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“YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN this, Ty. Your father would have taken the deal.”
Son of a bitch.
I gritted my teeth. It was a low-blow, but not something I hadn’t come to expect from all the bottom-feeders sleazing around since my father’s untimely death. Idiots like this one were a dime a dozen. Kyle was the eldest son of Evan Smith, a dumb asshole who’d squandered his chances at wealth by fucking over the very people who were ensuring a regular payday. Now he’d sent Kyle to try to gather as many scraps as he could for his fallen empire.
Whatever made this kid think Dalton Enterprises was the right door to knock on for that shit was beyond me, but I’d entertained him for ten agonizing minutes. Business was business, and I told myself to always hear someone out. You never knew; they could have something I never thought would be investment-worthy before. Plus, this was Evan’s kid. Not Evan himself. Could be the kid was cleaner, smarter, and worth the trouble. At least, that had been my original line of thought.
Unfortunately for him, that last, fatal line had told me everything I needed to know about Evan’s heir-apparent. The apple hadn’t even left the branch, let alone fallen from the tree.
Grinning, I made a show of ease, overpowering the poorly asserted lump of muscle Kyle was attempting to flex over what was amounting to be an overly costly dinner for a business deal he didn’t have the intelligence or charisma to seal.
“I’m sure if that were true, Dalton Enterprises would have gotten in bed with your father’s company a long time ago. I might still be a tad green, but dear old Dad’s blood still runs strong my veins. Do yourself a favor, man. Get the fuck outta my sight.”
Nothing else needed to be said, and it was clear by the expression coloring Kyle’s face that he now knew he’d said the wrong thing. The exact wrong thing. You want to talk shit about how I’m running Dalton Enterprises? Knock yourself out. Feel the need to criticize the team? Write a book. But no one in their right fucking mind was going to pimp out my old man’s name and memory for money.
I wasn’t running Dalton Enterprises for money. I had more than enough of that. My merch and business model had long since profited me into my own hard-earned independence. I was in this to keep my father’s name clean, plain and simple. As long as I was fit and able, I’d make for damn sure it didn't climb into the cesspool with the snakes—fixing races and unfairly leveraging drivers. Dirty business would kill racing if that particular virus made its way into the sport’s main artery.
I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow that for Dalton Enterprises. Not while I was around to do something about it. My father taught me early on about honor, and it was a lesson I’d taken to the deepest recesses of my heart. I doubted I’d have much of a soul without it. Honor and integrity kept the less-controlled aspects of my character in line. I was grateful for that.
Kyle had the grace to look embarrassed, but there was a small storm of anger brewing in his eyes I could tell he was trying hard to hide. He cleared his throat. “I’ve obviously upset you, Tyler. I’ll leave you to your dinner. On me. I’m, uh, sorry for your loss.”
Licking his lips nervously, Kyle affixed the middle button of his blazer. Then he took a quick glance around the swanky restaurant before darting his gaze to me again. Giving me a curt nod, he made his way out, quickly and purposefully. I almost felt sorry for the kid. His father was probably going to knock him around a little for fucking this up, but there was nothing to be done about it.
The kid was lucky I didn't knock his ass out. I’d have done it, too, even in the middle of Solomon’s, in the heart of Austin’s famed city tower. It wasn’t the many eyes set around the candlelit tables, picking at insanely decadent entrees and desserts, that had halted my hand. Whispers I didn’t mind. Rumors were even good for business in my line of work. It was the kid himself I’d given the barest pass to. Because I knew men like Evan Smith had known those fucked-up words that had made my blood boil didn't come from Kyle’s mind. They were practiced and planted there by his joke of a father. If anyone deserved to have his nose caved in, it was Evan himself.
PUNCHING THE BUGGATI into a jump on the second ramp, my eyes narrowed to slits with the engine roaring in my ears. My skin beaded with sweat as it began to yield to the hellish temps inside the car, but God, I loved this. Needed this. It was the only time I could truly think clearly.
There were no lies on a clean racetrack. No phony smiles and high-priced suits. No beauties with painted smiles and subzero hearts. Just me and the truth in my guts. Me and my own sense of power. It was a power I loved to push as far as I possibly could. It was the only time I truly felt alive.
Shit, it was the only thing that had brought me back from the edge of darkness and grief when my old man had suddenly died of cardiac arrest one cold March afternoon. Without warning; without even the barest hint that he’d been sick. One day the fifty-seven-year-old was here, the next he wasn’t. Maybe that was why I couldn’t keep myself out of a race car or off a bike when the thousand-dollar suits started to feel a little too tight on me. I was a good businessman—one of the best, actually, because I didn’t cower easily and seemed to have a propensity for never feeling true fear.
But business wasn’t what drove me—not by a long shot.
I’d get a minor burst of adrenaline from closing a deal or finding the next up-and-coming driver, but it paled in comparison to a victory lap after beating out ten of the fastest fucking drivers in the game.
“Dammit, what are you doing out there?”
Nick. Ever the father hen.
“What does it look like?” I answered casually into the helmet’s mic.
“Tyler... don’t you ever check the time? Hello, the shindig tonight? Remember that little party we have?”
I snorted. “Like I’m in a rush to deal with shiny suits and fangirls right now—”
Nick cut me off. “The team will be disappointed if you don’t make an appearance before the midnight race.”
Sighing, I increased my speed, carefully gripping the wheel, tightening my control on it before the car went into a spin on the last lap.
Nick was right. He usually was.
I decided I’d gotten enough aggression out with the last few golden laps. Unfortunately, I still had a job to do. Going to that kickoff party, while the hobnobs circled the swanky layout of the Dalton Mansion, wasn’t just for me, as loath as I was to admit it. You couldn’t not show up at your own event in time to show the predators in gator shoes how serious you were about the business you were running. It was very bad for business. Even I knew that.
The race car industry, like anything that came to earn money over time, was all about schmoozing now. Whether you made the best stock cars, had put out the word that you were looking for a motor fuel endorsement, or you were proving to be a shining member of one hell of a team, these parties were created to ensure that people with real money had a chance to leverage you for their own gain.
I couldn’t stand that fact, but Dalton Enterprises was what it was because of racing.
Formula One was its lifeblood, and that could never be forgotten. It would be like forgetting Dad.
After slamming the door to the Buggati behind me, I removed my helmet and held it under my arm, turning to look at the Dalton Track. It was a short track, definitely not made for more than practice runs and product testing. But it was infused with memories from as far back as I could actually remember. A grin rounded my cheek.
Hell, even as the sun was setting on it, and I was the only person standing there overlooking it, I could still close my eyes and drown in the scent of popcorn and cotton candy from the machines. The ones my father had installed for the in-house events the company used to sharpen their racers (while indulging their families with a little extra recreation). Forcing myself to swallow the emotions threatening to overtake me, I slowly blinked my eyes open and redirected my focus.
The pre-season party wasn’t going to attend itself, and getting nostalgic and emotional wasn’t ever going to bring my father back.