Banging Wheels

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Book: Banging Wheels Read Free
Author: Natalie Banks
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especially given it was his hotel room.
    She checked her phone for the time. Dammit — she couldn’t afford to be late. She slid back into her jeans, fixed her hair in the mirror, patched up last night’s lipstick, now inappropriately — or perhaps perfectly appropriately — a bright, harlot red, and prepared for the walk of shame, pulling the keycard from its housing in the wall.
    The lift door opened with a TING and in there was the couple from the previous night. She walked in, defiantly upright and sophisticated. Some part of her wanted to blurt out, ‘How was the sex last night?’
    “Ahem,” said the woman.
    What is it? My lipstick too bright for you prissy people?
    “Ahem,” she said again, more softly, her eyes guiding Callie’s down to her jeans with a kindly look of female solidarity.
    Oh no! The condom wrapper was stuck to her. Callie pulled it off in a flushed terror, and let them leave the lift first.
    Never, never, never again.
    “Would you like to pay by cash or credit card?” said the woman at reception as she handed over the keycard.
    “I’m not paying, it’s—” Dammit, what was his name? It had gone. “My partner.”
    “Your partner said you were paying before he left.”
    “He did?”
    “Yes, Madam.”
    He ran off and left me to pay for his hotel. I didn’t even know that was even possible.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her temper rise, “but he’s...”
    An arrogant little jerk? A presumptuous asshole? Just some guy I met at the bar last night and will almost certainly never see again?
    “...mistaken. You need to go ahead and charge his card.”
    “I’ll do that, Madam.”
    That she’d gotten out of the situation didn’t lessen her sense of annoyance. The mere fact that he’d thought it okay to try such a cheap, cheap trick was a slap in the face. What was the implication here — that it had been her privilege to sleep with him? That she somehow owed him? Or was it just that he was a massive troll? Whatever the truth, she had to snap out of this quickly — today was an important day, and she needed to face it with positivity and dignity. Despite that, as she headed out through the automatic doors, she was still digging around trying to recall his name, partly because she’d never slept with someone and not known their name before, and partly because she wanted a name to match up to her internal cursing.
    Her destination was only a couple of miles away, and the bike was barely warm when she got there. She killed the engine and walked up the asphalt driveway, smoothing out her blouse as she went, her cropped leather jacket hiding the worst of the crumples. It was hardly a business position or something where appearances were paramount, but she still wanted to come across right. As herself, sure, but not as someone who doesn’t give a shit. Not slovenly. Not someone in last night’s clothes and with a condom wrapper stuck to her. A maverick, perhaps, but not a loose cannon. A professional racing driver.
    The building was not large, but it was still an impressive structure, featuring copious amounts of steel and glass. Exactly the kind of office-like space that she felt out of place in. A couple of details made her feel more at home — a pristine racing engine sat in a Perspex case opposite the reception desk, and, more strikingly, at the end of the hall, a racing car, complete with sponsors’ logos. Though somehow seeing these things in this context made her feel uneasy — this sanitization of visceral objects. Engines and cars were living, breathing things that belonged in the heat and fury of the race track, not preserved in boxes like this.
    “Mr. Hutton is waiting for you upstairs,” said the well-mannered young man behind reception.
     

     
    “It’s exactly as we discussed over the phone,” said Travis Hutton, team boss of Travis Hutton Racing, all grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. “Just sign in about... oh... 657 different places and, if you

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