Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 14: Lauren (Part 2 of 2)

"Confused or not, I'd give anything to see what he thinks of this pic," she says, showing me her phone.

"Oh, god. Let me see." I grab the device out of her hand and look in horror at her Instagram account. I should have known that's what Cam was fiddling with and stopped her from sharing it with the rest of the world while I had the chance.

Okay, so it's a pretty good shot with the grandstand in the rear and me in the foreground with my back to the camera. My hand is resting on the glass and Cam framed it with Tanner sitting on his bike right under it. Even the caption is innocent enough. Blessed to be spending the day with my girl #Dimas83 Go Tanner! #bikesofinstagram #raceday #SundayFunday #LagunaSeca I have no idea why she'd want to see Seb's reaction to it.

"At least you didn't use that one vile hashtag, so it's fine." I hand back the phone and return my attention to the television. As the riders cross the line to begin their second lap, Tanner has fallen a bit behind, but he's still in the top four.

"Which one? You mean Persephone?" Cam asks.

In the straightaway, Tanner gains a position on a Honda before reaching turn one. "Yeah," I say.

"But isn't that what they call you?"

I glance away from the screen to look at her. "Mock me, you mean."

"I'm confused." Cam props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her open palm. "I thought you were embracing the whole thing with your new helmet and all. Which by the way is absolutely amazing. You used Josh at Vortex, right?"

"Thanks and yeah, it was him. And you're right. I was trying to turn their negative shots into something that really meant something to me, but now people are accusing me of cultural appropriation. Can you believe it?" I ask, barely able to hear myself over a sudden uproar from the others in the room. Looking back up at the televised feed, I catch the instant replay of two riders battling for position before one of them goes wide in turn three, giving up several places before rejoining the pursuit.

Cam is silent until I turn back again. "What the hell? Cultural appropriation? But why?" she asks.

I sweep a crumb off the white tablecloth in front of me. "Because apparently I'm not Latina enough to use the Dia de los Muertos imagery even though we completely reworked it." Recalling those editorials is getting me all worked up over it again. I should seriously consider avoiding Googling myself from now on.

My friend leans forward. "For fuck's sake," she whispers, emphasizing each word.

"I know!" I can't help clenching my fists in frustration. "Like, I wouldn't expect people to know that my maternal grandmother was born in Guadalajara, but it's pretty common knowledge that I've lived in California my entire life. This place was part of Mexico for over twenty-five years, and it's still like forty-percent Hispanic."

"You also eat tacos literally stuffed with other tacos." Cam sits back, crosses her arms, and pouts at her foolproof declaration.

I laugh. "Yes! I mean, it was only that one time, but that was a freaking awesome taco." Remembering what started this conversation, my mood sours again, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I swear I can never do anything right with the damned press."

"At least they're interested in you," Cam says. "I'd kill for any publicity right now. Speaking of which—"

"Do you have new leads for sponsors?" I butt in as she bends down and rustles around under the table.

"No, but it did remind me that I saw your ad." She pulls a glossy magazine out of her messenger bag. "It's in this month's Seventeen—don't judge, I know I'm three years too old for it, but a girl's gotta get her latest beauty tips from somewhere—anyway," she says, flipping through the pages before landing on a dog-eared one. "Here it is, and it's insanely hot."

I stare at the open magazine and forget how to speak. I obviously didn't have any control over which picture went in the Acceleration Denim ad, but after the fuss I made, I was certain it would be the one of me and Seb on the scooters. Everyone seemed to like those better, even Seb. But there are no scooters on the page, and I have to take a hot second to figure out what exactly is going on.

It's obviously Seb's hand on some girl's denim-clad ass, and it's certainly my profile looking off the page, but the space between the two body parts is clearly Photoshopped. And I know this because the picture shows a bare back and unless I blacked out and lost my memory, I know I never took off my shirt.

"That son of a bitch," I whisper. There's no way this made it in without the photographer's approval.

"What's wrong?" Cam pulls the magazine toward her.

"This . . . this thing," I mumble, waving my hand over the page and unable to put a coherent sentence together. Even as I reach for my cell, I don't know what exactly I'm going to say to my agent, but it sure as hell isn't going to be PG.

My finger is hovering over Celia's name in the speed-dial menu when chaos ensues. Unlike the earlier eruption of cheers mixed with groans, this unanimous reaction from the VIP fans in the room is undeniably negative. Based on experience, I'm certain there's been a crash even before I look up at the TV. True enough, a cloud of dust fills the screen, covering the aftermath. While the room quiets down, two commentators broadcasting over the live shots of the track are still in a frenzy.

"It's absolutely unbelievable," one of them says, the shock in his voice evident. "Classic case of wrong place at the wrong time. Let's hope both of those riders have escaped—what looked to be a horrific impact—unscathed."

"Indeed. This massive collision couldn't have occurred at a worse location," the other continues as the camera focuses on turn nine at the bottom of the Corkscrew. "Naturally, the red flags are out and the safety car is leaving pit lane right now, meaning the race is paused until everything is cleared away."

Outside the asphalt strip past the ninety-degree left hand corner, two bikes are lying on their sides in the gravel trap. Several corner workers in orange jumpsuits run toward the two riders who'd become separated from their machines in the crash. Although one is already on his feet, the other is motionless on his back.

"Oh, god." I exhale the words before covering my mouth with my hand. "Tanner."

Cam pulls her chair closer and grabs my other hand, as much to comfort me as herself. Seeing a racer down is always hard. Seeing a friend down—no matter how much of a dog he may be—is even harder. "I'm sure he's okay. He has to be."

The coverage cuts away from the live shot to show the replay. Riding the number fourteen bike, Tanner—just a minute ago—was trailing Richie Smithson on the number eleven, blue Honda. The camera zooms in on Tanner as he speeds down the Rahal Straight and into the quick right-left, right-left combo of turn eight. Ahead of him, Smithson is leaning left into turn nine, but then the unexpected happens. The chain of events is so sudden and ill-timed that the producers have to slow down and repeat several frames multiple times for viewers to get a proper look.

I flinch when Tanner's rear tire slips out from under him, causing a textbook low-side crash. The bike takes him with it as it slides on its fairings—first across the asphalt and then the apex of the corner—before barreling into the Honda at a minimum of sixty miles per hour. The number eleven bike has no warning or a way to avoid the impact, leaving both motorcycles and riders tumbling through the gravel before coming to a stop.

The screen returns to real-time and paramedics are now on scene, attending to the injured riders. The commentators continue to babble on about what happened and the potential repercussions, but all I care about is whether my friend is okay. When Tanner lifts a gloved hand as they load him on a stretcher, I let out a sigh of relief.