#Junkie (GearShark #1)(37)

I set it back down right after, though.

I didn’t text him. I didn’t call.

He didn’t either. He was avoiding me.

I was starting to think I was avoiding him, too.

Maybe that’s why I was in even more of a disgruntled mood today. Maybe it wasn’t just the tie around my neck, this stupid desk, the bright glow of the desktop computer in front of me, and the shitty coffee at my elbow. Might as well drink an ashtray.

“Seriously, though!” I yelled over my cubby. “Who made this coffee?”

The only reply was a few muffled laughs and some mumbled agreements.

On my lunch break, I flipped through the latest issue of GearShark and read the feature article on Roger Bones, the new king of NASCAR.

It didn’t help my mood either.

The more excited I got for our new revolution in racing and bringing the underground scene out of the dark, the more pissy I felt toward the pros.

There was a clear line drawn between the two groups. On one side lived the pro racers, loaded with sponsors and money. They got the spotlight and all the attention. Then on the other side were all the indie drivers like me. We weren’t “professional” because we didn’t have the money and the backing of big companies. Because my leather jacket didn’t have a million logos proving my substance, I wasn’t worth a dime.

What a double standard.

I did the work. I drove more than the pros did. They didn’t get as much track time as I logged on the streets weekly. They likely didn’t do the work on their own cars because they had a team to do it for them. They didn’t have to get out there and talk to pit crews, men who worked at the raceways, etc. because they already had the attention they needed.

It was a bunch of horseshit.

I couldn’t wait ‘til the indies could prove themselves. No, we wouldn’t be driving against the pro drivers, because we were in a different division.

But maybe someday.

Until then, it would be sweet enough to make them share the spotlight.

I wondered about Gamble, if he was getting the ball rolling. I was anxious to get started. The sooner we could make this happen, the sooner I could get the hell out from behind this desk.

My babysitter was supposed to be here tonight. I knew nothing about him except his name was Joey. I hoped he wasn’t some stuck-up driver who thought he was better just because he was a pro.

If that were the case, it was going to be a long f*cking couple weeks. Or however long he was supposed to be riding shotgun with me.

Trent knew the guy was coming today. He hadn’t said shit about it. Did he just not care anymore?

Maybe he’s just busy. Chill, dude.

God. I was acting like a goddamned woman.

He’d call when he could. He did have a busy schedule.

Ten minutes before quitting time, I shut down the programs I had open and powered off my desktop. I made a show of straightening up my paperwork and desk and thumbed through a few more pages of GearShark before the clock finally hit five.

I sprang up out of my office chair with more excitement than I’d showed the entire day, grabbed my suit jacket, and hot-footed it outside.

In the parking lot, I unknotted the tie and let it drape over my shoulders. After I unbuttoned the buttons at my neck, I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and shoved my hands through my hair, messing it up a little.

I was feeling more like myself already.

The Fastback was parked near the building, and I paused to throw my suit jacket in the trunk, exchanging it for my leather.

Before I took off, I checked my phone. Still no calls or texts.

On the way home, I played the music as loud as I could stand and cracked the window so the cold air swirled around in the interior.

If it were summer, I’d have all the windows rolled down. Nothing better than an open road, loud music, and the fresh air whipping through the car. It was complete freedom.

When I pulled up to the house, the Mustang jerked a little, following my sudden reaction to the unfamiliar car in the driveway.

Unfamiliar in a familiar way that is.

The neon-yellow Skyline was unmistakable. I’d just raced it over the weekend when it appeared on the track out of nowhere.

And disappeared just as quickly.

No introduction. No greeting. Nothing.

When I asked about the driver, Gamble smiled and told me he’d be my mentor.

I couldn’t exactly tell him no, though I really f*cking wanted to. The last person I wanted to learn anything from was some douche who thought he was too good to introduce himself to me. And he drove like an *.

A fast *, but one all the same.

Fine. The dude could drive. I could barely keep up.

He was probably arrogant about it, too.

Since I didn’t have a choice, I pulled into the driveway, around the Skyline (avoiding looking at it), and parked in my usual spot.

B’s sweet-ass fancy truck was in the driveway. It was spotless. I was pretty sure he still got a hard-on when he looked at it. It was a Christmas gift from everyone. When Ivy asked me what kind of truck would be good for her husband, I jokingly pointed to one that was rare, expensive, and badass.

I never thought she’d get ahold of one.

I really should’ve known better. All she had to do was go bat her eyes at Romeo and the truck appeared just like that.

Rome seriously had some pull in life. There wasn’t anything I’d seen him want that he didn’t get.