Page 25 of Truck You

I woke up with a tightness in my stomach that made it next to impossible to eat. I hoped a shower would help, but it didn’t. I’ve spent the entire twenty-minute drive from Jackson to Beaver talking myself down from what feels like a nervous breakdown, but it hasn’t helped.

I should have told Mac the truth. The moment I recognized him, my gut screamed at me to tell him why I was in town, but the starry-eyed girl in me with the crush on her favorite racecar driver took over my mind, and I kept my mouth shut.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want him to know. It’s not like I would have been able to keep it a secret at the race on Saturday. He was always going to find out.

I just didn’t want to be disappointed in the man I’ve admired for years when he looked at me like I was crazy. Or said something chauvinistic likewomen can’t race cars.

It’s happened to me more times than I care to recall. Who can blame me for protecting myself from another display of male superiority?

Maybe Mac wouldn’t have responded that way. Maybe he would have surprised me. It’s happened a time or two over the years. But from my experience, it’s best to downplay my gender when entering races until I’ve proven myself. Only then will people take me seriously.

And it’s not just men. Sometimes women can be worse. More wives and girlfriends have approached me to tell how I ruined their husbands’ or boyfriends’ chance at qualifying because I won the race.

The number of times I’ve been told I need to learn my place is exasperating. Careers should not be gender specific. It should be about skill and knowledge. If a person is capable and performs well, then who cares if it’s a man or a woman?

I’m a damn good racecar driver, and that’s what I wanted Mac to see before he found out why I was really here.

Maybe I should have trusted him. Did he really mean it when he defended women drivers to Tanner, or did he say it because of what happened between us on Wednesday night?

I may never know the truth behind that.

My GPS on my phone calls out that my next turn is coming up in a quarter of a mile. I shake my head and focus on where I’m going. I’ve never driven on backroads like this, and I don’t want to get lost.

The minute I turned off the highway, I felt like I entered an entirely different world. It’s a paved road, but it’s narrow. Passing other cars on it seems next to impossible. Especially with all the trees lining each side. There isn’t even room to pull over to let someone pass.

There’s a bend up ahead, and the road opens up after I take it. An open field comes into view, with a large house sitting close to the road. Just past the house is a sign that says Mutter Trucker Auto & Racing.

The house looks like it’s over a hundred years old. It’s massive, with traditional Victorian architecture, complete with a wrap-around porch with a swing in each corner. The house’s white paint is peeling and a little rough for wear in a few places, but it’s still beautiful with its black shutters and planted window boxes.

The landscaping is tidy and simple. The shrubs that surround the porch probably stay green all winter long. There are several flower beds that are dying with the cooler weather we’re getting. I bet it’s bright and cheery in the summer. If all goes well this morning, maybe I’ll find out next summer.

I pass the house and pull into the entrance for the garage. It’s much larger than I expected. Not that I knew what to expect. The Mutters are successful auto mechanics. They’re known for their custom builds—both motorcycles and racecars—and racing, but they also provide basic auto services to their community.

The garage has four bays that look like they go two cars deep. The first bay is open, and from what I can see, it looks clean.

I park my car near the customer entrance and take a deep breath. By the time I get out, Christian—or is it Chase?—has stepped out of the open bay and is staring at me in confusion.

I study him for a moment—messy hair, frown, tired eyes, a harshness to him that screams bad boy. This is definitely Christian. If it were Chase, he’d already be charming my socks off.

“Sophia, isn’t it?” His voice is rough and groggy, like he hasn’t talked much since he woke up this morning. “Are you here to see Mac? He’s at the tracks if you are. I can give you directions.”

I shake my head. “I’m here to see Liam. Is he around?”

“Liam?” He furrows his brows, then opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then stops. He points his thumb over his shoulder through the open bay and says, “He’s in the office. I can show you back.”

“Thanks.” I follow him through the bay door. My eyes widen as I take in the inside of their garage.

The bay on the far end has two racecars on lifts, each, I assume, is a custom build. The next one is empty, but based on the equipment I see, it looks like it’s used for tire changes and alignments.

There’s a motorcycle in parts in another spot, and the open bay has a car in each spot, like they’re waiting to be worked on.

Tool cabinets line the walls along with every specialized equipment known to man.

If I get this job, I will learn a lot of practical knowledge that the classroom can’t teach.

“Liam.” Christian’s voice bellows through the garage as if he’s put out by my interruption. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Okay, thanks,” he calls from the open door.

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