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“Twelve seconds, Bodhi. It’ll take the guys twelve seconds to change out the tires, and then you can get back out there.”
Nine laps left.
“Not gonna happen, old man,” I say, holding the gas pedal to the floorboard and steering into the first turn.
“You stubborn ass, headstrong, pain in my hind end,” he grumbles. “Your daddy is gonna have your ass. You know that, right?”
“Doesn’t he always?”
My dad, Thompson Kane, is the owner of Kane’s Racing, and my boss. He inherited the company after my grandpa retired, and I guess it’ll get passed on to me once he retires. I guess I should say if he retires. Not that I’m counting on it. I don’t really care either way; I don’t want to run a company he only allowed me to be a part of because my brother couldn’t be anymore.
This was always Tommy’s dream, not mine.
Lacey banks left, hugging the line as we sail through turn two. All I have to do is get around Marcus and—
“Shit!” I curse as the front right tire blows.
I grip the wheel hard and fight to keep it straight as my car spins out into the grass.
“Bodhi, are you good?” I hear Art call over the headset.
“Son of a bitch!”
The car slides to a stop about fifty feet from the track. I jab my finger over the release button on my belt and start throwing the straps away from me, pulling myself out of the car.
“Bodhi?”
“I had her, Art. I fucking had her!” I rage, ripping the helmet from my head and throwing it at my feet.
“Kid, will you answer me?” Art’s voice echoes in the earpiece that’s now hanging halfway off my head.
“What?” I shout, kicking my helmet for good measure, and I just know the fucking camera guy got that one on film.
“Are. You. Okay?” He repeats each word slowly, like I’m a child or something, which only makes me that much more pissed off.
“Jesus, yes, I’m fine.”
A tow truck and a medic make their way over. I wave off the EMT. I’m not hurt, just fucking infuriated. They hook my car up and haul it out just as the race ends.
She fucking won again.
I don’t know how she does it. Every damn time. This girl is unbeatable, and it boggles my mind.
I’d be lying if I said that shit didn’t bruise my ego, but hell, I ran the damn street circuit before this. I was un-fucking-touchable. But then I got here, and they have all these rules and regulations. Then there are these suits that they require drivers to wear… how does anyone move in them? I understand the purpose, but damn, they are uncomfortable.
I’ve never understood the fascination with this sport. Don’t get me wrong, I love to race. It’s in my DNA. But not this five-hundred laps in a circle for hours at a time bullshit. What is so fun about following the same group of assholes around and around and around?
On the streets, you are given the opportunity to prove not only yourself, but your car as well, and you only get about five minutes to do it. Not to mention, you have to take care of your car yourself. Rather than someone your owner hires to assemble your car and two others like it. Where is the passion in that?
I hitch a ride on the back of the tow truck and have them drop me off with the crew.
None of them make eye contact with me, and it’s just as well. One smart-ass comment and I’m liable to lose my shit again.
I don’t even give them a chance to stop before I’m hopping off and walking across the pits toward my crew.
“Boss man wants to see you,” Art says, gesturing behind him with a nod of his head.
“Of course he does. Not like this could wait until later,” I grumble to myself as I head back to get my ass chewed.
