One For The Road - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

When I first signed my big-league contract, I didn't know a damn thing about Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where Roger Truscott set up his headquarters for his racing team. It was an odd choice, given that most teams set up shop in Charlotte, North Carolina, but Mr. Truscott had only one functioning brain cell, so I tried not to blame him too much.
Griffin lived in a well-off but not ritzy neighborhood, and naturally, I found myself there too, either in his house or in mine just down the street. At first, he didn't appreciate my constant presence, but he quickly got over it when I began to bring him whatever food the health gods deemed ideal that day.
Although it was always hot as hell, I didn't mind Baton Rouge. Everyone I cared for was there, after all.
Right before I could head home, though, I had to run a few simulation laps at the Talladega track before we left the following afternoon. A lot of older drivers didn't believe that simulations were actually beneficial when it came to the real race, but they had years of experience on a twenty-five-year-old like me. I had raced everywhere at least once, but if there was one track that had my number ninety-five, it was fucking Talladega. I spent the afternoon virtually wrecking myself.
I wiped the tears of frustration off my face, then headed to Griffin's place. He always had some sort of sweet junk food in his house, but he never ate it. He was far too into his healthy lifestyle for that, and in terms of his body, it paid off. He looked good, he knew it, and he got more ass than a toilet seat.
He kept the junk food there to keep me as sane as possible. And I enjoyed some Oreos and Doritos until I had my interview with the hosts of NASCAR Tonight. Since we didn't have our HQ in Charlotte, I always got to call rather than talk in person, and I had to be careful because nonverbal communication didn't exactly show through a telephone.
Damn, did I have a hot take for them.
"Hey, do you know where—oh, shit. Are you about to do your thing?" Griffin asked as he walked into the guest bedroom. With the last-minute party preparations (or a lack thereof) taking place, I locked myself away for just a second, but I could never escape from Griffin.
I nodded. "Could you get me a drink?"
"Sure. I'll be back in a second," he said.
I smiled. I had the phone pressed to my ear, and as soon as they came back from the commercial on television, they'd be ready to listen to me talk.
I had to do this kind of shit a lot more than a male driver with the same number of wins (a whopping fucking zero) as me, but I didn't mind it entirely. Interviews were a lot of fun as long as the questions were interesting, and I had a knack for coming up with even more interesting answers.
Griffin poked his head into the room again and held out a drink poured in a red solo cup to me. "Here."
I took a sip of it, but instead of the bitter taste I loved, it was some acidic shit. "What is this?"
"Vitamin water. It's good for you."
"It tastes like fucking battery acid. God." I took another sip. "Could you mix it with vodka and—"
"No. You can't show up hungover to work tomorrow," Griffin interrupted.
"Then how do you expect me to have a good time at your party?"
"Make a new friend. I have a hot engineer on my team. I'll introduce you if you want."
I rolled my eyes. "I don't need any more friends. I can barely handle having one, and I disappoint you every single day of my life."
I heard a few voices on the other end of the phone, and I shooed Griffin away with a flick of the wrist. He took the hint and made his way out of the room, and I turned my attention back to the phone just in time.
"Thank you for joining us tonight, Katie," one of the hosts said.
I couldn't tell any of the three hosts apart by the way they sounded on the phone, so I ignored the names and replied, "Thanks for having me."
"So, the Talladega race is this Sunday, and we're all still waiting on a win from the Xfinity Series former champ. Do you think this could be the week?"
I smiled, even though they couldn't see it. "I don't know. It's always a tough track, especially for me, and you can't ever really predict what's going to happen. It always feels like half the cars wreck out of the race, and I'm usually one of them, so we'll see."
"Given the rough history you have there, is it an emotionally difficult track for you?"
Of course, they had to mention that. I could never make it to Talladega without reliving that.
"I think a lot of people in my situation would try to say that it doesn't bother them, but that's just not possible. When you think that your life is over at a certain place, it's hard to pretend that it's just another race. I'll admit that, yeah," I said.
"Well, we wish you all the best this weekend," the host said. "We actually have a few fan-submitted questions for you as well, so let's get started on those. Jake M. from Facebook wants to know if you feel like there's more that you have to prove as a female driver."
"It depends on what you mean, I guess. I don't have to prove anything to myself, since I know I'm a damn good driver. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. And the other drivers treat me just the same as anyone else, which is what I expected from them. I get along with some of them, and there are some that I would wreck just for fun. But for some reason, I have to prove to the officials and my team owner that I'm not a drug addict over and over again," I said.
I said it, and it felt damn good. It could only feel better if I kept talking.
