Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 1: Lauren (2 of 2)

We use the special access entry here too and break off from the crowd to take a pedestrian tunnel right under the track's longest straight. We come up on the other side by the pit building, which has the team garages on the bottom level and—per the signs—VIP lounges on top.

"We're meeting Nigel Clark at Race Control, but you go ahead to the Paddock Club. We'll catch up with you there," Dad shouts above the sound of revving engines. They've been quiet up until now, and the change means the start of the first race is getting close.

My eyes dart around the paddock—filled with more official-types than spectators—and my heart rate spikes just like it does before I take my place on the starting grid when competing. I know I promised not to poke around the garages until the paperwork was done, but that was before the sweet smell of racing exhaust hit my nose. I give Dad a quick fist bump and nod. "Okay, but I'm going to find a place down here to change first."

"I'm sure there are better facilities—"

"You want me to make a good first impression, right?" I cut him off and point to my sweatpants and tee combo, already having expected the objection. Of course I could change anywhere including the lounge's restroom. I just wanted an excuse to stick around down here a bit longer. Reaching up, I smooth out the collar of his light blue polo shirt. The color is totally on point against his dark complexion. "I'll just pop into the nearest ladies' room before heading up."

"For god's sakes, Marcus." Celia throws up her hands. "Let her be and get on with it."

"Fine," he relents with a half smile. "But be good."

I grin. "Always."

I'm not lying. I have every intention of being good. Just a quick peek into the garages before changing, then I'll happily join the elite few who've either received comped tickets from sponsors or paid a premium for the privilege of watching the day's races in catered—and air-conditioned—luxury.

But fate appears to have other ideas, and most of the back doors to the pit boxes are closed. I'm able to sneak a glance into one of the Spanish team's garages until I accidentally see a rider adjust himself in his leathers. After I low-key catch him with his hand down his pants, we exchange a quick smile-and-nod, and I duck out.

I'm ready to give up and follow the signs to the nearest bathroom when a mechanic in a yellow and black Cadmium Racing team shirt enters the adjacent pit box. Bingo! Technically, my pass allows me to be here, but as I follow the man inside, a little Dad-shaped angel appears on my shoulder, and he doesn't look happy. When I remember I'm standing in one of the world's premier racing garages, my moment of guilt disappears with a proverbial poof along with the Marcus Nance-looking manifestation of my conscience.

Holy shit, I'm actually here.

I take a deep breath before exhaling. I really don't want to cry, but I'm tearing up from joy.

If he saw my reaction, my adoptive dad would probably forgive me for not quite following his request. If he were alive today, my biological dad would be flipping out, but for different reasons. While Marcus got into this sport for me, I got into it for Nick Dimas. He not only rode—not competitively, just as a hobby—but he also followed the local races. There are plenty of pictures in our suburban San Jose house of him shaking hands with all the major riders on the US circuit from fifteen and even twenty years ago. His sweet smile at the chance to meet his idols in each one inspires me every time I look at them.

A lump forms in my throat at a bittersweet thought. The funny thing—not 'ha-ha' funny, more like ironic funny—is that if he and Mom hadn't died, I probably wouldn't even be here today. Not as a future team member, anyway. Mom was too protective to ever have let me get on a motorcycle, much less race one. But Marcus had no such reservations. Or at least he didn't voice them when I had asked to give it a try. And look where I am now!