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PROLOGUE
TALLY
There were only three things in life that gave me the same risk-to-reward thrill as motor racing.
Discounted end-of-day sushi.
Petting an orange cat.
Sleeping with another driver on the grid.
So far, only one of those things had blown up in my face, as evidenced by the sports commentators talking way too loudly outside my garage.
“After crashing out in last week’s race, Ryclo Racing must be wondering if Tally Palmer’s head is in the game at all. I’m not sure she has the stamina to make it out here, racing with the big boys. She’s the third driver for the team, but I don’t think her position over there is quite as solid as she’d like, and there’s still some who say she stole the position from a more deserving driver.”
The other commentator made a disgusted noise. “More like she stole the heart of the right man, wouldn’t you say, Dan? The Romeo and Juliet of NASCAR—that’s what they call Tally Palmer and Buck Willtot of Willtot Racing. Of course, Buck’s father, Brick, is the owner of Willtot Racing, and it can’t hurt having someone as powerful as Brick in your corner when you’re trying to find a team, even if it is with your most fierce competitor.”
I knew that voice. Rupert Ballantyne was commentating royalty, but he was also an epic dick weasel. Not just your average douchebag either; he believed he was God’s gift to motor racing, even though he’d never been behind the wheel of any vehicle professionally.
I snorted as I secured myself into my suit. You’d think they’d have the decency to loudly question my talent and integrity somewhere other than in front of the very garage where I was getting ready to race.
Besides, they were so fucking wrong. Brick hadn’t helped me get onto Ryclo at all, not even a little. In fact, he was one of the loudest naysayers about women in NASCAR.
No, my hard work had gotten me here, from racing three-quarter midget cars in the rain when I was six and could barely reach the gas pedal, to fighting my way onto podiums and proving my worth every weekend for as long as I could remember.
It had also been my dad’s hard work, driving cabs on nights and weekends to pay for the thousand things that needed to be bought as I progressed through my career, while legacy kids like Buck Willtot got it all handed to them, as if it was their birthright.
Not that I begrudged Buck his place on the track. He was so talented—and fucking hot, I might add—that it was hard to begrudge him anything, including my body.
Rolling my shoulders back, I pushed down the swelling emotions in my chest. Thoughts of my father made my heart squeeze painfully. He was the reason I was here, driving in the Cup series for the first time, but he wasn’t here. He would never see this moment. It had been five years since he died, and the best way I could make him proud was by going out there and driving like the skilled driver I knew I was.
I repeated the words my therapist had told me for years in my head. My dreams are worthy. I’m making my family proud.
“Tally, let’s go!” one of the mechanics yelled.
I sucked in a deep breath, told myself I was a badass bitch once more, and walked through the garage. Some of the guys slapped me on the back, while Hayes handed me my helmet and the rest of the gear I’d need.
“You got this. Leave everything out on that track and prove to everyone you deserve to be here.” Hayes wasn’t chief mechanic, or anything like that. He was almost as far down the totem pole as I was, but he’d been one of the few who’d gotten friendly enough to give a shit if I won or lost.
I gave him a tight smile, pushing my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “Thanks, Hayes.”
They’d already moved the car out onto the track, and I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. This was it. Either I won this one from the back of the field and got into the playoffs, or I went home.
I smiled and waved at the crowd, though it was more jeers than cheers. Ignoring the negativity, I thought about the fact that out there in that crowd was probably another little Tally Palmer who wanted to drive stock cars, or ride bikes or bulls, or fly fighter jets. I could be someone they looked up to, and I would race for them today.
The team went over all the last-minute details, but my head was already in the race. I was playing scenarios over and over in my mind, and even if they never happened, I had a backup for that backup. I was ready.
We stood for the anthem, and as I watched the fighter jets fly over, I tried to talk myself out of puking. I was shaking so hard that I’d curled my fingers up into my fists and held them tight to my thighs. I couldn’t let anyone see I was rattled, because the other drivers on this track were like sharks; they’d smell my fear, the blood in the water, and it would be all over for me.
Pulling on the head sock that went under my helmet, I looked down the row of cars and drivers, searching for one pair of sparkling blue eyes.
Buck met my gaze and winked at me, and my heart fluttered in my chest. The press called us the Romeo and Juliet of NASCAR, but it wasn’t that serious yet. Maybe one day it could be, though. Buck was everything an All-American NASCAR driver should be—handsome enough to tempt a nun, with that Southern, good ol’ boy charm and a smile that could drop panties. And he fucked like he drove; like getting you to the line first was the only thing that mattered on God’s green earth.
I blew him a kiss, even knowing the cameras would pick it up and probably play it on the late-night recaps of the race. He grabbed it, mimed slapping it onto his cheek, then shoved on his own helmet.
Chuckling softly, I got my head in the game. I could put kisses on those high cheekbones myself later. Dragging myself up and through the window of my car in a maneuver I’d done hundreds of times before, I put on my helmet. The team continued to give me instructions while strapping me in, and I just nodded along. I knew my job. I trusted that they knew theirs too.
“Drivers! Start. Your. Engines.”
