Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 1: Lauren (1 of 2)

Sunday, August 25 – Race 13: Sepang, Malaysia

My agent is a complete badass.

Even while barreling through the crowd in the arrivals terminal of Kuala Lumpur International Airport with her super-pricey Tumi carry-on rolling behind her, she can not only hold a coherent conversation, but she also looks amazing doing it. Honestly, Celia Gross is the only person I've ever met who can have flawless hair and makeup after stepping off a sixteen-hour redeye.

Me? I'm just happy I didn't spill any of my Business Class chicken cacciatore on my favorite hoodie and that I managed to find an elastic band in the bottom of my backpack to put my hair up in a messy bun. Celia on the other hand is rocking three-inch heels, skin-tight black pants, and a cropped leather jacket. She's so Jersey Shore it's ridiculous, but I wouldn't want to have anyone else managing my racing career.

"Did you really just say that, Nigel?" she asks into her iPhone, expertly stepping around a stroller without slowing. "You are still talking about Lauren Dimas, right?"

I love it when she uses my full name. It's not like there are a bunch of other Laurens racing 3Prix motorcycles to confuse me with, but it still kind of makes me feel important.

"My client has been riding since she was six years old. Do you know what other little girls were doing at six? Playing with puppies and eating mud, that's what," Celia continues with the conviction of an adult who has only ever been around others' kids. At Thanksgiving. For two whole hours at a time. But it's not like she's completely wrong.

"I'm pretty sure I ate mud once," I butt in, but she shushes me, so I fall back a few steps to my dad's side. He grins—his impossibly perfect teeth shining under his short, dark beard—but holds back any comments. For a six-foot-three, two hundred ten pound Navy vet, he's pretty soft-spoken to begin with, plus we've both learned to just let Celia do things her way.

Celia pauses, and I'm guessing that Nigel Clark—the manager of Cadmium Racing Team on the other end of the call—is trying to figure out how he'll wrestle back control of the conversation while keeping his dignity intact. From the way my agent abruptly stops and taps her foot in front of a Cartier store (this airport is way fancier than the Eastridge Mall back home), I'm guessing he chose wrong.

"For Christ's sakes, four years ago Lauren was the California junior one-two-five champion, not to mention she had a top five spot already wrapped up this year in the American two-fifty series even before you approached us, so don't come at me now with this 'taking chances' bullshit." Celia weaves her fingers through her sleek, auburn bob in frustration, but every single hair falls perfectly back into place when she's done. Seriously, what is this witchcraft? I really need to find out what type of product she uses.

"No, that is not what we talked about, and you know it," she continues, her tone getting dangerously close to reaching mama-tiger levels of protectiveness. "We're keeping our current sponsors for all gear, and you're bringing anything on top of that. Beverages, eyewear, retailers, whatever."

She turns to me, and I nod in agreement. While I'm not in much of a position to bargain and getting the chance to ride for Cadmium would be an absolute dream come true, I had one non-negotiable when they offered me a short-term contract: I get to race in the same brands—helmet, leather suit, boots, and gloves—that I've been using all season. It's going to be hard enough to adjust to a Ducati from literally one day to the next after riding a Honda for years. I don't need the added distraction of an unfamiliar style or fit of safety gear, too.

"You're damn right I don't care about optics." Celia spreads her fingers before clenching them into a fist like she's squeezing the juice out of a ripe tomato. At this point a stranger would think she'd start yelling, but when she continues, her tone is firm, yet even. "What I care about is my girl's success, and you'd be a fool to jeopardize that for a few extra sponsor dollars. A fool who'll be greatly disappointed in Australia, if I may add."