Banging Wheels by Natalie Banks Page B

marshal posts. She settled into a rhythm, and then began closing in on Daniels, the spray pelting her as she got nearer. She was driving blind, by instinct almost, hoping to heck that he wouldn’t lose his nerve and brake too soon. It was almost impossible to overtake in conditions such as this, but she’d never let that stop her trying. This was what had got her so far in the first place.
    The spray ahead lightened suddenly as she approached a turn. Sam Daniels had missed his braking point and was tiptoeing around the outside of the corner, trying desperately not to slide off the track. Callie took her chance to pass, squeezing the throttle as much as she dared, the back-end of the car threatening to step out and throw her into oblivion at every moment. They exited the corner neck and neck, meaning it was a drag race down to the next corner, but she had the inside line. Sam fought for as long as was sensible, then gracefully gave way. He was a bit of a soft touch, that Daniels character, but you could trust him not to screw things up for the both of you.
    So much of motor racing is about trust. Trust in the other person’s ability, sure, but trust in the other person’s intentions, too. When you make the pass, and it’s obvious you’ve got the upper hand, the other driver has two options: they can let you pass or they can screw it up for both of you. Daniels was the former. Unfortunately, someone much closer to home was the latter.
    For the first time in the race, Callie had clear visibility. A plume of water some way down the road was the next target, but she had to catch him first. Was it Drake, or was it Sergio? Hard to tell at this range. Neither of them were easy customers. Sergio was a tough son-of-a-bitch to pass; she knew that from watching the rerun of the previous race. But it was Drake who would be the real problem.
    She got in her flow and started putting in clean laps, and slowly began to reel in the car ahead. It would be a strange thing to do for anyone but a racing driver. You’re safe and comfortable and doing fine, and yet you go out hunting for the danger and the peril, because you’re a driven person. And driven she was. Third place wasn’t good enough for Callie. Nor was second. It was first every time. She found it hard to explain to her friends, but she wanted to win, dammit. She wasn’t a good loser.
    Finally, she reached the spray of the car ahead, and started having to look sideways again, driving way out of her comfort zone. As they turned the corner she got a flash of the livery — it was Drake — but this just confirmed what she’d already worked out. He had this smooth, flowing style that she could tell from a mile away. He never braked too hard, never threw the car about, never veered — well, except when she was trying to pass him. She thought about his hands running down the curves of her body, about him kissing his way back up the middle. She thought about that glint in those gorgeous eyes of his that betrayed his humanity. It was like there were two different Drakes. Or one of them was a damn big facade.
    This was going to be trouble, but she had to go for it. Go for the pass or go home. The one benefit she had was that of the element of surprise — Drake’s mirrors would be as full of spray as her own were. Finally, as they came into the hairpin bend, he glanced over and clocked her presence. It changed little — all the momentum was with Callie. Right in his spray, she pressed and pressed, trying to force him into an error. The margins were so tight, and there was no room for mistakes. Drake changed his driving style to be more defensive in nature, meaning he went slower, but was harder to pass. Callie knew she’d have to try something different. She noticed that every time they went into the last corner, he took it deliberately slowly to force her to back off. So instead she pre-empted him. She backed right off first, then accelerated through.
    “Got you now!”
    As she