Misadventures with a Speed Demon Read online

  Misadventures with a Speed Demon

  Chelle Bliss

  This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Cover Design by Waterhouse Press

  Cover photographs: Shutterstock

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  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Meredith — Thank you for always being there for me. You make me feel like the impossible is possible. — Chelle

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Don’t miss any Misadventures!

  Excerpt from Misadventures with a Manny

  More Misadventures

  About Chelle Bliss

  Prologue

  Brooks

  “Drivers, start your engines!”

  The crowd behind me cheers wildly and rises to their feet when they hear the magic words. I dig the tips of my tattered tennis shoes into the dirt and peer over the railing, standing on my toes to get a better look. I stare across the track as the cars roar to life, wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands around the steering wheel and pump the gas, revving an engine just like they are.

  Tyler, my mom’s current boyfriend, smacks my shoulder. “Here’s ten bucks. Get yourself something to eat, and stay out of my hair until the race is over,” he says, thrusting a wad of money in my face.

  I snatch the crumpled bills from his fingertips and shove the cash into my pocket. “Okay,” I say with a shrug as he wanders away.

  Tyler is a gambler, and every Friday while I watch the races, he places bets with the local bookies, trying to make enough to keep a roof over our heads for another week. He’s been dating my mother for six months, which is longer than most men have stuck around. But I know soon we’ll be on our own again because no one can put up with my mother for too long. If I had my choice, I would run away and never look back. Whenever Tyler gives me money, I stash it in a sock I hide in the vent in my bedroom, saving for the moment I can finally gain my freedom.

  I tighten my grip on the metal railing and hold my breath as the flag waves and the cars take off. I live for Friday nights at the track. They’re the only thing I look forward to anymore. There’s nothing like the smell of burning rubber mixed with exhaust fumes, the stars twinkling overhead as the cars speed around and crash into each other before spinning out in a cloud of smoke.

  I can’t take my eyes off the track. I bounce on my toes, excitement coursing through my system as they get closer to the turn. My insides vibrate as the ground beneath my feet shakes from the rumble of the passing cars. There’s no feeling in the world better than this, and I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face.

  I’m so into the race that I barely feel the tap on my shoulder until it happens again. I roll my eyes and turn my head, knowing exactly who is interrupting the race before I even look.

  “Baby,” she mouths, her voice muted by the noise around us.

  My stomach drops at the sight of my mother. Her hair is matted down on one side and plastered against her cheek…probably held there by dried vomit. She smiles when my eyes meet hers, and I try not to stare at the mascara running down her cheeks, smeared in a way that looks more like war paint than makeup. Her torn T-shirt hangs off her shoulder, exposing her bra strap and probably earning her more than a few passing glances from the men around us. God. Why does she have to be such a mess?

  “What?” I yell, but she can’t hear me. I can’t even hear myself over the cars whizzing by.

  She says something I can’t quite make out and sways, almost falling over. She wraps her hands around the railing next to me to steady herself, and I inch my fingers away. I glance around and pray no one from school is in the grandstands, seeing my mom so drunk she can’t even stand up straight.

  My body jerks forward as she yanks at my pants pocket. I know what she wants… What she always wants—the few bucks Tyler gave me, so she can buy herself more alcohol. I step back and swat her hands away without an ounce of remorse. That money is mine. Tyler gave it to me to buy myself something to eat. Not to hand over to her to buy herself more booze or drugs, because that’s what she does with every penny she gets her hands on.

  She narrows her eyes and moves toward me, yelling “little fucker,” something she’s called me my entire life. That’s my mother. Not an ounce of love in her system for me unless I’m delivering a new bottle from the corner store she’s too plastered to walk to. That’s the only time she seems to like me anymore.

  I turn my back and run through the crowd, weaving through what seems like an endless sea of people, without looking to see if she’s following me. I know she’s too drunk to stand without help, let alone run. I don’t dare stop moving until I’m on the opposite end of the track, too far for her to make it in her current state.

  By the time I find a new spot and look at the jumbotron, I’ve thankfully only missed ten laps. I assume the same position, my toes in the dirt near the fence, my arms against the railing, and my chin on top of my hands.

  Monday is the first day of school. I’ll officially be a freshman and one step closer to getting out of this shithole town and away from my mother. Someday I’ll know how it feels to hug each turn with a car rattling underneath me, the freedom that comes with the racer life, and I’ll never look back.

  Chapter One

  Faith

  “Why are we listening to this song again?” I stick my index fingers in my ears to block out the music that sounds more like small animals dying than an actual song. “It’s obnoxious.”

