One For The Road

1: Pissed

With a bottle of water in hand, I sat in my chair outside the ladies' restroom. There weren't too many of us in our industry, so there was only a single bathroom in the entire building for us, and every single woman was also categorized right in with me. The engineers, the pit crew workers, and the money of each individual operation, none of them had faces for the public's eye. Only I did.

Did I want that responsibility? Hell no, because there had to be a better face somewhere out there, but we had to roll with what we had. And unfortunately for us, that was me, the only female driver in NASCAR's Cup Series.

I watched as other crew members rushed past, explaining things to each other in terms I could never dream of understanding. All I did was drive the car.

I took a swig of water.

Of course, I had just finished peeing when the NASCAR officials caught me for another mandatory random test for drugs and other fun illegal substances. It was absolutely incredible that they somehow managed to accomplish that feat five fucking weeks in a row.

Important-sounding shoes clicked down the hall, and the most important man around the garage emerged from around the corner.

"Would you like to hear your to-do list for today?" a female voice asked.

"Let's hear it, Rebecca," Mr. Roger Truscott, the team owner and, more importantly, my boss said. He paused when he saw me. "Actually, hold off on the list. Miss Moore, how are you?"

"Well, I'm getting piss-tested again, so the same as usual, I guess," I replied.

"Perhaps if you'd lay off the social web and Snapagram, this wouldn't be a problem for you and your lifestyle," Mr. Truscott said.

He tugged at the cuff of his button-down and revealed the newest addition to his collection of watches, a golden one with a few diamonds integrated in a scattered pattern. Other than the color, every watch he owned looked the same to me, but what did I know about flaunting one's wealth and ego?

I scowled. "I've been clean this whole time, and I'll be clean this time. You know, this is the seventh time this season that I've been randomly selected, and Griffin's been selected exactly zero. I'm not trying to say it's bullshit, but—"

"That's exactly what you're trying to say. Stop complaining and just provide the urine sample, and when you're finished, I need to see you in my office to discuss your car for next week. Rebecca, the list."

He and Rebecca continued their walk down the hall, and Rebecca read from the list. "On your agenda today, you're meeting Griffin about the adjustments he wants on his car from last year's race." Her heels clicked the ground as she continued her list.

If I wasn't tied to the chair until I provided the desired sample, I would have followed him straight down the hall and kicked the self-righteous old man's ass, but that was also a great way to get myself suspended for a few races at the very minimum.

Instead, I was stuck with my stubborn ass bladder and my thoughts.

I let out a sigh.

I wasn't exactly sure what Mr. Truscott wanted to discuss with me about my car, but the conversation usually involved me suggesting improvements and him telling me that I had to deal with what I had. I knew the drill at this point, and I tried not to deviate from the script we had set.

If I could just get one win under my belt, maybe he'd finally give me what I wanted, no questions asked.

I downed the rest of the water bottle in my hand, and I headed into the restroom with my special urine sample cup labeled with masking tape and my name. I hated peeing in those cups since I always managed to get it all over my hand, but rules were rules, even if they were incredibly ridiculous.