Braking Points (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

After Jack swore us to secrecy, I spent a good portion of the night pondering the size of the chip on Felix's shoulder about female drivers, instead of sleeping. The next morning, I retained feelings of horror and sympathy for the young man, even if I despised the choices he made as an adult.

After a workout in the hotel gym, I met Juliana at a breakfast café. We hugged hello and went inside to be seated.

“I felt like a ghoul, doing that interview.” She smoothed her napkin across her lap.

“It's your job. Besides, it was about Ellie more than me.”

She looked up from the menu. “Until the end.”

“That's why I called, to see if you could help me with something. How well do you know Felix?” Hearing Jack's story changed my approach only slightly.

“Not well. I shadowed him to learn the ropes at SGTV for five races.”

“We don't get along—that's no surprise—and I don't know why, but I'd like to change that. I don't like someone being mad at me, and it does me no good for the outlet covering our races to hate me. I was hoping you'd talk to him, find out why he feels that way—possibly mediate a cease fire?” The idea of being conciliatory irked me, but for the sake of my career and my team, playing nice with the media was vital.

Juliana smiled and reached across the table to pat one of my hands. “I'm happy to see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I also need to find out why the Racing's Ringer dislikes me so much—don't suppose you have pull there?”

We laughed as the waiter approached to take our order, and then we chatted about our plans for the off-season. She'd be covering events and developing features to use throughout the coming year's broadcasts, as well as finding a house in Charlotte, North Carolina, near SGTV headquarters. I'd be lining up rides for the next season, fulfilling commitments for Beauté, and going home to my grandparents.

“Where do you want to end up, Kate? I remember your dream was Formula 1.”

“And you were going to be the first woman to win the Indy 500.”

Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “That wasn't in the cards, apparently.”

“You've had amazing experiences, though. And you're so good at what you do.”

“That's sweet of you to say, Kate.” Her face lightened, and she raised an eyebrow. “Did you know my mother used you to encourage me? If I was tired, didn't want to do another practice lap, didn't want to study my racing books, she'd tell me, ‘If you don't, Kate Reilly will come right in and steal your wins. She'll take your victories. She'll get all the podium glory and press coverage.'”

My jaw dropped. “Good grief, Jules, I'd never—”

“It wasn't about you, silly. It was about my mother inspiring me to be better. She knew saying ‘Be the best,' wouldn't be as effective as saying, ‘Kate is better than you.'”

“Still. I'm sorry?”

She laughed. “You had to be true to yourself, and so did I. We were competitors. It didn't stop us being friends then, and it won't stop us being friends now. Deal?”

“Deal.” I recognized Jules was the same victim of a relentless parent as Felix—fortunately, with less bitter consequences.

She smiled. “Good. We need to hold on to our friendship this time. For us and for Ellie.”

“I can't get over the fact she's gone.” I signaled to the waiter that I'd finished my omelet, and we both accepted coffee.

“Her poor kids—it's tragic. Have the police come up with any information?”

“I haven't heard. I've been meaning to call them again and ask.”

“Have you received other threats?”

I nodded. “I'm not sure how many, since I turned my e-mail account over to my PR people after the first death threat.”

“Kate, no!”

“NASCAR fans, I assume. The messages I opened referenced Miles. Otherwise, a car nearly ran me down after our interview the other day.”

She gasped and reached for my hand. “Was it deliberate?”

“I was rattled from losing my temper at Felix, so I don't know—but the driver did run a red light.”

“What did the police think?”

“We couldn't describe the car well. They can't do much.”

“It's been a hell of a week for you, hasn't it, Kate?”

I huffed a laugh. “You could say that.”

“Promise me you'll let me know if anything else happens or if there's something I can do, besides talking to Felix.”

“You could tell me who was near the table at Siebkens while you were alone there. Or anyone you remember seeing that night.”

“Aren't the police doing that?”

“I'm trying to cross-reference with people in Atlanta this weekend.”

