other dalliance for which they are in the mood. If they are feeling cocky, some even race for pink slips.
Both racers and spectators are hanging around. They're smoking, talking—making out—but they aren't watching me. No one comes to see "the girl" race. I don't think they expected me to ever be here again. I rev my engine as I pass a group of girls I recognize from school. One girl startles, the hand holding her drink jerking forward, the dark liquid spraying the shirt of the girl in front of her.
I throw my head back and laugh. That’s when I notice the girl now sporting a dark stain on her designer shirt is one of the girls from school that likes to make passes at Brandon. The usual clique of bitches who fawn over the bad boy racer who just happens to be my boyfriend. Her eyes meet mine, her lip rising in a scowl as she takes in the smirk I’m wearing. Satisfaction strums through me along with all the adrenaline from the race. I almost feel high, ready for anything.
I park the car and turn off the engine.
“What the hell was that, Scarlett?” Speak of the devil. Brandon blocks me with a scowl. He may be pretty, but he is a sore loser. “You made me look like a fool in front of everyone.”
“What?” I say nonchalantly, trying to cover up that I beat him. By the fury on his face, the innocent act doesn’t work. “Maybe that Corvette of yours needs a tune-up, I could ask my bro—”
“Just shut up Scar.”
He grabs my arm roughly and I wince at the tightness of his fingers around my bicep. It’s healed now but when it’s jerked just right, a stinging pain shoots up my arm. The doctor said it should go away eventually but I doubt this tug-of-war with my arm is going to help.
Pulling my arm free, I rub it gently as I walk away. Oblivious, Brandon yells to me, “Grab some beers, will ya?”
Usually, I would rant about how misogynistic that request is and give him the finger as I tell him he can get his own beer but since it’s my first night out in a while, I’ll save that fight for later.
I grab two beers from a cooler some of the older crew brought and walk back. It’s Keystone, not my first choice of beer, but being that I’m only eighteen, I can’t be picky. He’s surrounded by his fan club of girls when I walk back not a minute later. I step up next to him handing him his beer and look over at the girls. “Sorry about your shirt, Chloe,” I say with a tone that definitely implies I am not sorry at all.
Her eyes dart to mine, telling me exactly what she'd like to do to me without saying a word. It only lasts a second, no one sees it but me before she can plaster on her sweet, fake smile and say, “It's no problem. Great race Scarlett.”
"Th—" I open my mouth to give a piece of my mind to her smug face, but Brandon interrupts me. “I was just playing around. I thought letting her win would boost her ego after the last time.”
I stare at him dumbfounded. Is he fucking kidding me right now? He let me win? Just because he landed his first sponsor, giving him a shot to drive in the ARCA series, doesn't make him a god. Although, these girls obviously think he is by the oohs and aahs they are giving him. I step away, putting up a physical barrier to match my emotional one. I know I am a damn good racer, but Brandon has a way of bringing out my insecurities. It’s gotten worse since the wreck.
I could easily be in the Automobile Racing Club of America—ARCA— if it wasn't for my father and the fact that I'm a woman, two things that I infuriatingly can’t change. NASCAR has been an all-male sport since its start in the 1940s. As with most careers in American history, women have had to fight an uphill battle to earn their place and even when they succeed, they’re not considered equal. Getting a sponsor as a female racecar driver is nearly impossible and Brandon reminds me of that fact every chance he gets.
And then there’s my dad...Shit, I don't even know where to start with my dad. I know he loves me, but he's got me all wrapped up in a protective coating since my mom died. He can't seem to let me live. He can't support me the same way he does my brothers. He grew up racing and passed those skills down to all of us. We grew up at the racetrack, but I'm not allowed in that world. At least as far as he's concerned. Not that I’ve made it easy for him. Even with all his effort, he can't keep racing out of my blood, and since I can’t race in the open, I street race…illegally.
I scoff, rolling my eyes at his audacity, and turn to leave. If I'm getting one night out, this is not how I am going to spend it.
Brandon calls after me but does not attempt to follow. I don't know why I put up with
I jump in the Challenger and barely turn the engine over when my eye catches on the flashing blue and red lights. Everyone scrambles in different directions as the group breaks apart. Open beer cans are thrown, and coolers are hidden in the trunks of cars. I pull onto the road to the sound of car doors slamming and engines starting. Gravel kicks up from the wheels of my tires as I peel out, taking off before the cops block us in. The road is dark as I head back towards the main fairway, the flashing lights fading in the rearview mirror. I breathe a sigh of relief as I pull onto Highway 92 taking me into Daytona.
It's short-lived because no sooner have I gone two miles before a cruiser comes up on my bumper. My eyes stare at the blue and red lights in my rearview mirror as my heart sinks like a bowling ball into my stomach. The reality of my situation coming into full focus. Weirdly, it’s not a speeding ticket, dealing with the cops, or even jail time for street racing making my pulse kick up and a bead of sweat trail down my back. It’s the thought that I may not be able to race again.
And what's worse…my dad is going to kill me.
“I can't believe you were racing again. And in a stolen car no less,” dad yells, the red color rising from his neck to his cheeks cementing the fury on his face. It's two in the morning and, my brother Elijah, having been with my dad when the cops called, sits on the couch next to me in our living room. Elijah’s hiding a smirk, my dad not so much.
