Drive

Chapter Two

SAVANNAH

Showtime. Well, not exactly. It was only practice. But every practice needed to be perfect, at least for me. This was the final run at the test track before the season opener in Monte Carlo, and my heart practically raced in time with the RPMs coming from the gleaming white car.

I pulled on a white helmet and adjusted the strap under my chin until my head was safe and snug inside. Snapping the visor into place, I knelt between two men, one of whom was holding a tire. I picked up the pneumatic wheel gun, and it was heavy and comfortable in my hands.

Finally. It felt amazing to be in the pits, the roar of the engine echoing in my head. I'd spent the last three weeks here at the Eagle headquarters, mostly doing boring onboarding with Human Resources during week one. Life had gotten more exciting in week two, when I'd shadowed crew members from the team's other car. After all this, I was assigned to Dante Annunziata's crew and had recently learned the fascinating—and highly confidential—technical aspects of his vehicle from the engineers.

Fun fact: the steering wheel for the car on the track cost close to a hundred grand. It was made of carbon fiber and silicone, and controlled up to forty functions for the vehicle.

And now, it was time for me to control my own destiny.

Everyone was clad in identical white, fire-retardant jumpsuits, with heavy black gloves and boots. Not to mention the white helmets, which made us look like aliens. Even the most ardent of racing fans wouldn't be able to tell I was a different gender—the other tire changers were also trim, small, and nimble. Sure, maybe I was a bit shorter than the rest, but I didn't feel like I stood out.

Giorgio, the tire carrier next to me, gave a thumbs-up, and I responded in kind. He flipped up his visor.

"Che calor," he yelled, and I recognized his words as Italian, something about the heat, because I'd been studying the language for the last month in preparation for my first practice with the team. I wanted so much to be accepted by them, and each time anyone talked to me, I tried to be super pleasant. 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 internship 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."