Drive

Chapter Two

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.