Page 12 of Octane

“Vic Mancini and Sawyer Stone here to meet with Mr. Powell.”

“Sure, you can have a seat, and I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

I sit down and have a look around. It’s a sleek office. Very modern. Motorsport chic, if that is a real thing. Gorgeous photographs of turns and straightaways at different speedways line the walls. There are trophies from various competitions here and there. The sight of it all is slightly overwhelming. I could be one of his drivers. I could compete on one of these pro tracks. I could bring home one of these trophies.

Or you could give up already, knowing that you don’t belong here.

Daniel’s voice pierces my thoughts, and it takes everything in my power to make it go away. He doesn’t belong here. This has everything to do with me and nothing to do with him. No matter what, whether I make it or not, it won’t be because of his influence. He didn’t help me get to where I am today. He won’t be the one calling the shots.

“You can follow me,” the receptionist says, breaking me from my thoughts. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee, juice?”

“No, thank you,” I respond to her before Vic declines as well.

Vic and I follow her down the hall and into a large conference room. The walls are painted black on three sides. The other is made of glass, and it overlooks the city. It’s gorgeous. There are more photographs in here, in addition to scale models of all of the cars in Powell Racing’s fleet.

“You can have a seat. Mr. Powell will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” both Vic and I say at the same time.

“I’m nervous,” I murmur to Vic when the receptionist leaves.

“I really have a good feeling about this, Sawyer. I think you guys will be an excellent match for one another.”

“So, Powell, does he know that I’m a… female?” I roll my eyes as I say it because it shouldn’t matter.

But unfortunately, it does.

“I don’t know. I didn’t mention it because that’s not what’s important. Stats are. And your stats are incredible.”

I smile warmly at Vic, even though I’m still nervous as hell inside. I’m scared that Jackson Powell is going to walk in here, see that I’m a woman, and tell me there’s no place in racing for a female. Even though there have been several amazing female drivers before me, it’s a very hard niche for women to get into.

“I just want a fair chance. If he’s interested in me because of my tapes, but then comes in here and finds out that I’m a girl and kicks me to the curb… I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Relax, Sawyer. Jackson Powell isn’t your average team owner. Trust me on this. It’s my job.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Good,” he says with a wink.

Several minutes pass before I hear heavy footsteps heading in our direction. I sit up and straighten my top, creating the pristine appearance that I pride myself for having all the time.

“Oh, and Bethany,” I hear a familiar voice echo from the hall, replacing the footsteps that were just there. “Can you…”

The voice fades out as my eyes go wide, and I look at Vic.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… I know that voice.”

The nuisance from the elevator. The incompetent driver from the garage.

What is he doing here?

Before my mind can go through all the possibilities, the Penthouse Prick walks through the door with a shit-eating grin on his face and a black, leather-bound Powell Racing portfolio tucked underneath his arm.

I’m paralyzed as he places his things down then stands at the head of the table, like the arrogant ass he is, as if he owns the place.

“Hey neighbor,” he quips with his smug, cocky smirk plastered on his face.

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