“Allegedly,” I say, emphasizing that the sheriff had no evidence to prove I was actually racing.
A futile argument when he roars, “There are witnesses, goddamnit.”
I brace myself for the fallout from my dad and probably my brother but seriously, whoever snitched—and dear lord help Brandon if it was him—they are going to have to deal with the wrath of one pissed-off girlfriend. Brandon hasn’t called or texted since I left last night. His silence is awfully suspicious.
“Do you understand the implications of your actions? You are lucky Joe called me before hauling your ass to jail.”
Joe and my father go way back, like since high school. Having him as Sheriff is both a blessing and a curse—depending on how you look at it.
“It’s not only the trouble you got yourself in, Scarlett. You could have jeopardized Elijah’s position. A mechanic who can't keep his cars from being stolen isn't worth anything in this business.”
Fuck. I cringe when I hear that. I had no idea that the car I took belonged to Elijah’s new driver. He brought it home to replace the fuel pump. So, it should have been obvious but if I’m being honest, I just wasn’t thinking…except about myself and racing and not being trapped or afraid for even one more minute.
“I didn't know...” I trail off, guilt settling on my shoulders like a lead weight. I don't care what happens to me, but I would never in a million years jeopardize Elijah's work. I look over at him and mouth the words I’m sorry. He nods and mouths the words I know back with his signature wink. God, I love my brother.
“How could you? No sane person would walk into a garage and just takes a car that doesn't belong to them. You only think about yourself,” dad spits.
His words sting as if he physically slapped me in the face. How dare he say that, after years of me playing third fiddle in this family. He has always given more attention to my brothers, living his dream of being one of the NASCAR legends vicariously through one of them. He’s never once thought it could be me. What I want never matters. I say as much but he blows me off like usual. Anger boils in my blood like every time we have this conversation. Nothing ever changes. It’s sad really. I’m sad. And so damn tired of it.
My own father doesn't see me.
“Dad,” Eli cuts in, taking on his role as the mitigator between us. He knows where this fight is inevitably going, me raging from the room, slamming my bedroom door—my number one move in saying a respectful fuck you. I will, without a doubt, start crying. With my lack of emotional support growing up, my brain is apparently hardwired to cry every time I get angry. And ain’t that some bullshit. There is nothing worse than crying when you are trying to put someone in their place.
On a side note, it really confuses men. They can hardly handle a woman crying but mix that with raging fury and they’re sure to pack up and leave. Everyone but my father, that is.
“We should let her race,” Eli interjects.
I perk up, albeit surprised by the direction he's taking.
“Are you kidding me?” my dad says, looking at Eli like he is imagining pulling the Challenger back out just to run him over with it for siding with me. “She was just caught racing again after wrecking her car only months ago, and you think more racing is the answer?”
“She needs discipline,” Eli says.
I narrow my eyes at him. Not where I thought this was going.
“Damn right she does. She needs her license taken away.” I blanch at dad's threat.
Only it's not a threat, he would actually do it.
“She's going to race anyway, Dad. You’ve fought this long enough. At least if she's trained, we would know she's driving safely.” Eli’s eyes dart to mine and he winks. He fucking winks.
I know he cares. He's the only one who has ever stood up for me. I give him a small smile letting him know that I appreciate the support but that it's no use. It won't change anything when it comes to my dad. Nothing ever does.
“You think driving a three-thousand-pound hunk of metal at two hundred miles per hour is safe? You might as well put her in a rocket to the moon,” Dad says incredulously.
“You know what I mean. All of us put our lives in danger every day for this sport. It's time to let her grow up,” Eli argues.
Wait what?
Okay, Eli, calling me a child isn't helping, I scream in my head.
“You've held on long enough and the more you hold her back the more she is going to fight you.” Eli pauses before adding. “Next time, it might be a call from the morgue instead of the sheriff.”
Silence fills the room. The weight of my brother's words affecting each of us differently. On one hand, it seems a bit dramatic, and to an outsider, I'm sure it would come across as an over-exaggeration, but not for this family. I've seen ten-year-olds pulled from the flames of a bandolero crash on the dirt track outside of town. And don't get me started on the death of Dale Earnhardt—God rest his soul. I've never seen a man in any other sport as idolized as he is. So much so, you’d think he was still racing. Not a single wall of racing memorabilia or garage of cars is missing his name, number, or photo.
“So what do you suggest we do?” Dad asks, sounding exasperated, but also not sold on the idea either.
“Find her a trainer. Someone you know and trust to keep an eye on her. Let her prove herself,” Eli offers with a shrug like we are discussing what to eat for Sunday dinner.
Does he really think this is going to work?
My dad looks at me “If anything were to happen to you, I don't know what I would do. After losing your mother, I couldn't handle it.” His voice breaks at the memory.
The room grows silent at his admission. Everyone says that I look just like my mom. I know it must be hard for him to look at me and not see her. I know he cares about me, but it’s only when he is telling me I can’t do something, that he shows it. “Dad, Mom died of cancer. It’s not at all the same.”
“No, you’re asking me to put you into a sport that could kill you instantly.” His voice rises higher with each word.
Why is it so damn hard for him to understand? “All I am asking is for you to give me the same opportunity you give my brothers.”