  “Shut your face. This is a classic.” Roscoe passes a car doing the speed limit, which is never acceptable in his book. He doesn’t even bat an eyelash as the guy flips him the middle finger and screams out the window. “This is how I start every season.”

  I don’t know why I agreed to let Roscoe pick me up this morning. I’ve never liked the way he drives, especially so close to the start of a new season. Even on the side streets, he thinks he’s in a competition, dodging and weaving his way around cars like a maniac. Then there’s his choice in music, which is sketchy at best.

  “You know ‘Highway to the Danger Zone’ is about being a fighter pilot, not a race car driver, right?”

  “Same shit.” He shrugs and purses his lips.

  Only my brother would equate speeding around in circles with something as heroic as a military fighter pilot. “You’re a real dumbass, Roscoe.”

  “You love me, though.” He glances at me with his lips turned up and his brown eyes twinkling. He waits for affirmation because he’s a needy son of a bitch and always has been.

 
“Always.” I tell him exactly what he wants to hear because he’d badger me until I did anyway.

  He swerves around another car, and I grab on to the door handle, holding on for dear life. “What the hell is your hurry?”

  “I’m warming up for the new kid,” he replies quickly, and his cocky smile returns.

  Ahhh, the new guy. I don’t know much about him besides the few scouting reports my father slid across my desk a few days ago. What I’ve read has been nothing short of impressive. He’s won over thirty titles and has become a champion on the smallest dirt tracks around the country. Not to mention he’s amassed a small army of fans as well. My internet searches turned up a few photos but not much else, which was disappointing. I’d like to know more about the man who’s about to become part of our team. I want to know what we’re dealing with.

  At the end of last season, my father decided it was time to expand and become the new unstoppable powerhouse on the race circuit. Roscoe balked at the idea. But my father didn’t listen to Roscoe’s whining and spent a month touring small tracks around the country, searching for the perfect match for our team. As soon as he saw Brooks Carter, my father jumped at the chance to sign a champion in the making to Ridley Racing.

  Roscoe was livid that my father didn’t consult him before offering Brooks the full backing of our company. Roscoe never liked competition. Even as a little boy, he would throw a temper tantrum when he lost during our weekly family game night. He became such a killjoy, we finally switched from games to movies because he couldn’t handle defeat.

  Why on earth he became a driver in one of the most competitive sports, I will never understand. I always thought guys who raced were made of steel, like my father, but that was my mistake. My dad was a born leader and always in control, while Roscoe, well… He had winning down pat, especially with the help of my father and the entire pit crew at Ridley Racing. But even now when he loses a race, he goes dark and everyone ignores him for a solid week. He’s unbearable at times, but he’s the only brother I have…even if he can be a total asshole. There’s no person in the world who knows more about me than Roscoe. He’s always been there for me. When I was a little girl he was always at my side and never shooed me away like many of my friends’ brothers did. We were like two peas in a pod for most of our lives, at least until he became a professional race car driver. Even now, we’re on the road together half the year and often spend our downtime hanging out and relaxing because no one gets us better than each other.

  “Do you know much about the new guy?” I ask as the track comes into view, shining in the distance from the morning sun. A surge of excitement fills me as we get closer. The new Ridley Racing is bigger, badder, and better than ever before, and I couldn’t be happier seeing where our dad’s dream is leading us.

  “Just that he’s a hotshot. I’m going to bring him down a peg or two.”

  Roscoe could be describing himself. For the last few years Roscoe has become a force to be reckoned with, and there is not a driver out there who doesn’t want to knock him flat on his ass. Every rookie gets behind the wheel with victory in their eyes and Roscoe as their number one target. Each year, new drivers try to find their footing among the more seasoned veterans like my brother and ultimately fail, but their confidence somehow remains intact. I don’t get it, but I guess it’s all part of the racer mentality and something I’m never meant to understand.

  “That’s all you know? Did you even try to find out about him?”

  “Nope,” he says in a clipped tone.

  I’m not surprised he has not bothered to do his homework. Why would he? He’s the champion and thinks he’s going to be on top forever. My brother no doubt believes there is no way Brooks has any hope of ever defeating him. He’s Roscoe Ridley after all. Heir to the Ridley estate and bred from race car royalty.

  “He’s younger. About your age. He tore up the dirt tracks around the country, winning every major title, but that is not difficult on that type of track,” Roscoe says.

  Typical Roscoe. Nothing is as impressive as the professional circuit, and even then, he is never too impressed with anyone but himself. It doesn’t matter what someone has accomplished; in his mind, no one can be better than him.