“I chatted a minute with Scott Brooklyn, also with Stuart. Felix blew past, looking surly as usual. Zeke Andrews and a tired-looking woman—his wife?—walked through the room but only paused a moment.” She thought more. “A couple drivers and crew I could pick out of a lineup, but that's about it.”

I jotted new names on the back of a receipt in my purse. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“For payment, tell me about you and Stuart.”

I kept my groan to myself. “Not much to the story.”

“Liar. I see the way you look at each other. There's something there.”

“It's complicated, and the thing with Ellie is weird.”

“That he found her?”

“That they'd been engaged.” I saw the surprise on her face. “You didn't know either? I thought you and Ellie stayed in touch.”

Juliana shook her head. “We'd only reconnected a week before the Road America race, when she called me out of the blue.”

“Yes, Stuart and Ellie were engaged, and she broke it off. I'm not sure how I feel—and I don't have spare energy now for more drama.”

“I understand. Forget I asked.”

“What about you, Jules? Any husbands or boyfriends?”

Her expression turned mischievous. “I've been seeing someone recently who makes my heart go pitty-pat, but I'm still toying with him.”

“Not sure you like him enough?”

“I like him plenty, but it's early days. I've got to be careful he's not just using me to get a job.” She saw my frown and went on. “I'm teasing, though he is out in the cold this year with the change from SPEED to SGTV.”

“Scott Brooklyn? I'm doing an interview with him tomorrow.” I'd gotten word that Lily and Matt had set a time for us.

“I left the Tavern that night to meet him—though he was annoyed I waited to say goodbye to you two and didn't go with him.”

That explained his glowering expression.

Juliana smiled. “Over wine some night, I'll tell you about the country singer and the NFL running back I dated. You won't believe the entourages, drama, and big hair.”

I promised to take her up on that as we left the café. We were outside next to our cars when Juliana stopped me with a hand on my arm. “One other thing. Is your contract settled with Jack for next year?”

“Not yet, why?”

She hesitated. “I hate to add to your troubles, but I heard a rumor he might not want you to return.”

I had to look down to verify there was still ground under my feet.

“It was only a whisper,” she said. “No idea if it's true. But supposedly with your ideas of doing the 24 Hours of Daytona, Le Mans, some other races, maybe he's not happy. Wants you focused on his team?”

Because I wrecked? But I'm bringing money and exposure from Beauté. And Mike does other races. Was that why Jack looked so strange when I asked him about other drivers last night—because he's working on replacing me?

Juliana hugged me, her voice muffled. “I'm sorry. I figured you'd rather know.”

I patted her back and extricated myself, focused on breathing, made myself smile. “You're right, thanks. I'll see you later at the track.”

I got to my car as quickly as possible. Kept breathing. Waved at Juliana as she pulled out of the lot. Pounded my steering wheel a couple times.
Really? I needed one more thing to go wrong now?

Fine. I'd deal with this, too.

 

Chapter Twenty-six

I arrived at Road Atlanta by eleven o'clock, refusing to let fears about job security take root in my imagination. We had a big day ahead, including our first practice session and a visit by a group of pink-clad VIPs. I was surprised when the “two representatives each from BCRF and Beauté” I'd been told to expect included the heads of both organizations—Beauté's CEO, Lindsay Eastwood, and BCRF's executive director, Jessica Whitmore, along with their heads of marketing.

“@katereilly28: Ready to give Beauté and BCRF reps a tour of my #racing world. The #ALMS paddock goes pink for breast cancer awareness!”

I introduced everyone to Tom, who was driving the six-seater golf cart I'd borrowed from the Series, and we headed back down the hill from the parking area. Once on flat ground, he rolled slowly through the paddock, dodging race fans whose attention was focused on racecars, not golf carts.

Our team space sat in the middle of the front row of garages facing the pits, halfway between Pit Out at one end and Pit In, the Winner's Circle, and Series trailers at the other. I stood out front with the four women to explain the physical setup of pits and paddock, as well as what happened in each space. I also covered the structure of the race and the weekend itself: different classes of cars competing on the same track for overall and class wins, multiple drivers sharing a racecar, technical inspections, practice and qualifying sessions, and the race itself.

