Banging Wheels (10 page)

He didn’t know for sure what Callie’s deal was — you had to keep your cards close to your chest in this game — but the fact was that he was paying for his drive in the car, like many people in this league. The supply of young, unpolished drivers outstripped demand at this level, and you couldn’t get paid to drive until you were at a level where the teams could afford to pay, and even then you had to have proved that you were worth paying for; that you were among the very best of the very best. Take too long to rise, and you’d be marked down as merely competent, rather than the cream of the crop.

His parents had supported him in the lower divisions, while the costs were still reasonable, but they weren’t reasonable any more. Now his fees were paid for by sponsorship, with the big gap made up for by investment from his agent and manager, Bill Arford. And Bill wasn’t doing it for the hell of it — he expected a return.

In short, he had to be sure he beat her — he couldn’t afford to leave it to chance.

But how?

“So,” said Bill, “we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

In a lot of ways, he didn’t like Bill Arford. It took him a while to put his finger on why, but then he realized it was because Bill was even more manipulative than he was. He remembered well how their contract negotiations had gone. Bill had proposed a 15-year contract where he’d get 50 percent of all future earnings. Outraged, Drake had fought his way down to 6 years and only 20 percent. It was a battle hard won, but he’d gotten there, and left the meeting thrilled at how he’d held his own during the hardball. But later he spoke to another of Bill’s drivers and found that most were on the same or similar terms, and some on even better ones. The thing he’d fought so hard to get to was exactly what Bill was looking for all along. The guy was a cold-hearted so-and-so, and no mistake.

“It’s not that she’s a better driver than me,” said Drake.

“No, of course not,” said Bill with a wry smile, twiddling with the ends of his mustache. It always reminded Drake of Dastardly from those old cartoons, not least because he spoke like someone from a bygone age. All he was missing was an asthmatic dog.

“She really isn’t. But I can’t afford to leave my future career to chance.”

“No,” said Bill, sitting upright. “You’re right. We can’t have that. I need to protect my investment, so we can’t have some silly little flibbertigibbet ruining your chances.”

“Don’t call her that,” said Drake. He wasn’t quite sure what one was, but it didn’t sound very nice.

“When did you start caring?” Bill said, eying him, that evil smirk of his growing by the second. “Do you like her?”

Drake shook his head at the question and looked away. Bill’s eyes glinted as he took this in.

“Wait a minute, don’t tell me you two are enjoying a little of the old ‘horizontal refreshment’ together...”

The look on Drake’s face said it all.

“Interesting... and you’ve decided that crashing her off the circuit isn’t quite so palatable anymore.”

Drake’s shoulders fell. He thought he had quite the poker face, but Bill could read him like a book.

“There’s only one good reason to be philandering with that filly, and that’s to control the situation, but if that’s part of your plan then it isn’t working.”

Drake went quiet. He wasn’t even sure what he expected Bill to do about all this, but he sensed he no longer had control of the situation. And one thing was for sure — Bill was even less scrupulous than he was.

“So, what to do...” said Bill, twirling his mustache yet further. “Hmmm. Maybe we could offer him a financial inventive of some kind”

“Who?”

“Travis.”

“
Us
offer
him
an incentive? I don’t understand.”

“The problem right now is that Travis doesn’t really care who wins, as long as it’s one of his drivers.” He let go of his mustache ends and they spun around, ending in an upward curve at each end, making it look like an evil smile. “Let’s make him care.”

Drake was still trying to understand what that might mean.

“Leave it with me.”

“We need to talk,” said the team boss.

“Okay, sure.” Callie was surprised — she and Drake had had the big telling off already, so what was this all about?

“We’ve got the best car and the most professional setup,” he began. “Yet somehow, we’re still in danger of losing the championship.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Drake—” she bit her tongue. She wanted to beat him, but she didn’t want to throw him under the bus. After all, he’d apologized, and it seemed sincere this time. “I think we can race without crashing out now.”

“Maybe. But we’ve decided on a different solution.”

Callie waited intently. There was something about the way he was dragging this out that told him she wasn’t expected to like the news.

“We’ve decided we need to enforce team orders.”

“What?!” Team orders. The thing every driver dreads hearing. This is where the team tells you what to do. But more specifically, it’s where they give one driver superiority over the other. “We need Drake to finish ahead of you at each of the remaining races.”

