Drive Read online

Page 2


  I wanted so much to be accepted by them, and each time anyone talked to me, I tried to be superpleasant. So far, everyone had been respectful and kind, and I was grateful.

  It didn’t feel hot outside to me, not after a lifetime spent in the steamy south of Georgia. This heat had nothing on my hometown, where palm trees, moss, and people visibly withered in the summer months. I grinned wide inside my helmet.

  Girl, you’ve got this.

  I’d signed with Eagle to show everyone a woman could break barriers in racing’s most glamorous sport. I’d also wanted to prove something closer to home.

  My mother assumed I’d choose something genteel, a branch of the motorsports profession with a whiff of glitz, like public relations. She’d gone along with the engineering diploma from the University of Georgia and the internships with NASCAR and IndyCar. But my traveling the world with a race team for the better part of a year had been a bridge too far.

  “You’re going where, to do what?” Mom had asked a month ago, during our weekly bottomless mimosa brunch at a place not far from home. Her incredulous tone had caused many of the well-heeled Southern women at nearby tables to turn in our direction. “But what about that assistant public relations job with the racing team in Atlanta? Or something with our family’s company? You’d be close to me and Dad, and you’d be able to find a nice Southern boy to settle down with.”

  Then came the inevitable guilt-trip. “How could you leave me?” she’d wailed.

  The emotional manipulation had become too much to bear, and for the first time, I stood up for myself. “I don’t want nice, I don’t want a Southern boy, and I don’t want Atlanta,” I shot back.

  “I want international travel and fast cars and Formula World.”

  She’d fixed her hard blue stare on me and doubled down on her toxic tactics. “You’ll never succeed in that world, Savvy. That’s a rich man’s game, and you have no business sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong. Don’t even bother. You’ll fail.”

  That conversation, and no small measure of satisfaction, raced through my head as I stood there, waiting for the car to pit. I was here in Italy. I was succeeding. Thriving.

  Crouching into position again between the two men, I sent a silent thank-you to my unconventional father, who had always encouraged me to follow my dreams. It was Daddy who had introduced me to the world of motorsports, and who had been the only one to know my secret dream: to help run our family’s company, alongside my brother, and sponsor my own racing outfit—an all-female team in one of the top circuits, proving that women could be successful athletes and equals in motorsports.

  First, though, I needed experience.

  “Get in place!” yelled a voice.

  With a high-pitched roar, the powerful machine whizzed into the pit. The guy standing at the hood—the lollipop man—held up a sign to signal to the driver to keep his brakes on during the pit stop.

  I moved fluidly, pressing the gun into the middle of the tire, unlocking the single lug nut at the center of the wheel. I eased back. The man to my right slipped the tire off, and the man to my left slid a new tire on in one seamless motion. I moved forward and quickly locked the lug nut with a fierce blast of the wheel gun.

  Zip. Whoosh. Zip.

  It was an intricate dance, albeit one that happened in a few blinks of an eye. The twenty-one strong pit crew that hovered around the car stepped back with uniformity. The lollipop man at the front raised his sign and the car sped off. With that engine, it would eventually reach its peak of fifteen thousand revolutions per minute—up to two hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  Faster than a hot knife through butter, I thought.

  I thought something else too: You’re a beautiful girl, Savvy, which means you have to work harder and smarter than everyone else to be taken seriously. That’s what Daddy always said, and I’d reminded myself of his words a thousand times during my first weeks with Eagle. It was a mantra I repeated every time I was asked to do something new.

  Work harder.

  Work smarter.

  Don’t show any fear.

  The team practiced the pit stops four more times, each one more efficient and faster than the last. The pit crew manager took off his helmet. “Three point one seconds on the last stop. Nice work. Let’s take a break and recap the day.”

  One of the tire carriers who’d stood nearby during the pit stop clapped me on the shoulder as we all walked into the pit garage.