"I don't know what they're trying to find, PEDs, cocaine, whatever, but it's ridiculous. Five weeks in a row, I've had to take the drug test. Seven weeks in total this season. I don't know who's responsible for this, but I want an answer," I continued.
I was right. It felt even better.
"You realize what you're saying, right?" one of the hosts asked.
"Yep. I thought about it all day. I'm fed up. I really am. If they want the truth about me, I smoked a joint one time at a Tom Petty concert when I was seventeen. Next question," I said.
The hosts hesitated for a moment, but the silence on the line spoke volumes. "That's all we have time for, unfortunately. Thanks for coming onto the show."
"Thank you for having me," I said, but I was sure they cut me off before I could do any more damage to NASCAR and Roger Truscott Racing. I had a hell of a lot more that I could have said about RTR, but I could always save that for a different day.
As my phone screen flashed call ended, I stared at it for a moment. I could only tolerate so much, and seven piss tests was far from that zone.
I headed back downstairs to the main party level of Griffin's house, and as he got a tray of pretzels and vegetables ready, he had the TV on in the background. There was a car insurance commercial on the screen, but it would have been ridiculous of me to hope that it was anything besides NASCAR Tonight, so I didn't even bother asking.
He looked up at me as I crept into the kitchen, and instead of saying anything about my interview, he held out a carrot stick for me.
I took it. "Thanks. I finished the playlist for your party."
Huh. I expected him to at least say something about my colorful comments.
"Perfect." He turned off the TV and took my phone to scroll through the select jams that made the cut. "I was serious about that engineer earlier, though. I think you two would totally hit it off."
"I don't really feel like it tonight," I said.
"What?" Griffin blinked a couple times. "Katie Moore doesn't feel like hooking up?"
"No, she doesn't. She already got fucked by Talladega simulations and Roger Truscott, so she's good for the night."
Griffin laughed. "Here, just take her number anyway. Her name is Shannon."
He scribbled down a phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
"Shannon? That's my therapist's—" I looked at the number. "Why does she have an Akron area code?"
"Oh my god, maybe you're both from Ohio. What an icebreaker."
I took in a breath. My therapist was the last thing I needed at this point.
"Griffin, I don't need to talk my feelings out with Shannon. I like to save her for emergencies, and obviously, I'm doing okay right now."
He rose an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"I'm just tired of Roger's constant shit. That's all. As soon as I win a race, everything will smooth out, and I'll be able to just focus on driving. It's been two years since I won my championship in the Xfinity series. I just need a little something to get me back on track."
Griffin nodded, and I knew that he had to understand. Winning came naturally to some people, and I always thought I was in that group until I joined the big leagues of NASCAR. Hell, if Griffin hadn't suddenly joined that club in his rookie season, RTR would have still been a one-car team without me.
I took in a breath. "Anyway, I know you like Garth Brooks, so I put a few of his songs on the playlist. Calling Baton Rouge, even." I laughed at my own joke.
"I see." A small smile played at his lips. "Well, consider the party started."
He connected my phone to the Bluetooth speaker in his living room, and the finest of bangers began to blast through his house.
"Great. Where's the tequila?" I asked with a laugh.
"You know damn well where it is. And get your puke bucket while you're at it. You better not need it, since we still have work tomorrow, but I want it there in case."
"I won't need it," I said.
"Good. I just got new flooring in there, and I don't want anything to happen to it."
"That's actually the lamest fucking thing you've ever said." I laughed. "God, Griffin, I won't throw up on your new pine floor."
"And you knew it was pine, so that's even fucking lamer," Griffin said.
He had me there. I always knew my HGTV addiction would be my downfall.
Soon, the members of Griffin's racing team began to trickle into the party. I knew a lot of them personally, even though I technically wasn't supposed to have anything to do with them. But Mr. Truscott couldn't stop me from dating half of Griffin's pit crew. We all knew any relationship there would never last, anyway.
I sat on the couch with my feet in a container of warm water and Epsom salts to ease the pain from the blisters and burns I had earned during the last race. Griffin won it, of course, and all I had to show for my painful efforts was a measly fifteenth place finish. It was an okay result from a terrible car, but I didn't have much hope that my next one would be any better.
But I had tequila, and it was hard to dream about what else I could have done when I was focused on how hot everyone else at the party was.
I had put a few cheesy party songs on the playlist, but mainstream pop or rap wasn't the genre for a Griffin Gallagher party. And even though we were in the deep south, country wasn't either, with a few exceptions. It was all about seventies and eighties rock with me, and as my music of choice lit up the dark house, I watched everyone else move about and enjoyed a few drinks.
At least my feet didn't hurt anymore.