Instead of wasting time on preparations, I leaned against my car and watched the busy crowd, soaking in their excitement and nervous energy. I’d only seen another female driver but she’d been in the last row. What a shame. More girls needed to trust themselves to play with the big boys. This wasn’t a sport that required muscles, only daring and cleverness, and that’s something women didn’t lack in comparison to men.
Beside me, a guy who looked Mexican leaned against his car. His body was covered with tattoos and he wore a black wifebeater to show them and his muscles off. Like Dima, his hair was in a buzz-cut, but his was dark. He flashed me a grin when he caught me looking. I didn’t return the gesture, only nodded. I wondered if the Falcones tolerated gang members or members of a cartel to race as well. They seemed pretty certain in their power over the west. I wasn’t here to make friends, and even less to flirt with random guys.
Adamo headed for me and leaned beside me. The guy lost his interest in me at once. “You ready?”
“Always,” I replied. “What I’m wondering is how the whole toilet-break business works. Ten hours is a long time.”
Adamo gave me a meaningful look.
I scoffed. “Don’t tell me there are no official toilet breaks.”
“There aren’t. You have to decide if you want to lose valuable minutes to relieve yourself.”
“Unlike you, I can’t pee into a bottle.”
“Trust me, even for guys it’s not easy to drive and pee into a bottle.”
I couldn’t help but laugh trying to imagine it, but then my mind drifted off, only conjuring up images of Adamo’s naked body. Not a good direction to take before a race. “So you really pee into a bottle?”
Adamo grinned. Whenever he did, he looked more like the dark surfer-boy and not the deadly Falcone brother. I wasn’t sure which side of him drew me in more. “Usually I allow myself one toilet break per race, at least in the first five races. The last two races, however…” He chuckled.
“I won’t pee into a bottle, but I won’t risk falling back just because my bladder is an issue.”
“Well, then maybe you should consider using a catheter. But I should warn you. A few very ambitious guys did last year and got a nasty infection.”
I scrunched up my nose. “That’s taking it a little too far.”
“Not if you’re in debt with the Camorra, then you better find ways to get money.”
“Right. You and your brothers are really clever when it comes to making money.”
“I bet your father knows a few tricks as well.”
He did. But my father was better at putting up a sophisticated exterior, while the Falcones lived their madness openly. “With a race of this dimension, won’t we get into trouble with the police?”
“We might. That depends on the county we’re passing. Some are easier to control than others. A few sheriffs are definitely out to catch a few of us. And every year they succeed and one or two land in prison for a while. But like I said, mostly the police turn a blind eye to what’s going on. We mainly drive in remote corners of our territory, not to mention in the evening or night.”
“Then let’s hope we don’t get arrested today.” I pushed away from the hood when Dima’s car rolled toward us.
“I’m sure your father will bail you out if you do,” Adamo said with a shrug, but I didn’t buy his disinterest for a second. He was trying to figure out how much my father knew of me racing in Camorra territory.
“I don’t like to rely on others to save my ass,” I said. Dima was stuck behind a crew of five mechanics who were taking care of a car. I wondered how much funds you needed to have a team of that size around you. Money wasn’t an issue for me. Dad’s black American Express paid for everything and he never asked why I spent too much money, but I wanted to earn my expenses with prize money.
Adamo followed my gaze to Dima. “His ribs are cracked from the way he moves. He won’t be able to stick to your side if you don’t slow down for him. He’ll need breaks.”
“Dima is tough, and he knows I won’t slow for anyone. I can protect myself.”
“If you drive as fast as last time, you won’t have to. You’ll be at my side, and I can keep an eye on you during the rest hours.”
“How chivalrous of you,” I said. “But I don’t think I trust you, Falcone.”
He tilted his head, one corner of his mouth moving up. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
I generally didn’t trust easily, even if Adamo didn’t strike me as a danger—for me at least.
I headed for the trunk of my car and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka and opened it.