The Beauté marketing director looked up from a small notepad. “What makes this race so special, Kate?”

“Petit Le Mans is based on the granddaddy endurance race of them all, the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in France. More than a decade ago, Don Panoz decided to run this race, and then he turned it into a series.”

“Of course, Petit or
little
Le Mans,” Lindsay said.

I nodded. “It's ten hours or a thousand miles, whichever comes first, and it's one of the major endurance races worldwide. Winning your class guarantees you an invitation to race at Le Mans. We want to win Petit for a lot of reasons.”

Lindsay cast an eye down the paddock, then looked from Tom to me. “Can you?”

“Anything can happen on any day,” I said. “We're not always the fastest in our class, but the Corvette racecar is solid and reliable. Our team works incredibly hard. Simply finishing is a big deal—that's a marathon in itself. Any spot on the podium would be a major accomplishment.”

“Would you go to Le Mans if you won?” That was Jessica, the BCRF director.

Tom spoke up. “Jack's considered it. We've been eligible in the past, but he's never gone—it's quite an expense and undertaking. He hasn't said no for next year. Like Kate said, anything can happen.”

“Who's ready to get in the car?” I led them to the garage side of our setup and introduced them to Jack and Mike. The rest of the crew kept to the background, looking amused at the influx of femininity.

The door was off the car, offering an unobstructed view of the tube-frame, molded seat, and interior. I explained how to climb in, demonstrating once, and Lindsay got in first. I leaned across her to take the steering wheel from its ceiling hook and snap it into place on the column, as well as explain the functions of the buttons and switches she saw. Then we took photos of her before she climbed out.

Tom went to fetch my helmet and HANS, at my request. After he helped Lindsay put them on, he spoke quietly to me. “Check the chinstraps. One seemed loose.”

I nodded and continued my explanation. “Your helmet is tethered to the bit of the HANS standing up like a collar behind your neck, so your neck can't move beyond a limited range. Instead, the HANS transfers the force of any impact—that might otherwise give you whiplash or worse—to the braces on your shoulders and the rest of your torso. The seatbelts also go on top of the HANS on your shoulders, which minimizes violent movement even further.”

I helped the last woman take the helmet off and pulled the HANS away with it. As Jack stepped forward with team hats for each of them, I felt for my chinstrap. Tom was right, the webbed strap on the right moved too much. I turned the helmet over and found the material almost severed.

“Kate, joining us?” Jack gestured at the four women entering the team's transport trailer.

“Right there.” I crossed to Aunt Tee, who sat near the motorhome. “My chinstrap's split. Can you run down to the helmet guys and get them to fix it before practice today?” Stand 21, one of the two main suppliers of safety gear to Series participants, operated a combination storefront and repair shop in the paddock.

“Of course, I'll do it right now.”

I hesitated before putting it in her hands. “Don't give it to anyone else. And keep the strap.”

“What—”

“I'd like to see it. I owe you one.” I scooted into the transport trailer.

For the next two hours, the women in pink and I met with Sandham Swift (Jack and Tom) and the ALMS (Stuart and two marketing minions) to discuss how the team and Series could support BCRF and Beauté. Jack's talk of possible promotions next year gave me hope Juliana's rumor was incorrect. In the end, all parties were excited about opportunities to reach new audiences for their products—whether makeup, racing, or cancer awareness.

All four women thanked me lavishly as Tom prepared to whisk them back to their cars. Before she got in the golf cart, Lindsay made a point of telling me her door, or phone line, was always open if I needed advice—from one woman in a man's world to another.

“But…” I looked past her to the other women.

“Even in a beauty products company, the business side of things—like our board of directors—is primarily male. I have an idea what you're dealing with. But you've got the goods.” She gave my hand a quick squeeze and left with the others.

