#Junkie (GearShark #1)(26)

Ivy: Nova loves you, too!

It meant a lot to have the support of everyone for this. I’d always had a big family. I grew up in one. But family seemed to take on a new meaning when I moved here to be closer to my sister. There was something special about family by choice.

It wasn’t blood that held us all together.

It was loyalty.

Love.

I typed out a quick text to my sister. Thanks for all the messages. Give Nova a kiss for me. I’ll call you later.

Trent jumped up from the couch, stretched his long arms out at his sides, and tucked his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “You ready for this?”

“I was born ready.”



Holy hot damn!

That was my thought when we pulled up to the Gamble Motor Speedway. The place was a bona fide track that made what I was doing here today even more surreal and exciting.

It wasn’t the biggest raceway I’d ever seen, but it wasn’t the smallest. Clearly, Gamble put money into this place, and he also paid to keep it up to date. Everything was pretty industrial looking. All concrete, steel, and grey. The area around the building was clear of trees and flat, and a large parking lot stretched out around us.

There was a man standing at the entrance that would allow us through and into the track area. When I slid up beside him and rolled the window down, he handed over two lanyards with a pass clipped to the front and had me sign in. Once that was done, we were given a thumbs-up, and he waved us through.

I drove slowly, taking in the moment. When we cleared the tunnel and rolled out onto the inside of the track, I wanted to cry.

It was a damn beautiful sight.

The track itself was oval shaped, and I estimated it to be about a mile and a half. There was a lot of seating capacity around it—more than enough for NASCAR races if one were ever hosted here. From what I read, only a few NASCAR races had taken place here, and that was years ago. Mostly, this track was used for local and statewide events. It also served as a headquarters for Gamble’s racing “team.”

I use the term team loosely because the drivers Gamble sponsored weren’t necessarily on a team, per se. They all drove in their own races. They all had different sponsors besides Gamble himself. What made them his “team” was he was the highest contributing sponsor they had and most of the car itself was paid for by him. They were all based here. They practiced here.

I’m sure all the drivers knew each other. Hell, they probably practiced together, which sounded like a f*cking privilege to me. Sure, I guessed in many ways these guys were competitors, but I didn’t like to look at it that way.

I liked to think of them as people to learn from, people to push me and motivate me to be better.

On the northwestern side, it appeared there were several condominiums built over the track, and I figured that’s where the drivers and probably some of the staff and managers lived when they weren’t on the road.

In the center of the track was where the pit stops sat. It was a long, straight road down the center, known as pit row. Each driver could pull off the track and down the row to their designated pit stop, where their crew was stationed.

It seemed calm here today, quiet and empty. But when the place was full and a race was going on, quiet was the last word used to described this place.

It was usually chaos at a track like this: fans going crazy, loud music, the sound of engines revving, the smell of gasoline and burned rubber filling the air. The energy was unmatched. It filled the space with a dull roar that could only be found at a racetrack. Race fans were among the most devoted and loyal of all sports.

I wasn’t really sure where to park or where Gamble was going to meet us, so I pulled to the side and parked in plain sight.

“It’s a nice view,” I mused, glancing out over the track. “I’ve been to races at places like this, but I’ve never been part of one before.”

“Your time’s coming,” Trent said. His voice didn’t have the same hopeful quality. His was more definite. Like he knew for sure.

I liked his confidence in me. It felt real.

“Today might not go the way I want it to,” I spoke, reminding myself not to get ahead of myself.

“Might not.” He agreed. “Even if it doesn’t, this is just one step further.”

“Thanks for coming with.”

“Anytime, Drew.”

Silence fell over the car, but it wasn’t awkward; it was the kind of silence true friends could have without the need for a lot of words. I was glad he was here. Something about his presence grounded me, made me feel a little bit stronger.

A few minutes later, a black Cadillac pulled up alongside the Fastback. The windows were tinted, but I knew it was Gamble.

“This is it.” I spoke out loud, but I was talking to myself. The nerves were real.

“I’ll sit on that wall over there”—he motioned toward a nearby concrete barrier—“and watch. You need anything, just signal.”

I nodded.

The passenger door of the Cadillac opened, and a man in a tailored navy suit stepped out. He wasn’t wearing a tie. Instead, the shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. He was an older man, but not so old I would consider him out of his prime. I’d put him in his fifties somewhere, with dark hair that was predominantly gray at the temples and peppered through the rest.

I left the keys in the ignition and got out, swallowing down my nerves to smile.