  After a few moments, a hand firmly eased me aside. From the specially tailored uniform, the uniquely decorated helmet, and the swagger, I knew it was Dante Annunziata, our driver. I’d seen him earlier when he’d climbed into his car for the test laps.

  Pulling off my helmet, I watched as the team parted for him, a king given the privilege of entering the air-conditioned garage first. Drivers, even the most decent of guys in any semi-pro contest, usually displayed a hint of entitlement and brashness off the track, and an exacting, calculating iciness behind the wheel. He was no different, from what I could tell.

  I followed everyone inside. Although the team was American owned, the headquarters were in Italy because the owner loved it here, I’d heard. The Team Eagle operation was like nothing I’d ever seen in other circuits back home. The place was a vast motorsports complex that had been recently built with an eye for detail.

  Everything from the polished concrete floors to the mahogany conference room tables to the tools with their surgery-theater-level gleam screamed money.

  Owner Brock Bronson had spared no expense for the building or the cars. This was how I’d explain the place to my dad next time I called: cleaner than a bar of soap, with the added bonus of a catered pasta bar for lunch. Hopefully Daddy would be able to visit during a race at some point later in the season. Making him proud was important to me.

  As I started to pull a chair out from the sleek mahogany table, Giorgio tugged on my sleeve and wagged his finger.

  “We sit back here during these briefings,” he whispered in a heavy Italian accent.

  I winced, wishing I hadn’t drawn attention to myself. “Sorry,” I whispered. He was my dad’s age, a guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar moustache. He motioned for me to sit next to him, front and center in a row of folding chairs.

  The team’s engineers and computer technicians took their places at the conference table.

  I set my helmet at my feet on the gleaming terrazzo floor, mimicking the other guys, and undid my ponytail. Goodness, that cool air felt amazing on my scalp. I combed my hair back with my fingers, letting it fall loose over my coverall-clad shoulders.

  My gaze alighted on a man at the head of the table. For a second, everything around me—the two dozen pit crew members, the assistants serving coffee, the strong blast of the air conditioner—fell away, because I was spellbound by a pair of dark, molten eyes.

  Dante Annunziata.

  My first thought was that it was too bad he wore the foulest, angriest glare I’d ever seen. With his longish raven-black hair tumbling over his forehead and his matching dark brows, it was a waste of a handsome face to look so nasty. My second thought was one of sheer curiosity. Why were his full lips curled into a sneer as if a foul odor permeated the room? Our pit stops had been flawless, and he’d driven as fast as the wind around the track. He should be thrilled that we’d worked so well as a new team, especially since the season opener in Monaco was just days away.

  What was he staring at? I glanced to the men on either side of me, then quickly over my shoulder at the two other rows of chairs, which were filled with pit crew members and team staff. I looked again at Dante. He hadn’t stopped staring in my direction.

  And his flashing dark eyes were still unblinking and furious.

  Well, that was rude. Surely he wasn’t raised by wolves?

  As if he’d heard me calling him names inside my head, Dante turned to Jack, the chief engineer, who sat next to him. The two men huddled for a minute until the team’s owner
ambled in. He was lanky, and wore dung-colored cowboy boots, jeans, a black T-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed hipster glasses. He took up a lot of space when he moved his long arms and legs.

  He was followed by Tanya, the team’s head of public relations.

  She was also from the US—Boston, I think, if her clipped accent was any indication. I’d only met her once, and thought she was pleasant in a slightly frosty way. But since we were among the only women employed by the team and both from the United States, I hoped to get to know her better. Being surrounded by all these dudes—and missing my best friend, Kayla, back home—made me crave female friendship.

  Bronson passed by Dante and Jack, squeezing both men’s shoulders before taking the empty seat next to Jack. “Take it away, Jack. It’s your show,” he said.

  Jack climbed to his feet. “You all looked incredible out there.

  Bravo, team.” He pumped his fist. “Now, let’s go over what we could’ve done better, and talk about the weather conditions for our first race.”

  I concentrated on his post-practice wrap-up, trying to put Dante’s blazing stare out of my mind. Something about him left me with a squirmy feeling.