As I watched the golf cart set off down the paddock, I noticed a young woman on the other side of the lane looking from the retreating golf cart to me. She nodded at me and crossed through the moving crowd.

She approached, a hand extended. “Kate, I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Colby Lascuola. I'm running World Challenge this year.”

“Great to meet you, Colby. I've heard good things.”

We shook hands, sizing each other up. She was a couple years younger than me, an inch shorter, slim, and fit. A sunshine blonde with long, straight hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looked like she meant business, and her handshake confirmed it. We smiled at the same time, breaking the tension we both must have felt. I liked her.

“I hear they insult you and call you the new me.” I put my hands to my hips. “I hope you tell them I'm the old you.”

“Something like that.” She laughed. “I've heard worse, you know?”

“Me, too.”

She gestured in the direction of the golf cart. “Was that a group from Beauté?”

“And the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, yes. They were here for a tour.”

“Thought so. Congratulations on getting that. I hoped they'd pick me.”

“You knew about it? The first I heard was when they offered it to me.”

“My management company told me Beauté was asking about me.” She shrugged. “I wasn't supposed to know.”

“Sorry you didn't get it.”

She laughed again. “No, you're not. I'm not worried. Something else will come along.”

I didn't doubt her, because she was pretty, engaging, and well-spoken, besides being a good driver. With a management company. I might look into one of those.

“Colby, were you in Atlanta Saturday night? Did I see you outside Ray's in the City?”

“Yes, but that couldn't have been me. Dom—my brother, Dominic—dragged me to a place called Sweet Georgia's Juke Joint. Good food.”

“I'll check it out.” I'd have to look up where that was, to see how close she and her brother had been to me.

We chatted another minute about our races this weekend, wishing each other well, then exchanged contact information before she took off down the paddock. I was glad I'd met her.

I looked at my watch: 2:20. More than an hour until practice. I found Mike, Tom, Leon, Aunt Tee, sandwiches, and fruit inside the motorhome.

Aunt Tee pointed to my helmet, sitting on the kitchenette's table. “They fixed the strap, checked it over. I haven't let it out of my sight.”

I let out a breath, releasing tension I hadn't been aware of. “Thank you.”

“But Kate…” She glanced at the others.

“You boys,” I addressed them. “Don't go running to the Ringer with this.”

Tom shook his head, his mouth full of sandwich.

“You always ruin our fun, mom,” Mike whined.

Aunt Tee drew the strap from her pocket and showed me the clean edges of the split in the webbing. “They said it was cut.”

I sagged down onto a couch next to Tom. “And no telling who did it.” During daylight hours, my helmet sat on a table at the rear of the hospitality space—not out of sight, but out of focus. Anyone with a legitimate reason to be in our area could have gotten to it.

Aunt Tee nodded. “Every time I turned around the last two days, there was someone new here—and the crew didn't notice anything, unfortunately.”

“Who do you remember seeing?”

She handed me a tuna sandwich and rattled off names that included Stuart, Holly, Leon's father, Zeke and his wife, an SGTV camera crew, Scott Brooklyn, Felix, Juliana, a couple fans she recognized as such but didn't know the names of, and “that bank representative and another young man in a suit,” which had to be my father and a colleague. No way to know who did the deed—though Felix's name stood out.

“I'll store everything in here this weekend,” she decided.

“Sure. Though I think the target was me alone.”

Tom stood up, capping his water bottle. “I'll help bring stuff in. But isn't cutting a strap a pointless thing to do? You'd be sure to notice it. It seems petty. Flailing.”

“Kid's got a point.” Mike pointed at Tom with his half-eaten banana.

I shrugged and kept eating my sandwich as Mike and Leon talked about the car and the track. I was eager to think about driving, to prepare for practice.

Tom and Aunt Tee returned, their arms full of helmets and firesuits from the racks outside. Jack followed, carrying a single suit. Mine. With slashes down the front and stuffing spilling out.

“This has gone far enough,” he growled.

I felt sick.