  “Well, that’s something. He must be good if Daddy wants to bring him on board.” I try to bring him back to reality a little bit before he walks into this meeting with guns blazing, shooting off at the mouth like he typically does.

  “He had a spot to fill, and no one else was available. It’s just that simple,” he tells me, but we both know he’s full of shit.

  My father doesn’t do simple. He researches, runs the numbers, and does more research before finally making a decision. He’d never settle on just anyone to fill a spot unless he thought the person was worthy, capable of winning, and would bring glory to our family name.

  “You know that is not true. They’d line up around the building for a shot to race on our team.” I motion toward the small crowd that has already assembled outside the entrance to prove my point. “See?”

  Roscoe adjusts in his seat, straightens his back, and leans over the steering wheel, clearly annoyed by my statement. “No one wants to compete with me, Faith. You need to understand that.”

  I roll my eyes and groan. “You’re so cocky.”

  “I have to be.”

  My brother’s self-confidence, as annoying as it is, derives from the fact that he is the reigning champion. No one has piled up more wins during the exhaustingly long season than he has. He has basically ruled the field with the help of my father and the amazing pit crew without any real competition. I wonder if that is about to change.

  I wave to the familiar faces of the diehard fans as we drive by, reading their handmade signs welcoming Roscoe back for another season.

  “It’s my name on those signs,” he says to drive his point home. “Do you know why?”

  “Because they don’t know what an asshole you really are?” I snort, but Roscoe doesn’t find me the least bit funny.

  “Because I’m the champion.”

  Half of the crowd gathered outside the track are women, and I’m pretty sure most of them don’t care if he wins the next race. They’re just hoping to land in his bed with the delusion of becoming Mrs. Roscoe Ridley.

  My brother, for all his faults, is a good man and handsome as the devil too. Women fill the grandstands each weekend dressed head to toe in Roscoe Ridley official gear. Sales of female clothing alone are well into the millions—almost outselling our male clothing line. Unlike me, Roscoe has my father’s dark-brown hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. Women want him because he is good-looking, just like my dad.

  When we finally pull onto the infield, my father’s standing near the edge of the track, surrounded by a small group of Ridley Racing employees.

  “Pop looks happy,” Roscoe says with his lips turned up.

  My father’s wearing his lucky shirt, the same one he wears every year when he first steps foot on the track. The Hawaiian shirt is covered in a hideous pattern from the seventies, but he refuses to throw the damn thing out. The faded palm trees on the front are bad enough, but the pink flamingos are the icing on the cake. Somehow, he pulls it off. My father stands tall and proud, his back perfectly straight and his shoulders pushed back as he talks to the man next to him. My father laughs and smooths down the salt-n-pepper hair of his beard. The stress of last season has vanished from the corners of his eyes, replaced with a glow I haven’t seen before.

  I cover my mouth and hide my smile to avoid aggravating Roscoe any more than he already is. “He does look happy, but he’s always excited at the start of a new season,” I remind him with a sideways glance.

  Roscoe parks his truck near my father’s before cutting the engine. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and no one’s going to beat me.” He ticks his chin toward the crowd and snarls. “Not even that kid.” My eyes follow his and land on the back of a man just as tall as my father but with a more sleek and
slender frame.

  I open the door and step onto the running board of Roscoe’s ridiculously tall monster truck, trying not to fall on my face from the uneven grass. “That’s some bullshit,” I mumble, knowing he’ll be dethroned eventually.

  Roscoe jumps out and quickly rounds the back of the truck to confront me. “What did you say?”

  “I said that’s the truth.” I lie through my teeth because I already know this day is going to be a shit show. One of two things is going to happen: Roscoe will either show his dominance and leave the track happy, or Brooks Carter will put on a display that’ll have Roscoe lunging at the boy’s throat.

  His shoulders relax, totally buying my lie. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  Roscoe doesn’t even know what dog-eat-dog means. He was handed a full sponsorship the day he told my father he wanted to follow in his footsteps. Roscoe didn’t have to fight his way onto the track like so many others. As the son of a racing legend, he had a winning team behind him from the moment he asked. And the fact that our family is one of the wealthiest in Buxton means he didn’t have to bus tables to pay rent while he proved himself worthy of sponsorship. He was literally handed his dream career along with a hefty paycheck.

  My father walks in our direction, stroking his beard, and his smile causes the balls of his cheeks to almost touch his eyes. “There’s my girl,” he says with his arms outstretched, waiting for me.