“No way.”

Travis shrugged at her, like “There it is.”

“No WAY!” She threw her arms together, and avoided looking at him.

“It’s in the contract, you can check. If we give you a racing instruction, you must comply. If you don’t, you’re in breach of contract. And you forfeit your drive.”

Callie felt so angry she barely knew which question to ask first. “Why the hell does HE get priority?”

Travis didn’t answer. Growing in conviction, Callie pressed the point home. “He’s the one who has been knocking ME off the circuit — why do I have to pay the price?”

They stared at each other for a while.

“Because...” said Travis, closing his mouth, then opening it again, then closing it once more, undecided about how much to say. “He’s offered to pay us more,” he said. “Much more.”

Callie’s heart sank. Firstly, with the realization that there was almost certainly no way of fighting this. But more importantly with the sense of betrayal. After all that had happened in the hospital, how could he do this?

The boss, drawing on his years of experience, including one incident some years ago when an irate driver took to throwing everything in the trophy cabinet at him, knew when was a good time to stay, and when was a good time to leave.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Callie sat at the bar, pushing a drink around on the counter.

“Smile,” said the middle-aged businessman next to her, leaning in. “It may never happen.”

“Come out with a cheap line like that,” she said, scowling, “and it most definitely will.”

The man recoiled and went back to fiddling with his smartphone.

What an absolute jerk Drake was. How could he do that to her after what had happened between them? God, she was naive. Once a jerk, always a jerk. She shook her head, thought a while, and then shook it again.

How could he be so two-faced? This was even worse than pushing her off the road — now she was going to be ordered to acquiesce, and she’d just have to back down. She was his poodle, basically. How utterly humiliating. If she did it, then future teams would take note — she was typecast as a beta driver. A backup plan. A supporting act to the big name.

She was in it to win, not to come second. That was the whole point. She didn’t have a husband, didn’t have kids, didn’t have a house, wasn’t into baking cakes and making clothes and all that bullshit. Racing was what gave her life some kind of meaning. And it was being taken away from her. What’s the point of putting your life on the line if the best you can ever finish is second? Even if you’re the faster driver that day?

The other option, of course, would be to refuse. But that would be the end of her career, too. Her name would be mud. She’d be the driver that refused to do as the team said. Non-compliant. Bad news. When the chips were down, she couldn’t be trusted to put the team first. Who would want to pay a driver like that?

She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t.

However it played out, she was going to have to go back to the family and say, “I tried.” And they’d be all understanding, of course, delighted that she was finally going to have to get a ‘proper’ life. She had the talent and the drive — why couldn’t she just be allowed to do her job? It all seemed so unfair.

She looked around the bar. Off to one side, there was a racing game. Those things always cheered her up. But this time it had the opposite effect. What was the point?

CHAPTER NINE

“Okay,” said Travis, his elegant wrist-watch clanking on the desk as he settled into his seat in the meeting room. “We’re here to discuss the details of the team orders.”

Drake looked outside at the heavy skies and the rain silently spotting the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, conjoining into rivulets that skittered down awkwardly and joined with other rivulets.

“Are you listening? Because this really isn’t normal procedure for us. We wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for the financial shortfall caused by your continual crashing. We don’t budget for quite so many repairs across the course of a season. It really is exceptional.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Just between you and me, if Bill wasn’t so important to us in finding new driver talent, I still wouldn’t take this on.”

Drake hated this. The whole thing was deeply unpalatable. If his career wasn’t so important, he wouldn’t even be considering it. He just wished they could get the damn thing over and done with. He’d rather not discuss the details at all. If you’re going to sell your own grandmother — or in this case, your teammate, and some-time lover — down the river, you’d really rather get it done quickly and quietly and move on, rather than sit down and have a coffee and a long chat with the buyer.

“You were saying.”

“We don’t give any explicit orders — the fans and the press hate that. But it’s understood that she won’t try to overtake you — even if she’s close enough and is clearly faster. If you try to pass, she’ll let you go. If she’s way ahead of you or just too fast in general, we’ll give her a radio message to conserve fuel. Which means slow down, because Drake isn’t quick enough — and possibly not skilled enough — to pass you on merit, and needs to pay us to tell you not to drive so darned fast.”