#Swag (GearShark #3) by Cambria Hebert Page B

and at night, my lips tingled with the memory of her kiss.
    I’d acted like an asshole during the interview. She just dug so deep beneath my skin it made me crazy. Hearing her talk about the way men treated her in this sport made me angry, but then I’d gone and done the exact same thing.
    It did what I intended. To push her away. To get that distance back between us, that line of separation drawn in the sand.
    I hated to admit it.
    In fact, it was just one more thing to be embarrassed about.
    Figured I should just get it all out here and now. ‘Cause I didn’t plan on being embarrassed ever again.
    Kissing her scared me.
    It was like a piece of her reached down deep and grabbed a piece of me. I wasn’t one of those guys who scoffed at love. I didn’t not believe in it.
    I knew it existed.
    I also knew it could twist you up and hurt you.
    I didn’t have time for any of that. My focus was my career. And my brother.
    I didn’t have room for anyone else.
    But I came in third.
    Fuuuck.
    No one else seemed to think my placing sucked as big ass as me. My pit crew cheered and congratulated me. I smiled and accepted it, and I thanked them for the shit they did to keep me on the track.
    Ted Bayer called. I’d expected a scathing review of my performance. He, too, was positive. Third place was still at the top. It was good advertisement and promo for Brickstone.
    I promised him I’d step it up.
    He didn’t seem worried.
    I was.
    Arrow knew, though. With him, I could be real. I let him see the frustration in my eyes for a few seconds before banking it and stepping back into my big brother shoes.
    The pit crew was packed up and just pulled out. My car (a cherry-red modified Chevy) was packed up and driven out. It would meet me at the next race, which was next week in Colorado.
    The stands were empty, and the grounds were a lot quieter than they’d been just an hour before. I was still wearing my coveralls, covered in logos, most of them the Brickstone Tire image. Underneath, I was sweating and tired. I wanted a shower and a beer. Not necessarily in that order.
    I want to see her.
    I wanted to apologize, but apologies weren’t really something I was very good at. I didn’t have much practice. I usually never cared when I pissed someone off.
    Thing was I didn’t think she should be racing with us. It wasn’t because I was sexist either. It’s because this was a dangerous, risky sport. And truthfully, she’d been right. The men didn’t want a woman on the track. What kind of life did that give her?
    I’d seen her reaction when asked about the hazing.
    She gave the politically correct response.
    A lie.
    I bet her daddy didn’t know what those peckerheads probably did to her on a daily basis.
    In my lap, my hand clenched. She wasn’t my problem. Her father was Ron Gamble, for Chrissakes. And she packed a hell of a hit, even with an open palm.
    Joey made it more than clear she could take care of herself.
    And she was a good driver. I’d looked at her stats, even watched a race (or two) she’d been in. I shouldn’t have told her she couldn’t hack it. She could. I just wanted to get under her skin the way she was under mine.
    The sound of a familiar engine revved behind me, and I turned. Forrester’s cobalt-blue Fastback pulled to a stop, and the doors popped open.
    “Wanted to congratulate you on your win,” Drew said, coming toward me.
    I gave him the finger.
    He guffawed. “Seriously, that was some nice driving out there. Mahone seriously wanted around you, but you held him off.”
    “Mahone,” I spat.
    Drew laughed.
    I glanced at him and then at Trent, who was standing close by. He was wearing a bright-yellow shirt with Drew’s car number (forty-five) on the front.
    “Congrats, man,” Trent said.
    They were serious.
    “Must be easy to hand out congratulations when you’re number one,” I said, looking out over the track.
    “Home track advantage,” Drew said. “I won’t be number one in every