Tracked by Jenny Martin Page A

The car runs pretty tight, but only a death grip on the wheel keeps me from spinning out of control. I’m banking dangerously close to the wall and it’s time to start praying.
    Please. Please. Hold on. Yes.
    My tires squeal but valiantly grip the track. I’ve managed to keep it together and make the next straightaway. My heart pounds and this glorious feeling builds and expands, radiating from the fist-sized knot in my core, until I’m as weightless as laughter. I smile, because this is what I was made for. This moment. Right or wrong, this is my inheritance.
    Two last white-knuckle turns and I brake hard near the front stretch, engineering a series of hard jolt pirouettes across the blacktop. I spin and spin, but I’m anything but out of control. This is my victory dance.
    At the finish line, I skid to a rubber-melting stop. The crew runs out onto the track.
    Gil says nothing—I know he’s sizing me up and weighing the cost of my reckless speed. Bear and Goose look completely horrified, but I can tell Cash is on my side.
    â€œVanguard?” Cash says. “That was hot.”
    â€œSeem to know your way around a track,” Gil adds.
    Once the engine dies, I punch the six-point release, peel myself off the seat, and slide out of the rig. “Runs great. Spring rate is a little off. I’m tough on tires, so adjust the camber. That’s about it.”
    I walk off the track. I don’t have to look—I can hear the sound of their jaws dropping.

    After we drive back to Benroyal’s high-rise, I expect Auguste to drop us off, but he takes the elevator up with us. “You tucking us in tonight?” I tease him.
    â€œNo, no,” he says. “The fitting. I take no chances. I must make sure the couturi ères are precise.”
    I’m not sure about courti-whatsits, but fitting is definitely an ominous word. I don’t like the sound of this at all. Maybe they’re just measuring me for my crew gear? That’s what I tell myself, until I catch Bear’s uncomfortable foot-to-foot shuffle. Something is up, and he knows it.
    â€œI’m sure Phee is going to love this,” Cash says. “All the dresses and stylists. The shoes. And the hair extensions. Just think of all the super-fun possibilities.”
    I am no one’s dress-up doll. I turn on Auguste, my manager/white-trouser-wearing yacht captain. “What?!”
    Goose rolls his eyes and waves Cash off. “Pay no attention to him, he is joking.”
    â€œGood. He better be,” I say. I’m so worn out from our whirlwind day at Racing HQ, I don’t appreciate the heart attack.
    â€œDon’t be absurd,” Auguste chides. “You won’t meet the hair stylists until tomorrow.”

    In my apartment, someone has tidied up. All traces of last night’s brawl are gone. The broken table has been replaced and the breakfast dishes I left out have been washed and put away. It seems my corporate prison term includes maid service.
    Honestly, at this point, I don’t really care who was here, messing with my stuff. I’m more concerned with who is here, messing with me now. I’m ready to tell everyone good night and good riddance. Of course, Auguste will have none of it. Every time I protest, he threatens to schedule additional fittings, and just this one is horrifying enough.
    Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t so many people eyeballing me. Including Cash—I cannot get him to leave. When he and Bear aren’t exchanging threatening looks, he’s gushing with running commentary on each and every outfit the stylists throw at me. At least, I think these two vultures are stylists. For all I know, Phillip, the man in the purple suit, is really the devil and Bijan, the fabric- swatch-bearing bimbo at his side, is his favorite harpy.
    I stand here, and I can’t help staring at the creamy throw rug covered with a lifetime’s worth of