  “We’ll likely be starting the Monaco race on soft tires, since they’ve done so well in practice this week,” Jack said, then launched into a long explanation about the weather in France.

  I studied Dante. He was a world champion in the sport. A legend. Which meant I needed to be deferential and extrarespectful.

  He furrowed his brow. His full lips plumped into a faint pout.

  He ran a thumb across his jawline, which was sharp as a knife.

  I’d bet a hundred bucks that he practiced that brooding, intense look in the mirror just to perfect his sex appeal. The thought almost made me laugh, but I had to admit an uncomfortable truth: he had more sex appeal than his car had RPMs.

  It was not something I often thought when looking at a man.

  Actually, I’d never had a visceral reaction to a guy like this. Not during either of my internships, not in college, not ever.

  Guys rarely affected me one way or the other, much to the dismay of both my mother and Kayla. Oh, sure, I thought some were cute, or even handsome. I liked men. I’d kissed a few. But Dante, and his searing, brooding expression, was a different story entirely, stirring in me something both unnerving and unfamiliar. Dangerous, even. I was usually so unaffected by men.

  But this man was different.

  His forehead was high and his nose aquiline, a classic Italian look. He often posed for edgy modeling shoots for various Italian clothing designers, and I’d seen lots of photos of him online.

  But in person, he was way different. Rawer somehow, and more arresting. All charisma and attitude. His lips were plush and sensual, which made his sharp jaw seem all the more masculine. He was clean-shaven and I pondered how the olive-gold skin of his face would feel under my fingertips.

  Egad. I made a mental note to text my best friend back home about this troublesome thought. She’d probably laugh at me and tell me I was jetlagged or dehydrated.

  “And I’d like to again introduce our newest team member, Savannah Jenkins. Some of you met her during this morning’s meeting or have had the chance to say hi over the past couple of weeks. Our team’s grown so much, though, and we’ve hired so many new people that I wanted to do another round of introductions, since I know some of the staff and techs haven’t yet been acquainted. In case she doesn’t stand out, Savvy’s the one in the front row of chairs with the long red hair. Savannah, stand up, please.”

  Oh dear.

  I hurriedly smiled and stood, all while being acutely aware of Dante’s smoldering eyes. He’d caught me staring, and I watched as his own gaze skimmed down my coverall-clad body. Just great.

  “Thank you,” I said, drawing out the words in my most syrupy Southern accent. I’d been trying to temper that around all these international people, but when I was flustered or put on the spot, my roots bloomed in my voice with a vengeance.

  “I’m thrilled to be here in Formula World with all y’all, simply honored to be in your presence,” I said. “It’s a world away from Atlanta, where I’m from, but I know we’re going to win the championship for Eagle. Get ’er done. Shake and bake, and all that. At least that’s what we say back home. And Mr. Annunziata, I must say that was some of the finest driving I’ve ever seen on a track. You are incredible.”

  A ripple of laughter and applause went through the room.

  Except from Dante. He winced. Didn’t nod, didn’t smile, didn’t acknowledge my compliment in any way.

  Jack smiled warmly. “We are equally as thrilled to have you. In case you didn’t know, Savvy—that’s what she likes to be called— has an engineering degree and has interned with a top NASCAR team. She and Eagle are also part of history, because she’s the first female tire changer in Formula World. She’s a great asset to Eagle, and I hope you’ll join me in making her feel welcome.”

  Bronson stood. “I’d also like to give Savannah a big hello. I know you all got my memo about her, but consider this a formal welcome. Having a woman on the team puts us at the forefront of motorsports. We should all be proud of that. And look at her.

  She’s something, isn’t she?”

  When everyone again turned to stare at me, I froze. In an instant, my face felt like I’d pressed it into a bowl of jalapeno peppers, and I knew it was turning red. “Thanks, y’all,” I replied.

  The team applauded, and I sank back into the chair. The guy next to me patted my shoulder. I let out the breath I was holding and pasted on my best pageant smile. Even gave a little wave.

  My eyes went from Bronson to Jack to Dante. He wasn’t clapping. Instead, he was scribbling on a piece of paper in front of him. Looking like he couldn’t be bothered.

  What a jerk.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DANTE

  Jack and I strolled out of the conference room after the team meeting and stood outside in the bright Italian sun, not far from the garages that housed Eagle’s multimillion-dollar cars.

  “Those pit stops were perfection.” Jack’s ruddy complexion was flushed, and he shielded his eyes from the glare. “How did they feel to you? This car really is something impressive. And you know I don’t impress easily.”

  “Seems like we have our act together. It’s hard to tell, though.

  I’ll have a better feel for things in Monaco. You know me, cautious until I start winning.”

  “There’s no way we’re going to lose with this car. Or with this team. I really sense a great vibe between everyone. All the guys, er, crew are hustling their asses off. It’s like the old days. Even with a woman on the team. No one even batted an eye when she stood in the pits during practice. I’ll bet you didn’t even know she was changing your tire.”

  Admittedly, I hadn’t noticed. “Really? Are you bullshitting me? I feel like she’s hard to ignore.”

  “What were your impressions of her, mate?” He seemed to be goading me. Sometimes Jack’s incessant questions and chatter set my teeth on edge. This was one of those times.

  “She’s young. A little brash. Can’t vouch for her mechanical skills but my wheel didn’t fall off, so there’s that. But did you see the way she addressed the team? Seems kind of full of herself.”

  A few pit crew members left the building and I wondered if Savannah would soon emerge. I waved and they held up their fists in the air. “Looked amazing out there today, Dante,” one shouted in Italian.

  “Grazie,” I called back.

  “Kind of full of herself?” Jack guffawed, ignoring the guys.

  “Takes one to know one. I can tell you this, she was great during our test runs. Smooth and quick. She spent a lot of time last week with Max’s crew to get a feel for both cars, and I had her observe for some of your stops too. But those final pits when she was working were smooth as silk. She knows her stuff. Maybe we need more women as wheel gunners. Savvy’s fast on her feet. I was impressed.”
/>
  “I heard what you said during the meeting. I know I didn’t seem like I was paying attention, but I was.”

  Jack went on for several moments about how Savannah was well-versed in engines, about her engineering degree, and about the virtues of her excellent hand-eye coordination.

  “Enough,” I barked, pushing a rock with the toe of my sneaker.

  Jack reared back. “What? I always talk up our new teammates.

  Oh, get this: she was a beauty pageant queen.”

  “She was what?”

  “Yeah, Tanya told me, and I asked Savvy about it earlier today.”

  “Where was I during this conversation?” A beauty pageant queen turned tire changer? What in God’s name . . .

  “You were signing autographs in the marketing office.”

  “This makes me doubt her credentials even more,” I said with a grunt.

  Jack’s eyes widened. “No, she did two internships with winning teams in the US. She knows her stuff. Her pageant career began when she was twelve and lasted until she was about sixteen. She was a runner-up for the Miss Georgia title. Then she stopped competing. I’m not sure why.”

  Again he blathered on about her qualifications. I watched as Bronson left the building, his cowboy boots making sharp strikes against the asphalt. He either didn’t notice us or was ignoring our presence, because he didn’t wave. This annoyed me even more, and I finally held up my hand, hoping Jack would stop talking.

  “Fine. I get it. She’s got experience in motorsports.” I didn’t want to be reminded of Savannah and her mane of wild red hair.

  “Really, you need to forget she’s a woman and move on.”

  “I expected someone more, I don’t know. Like my sister. More strapping and solid.” My sister, Gabriella, had been sturdy, like our grandmother. Strong as an ox.

  “Oh, Savvy’s quite strong. She told me all about how she weight trains and runs. She had no problem using the tire gun.”

  I shot him a warning look. “Maybe we can reassign her to ordering parts or something. Does she have to be in the pits?”