Declare (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #4) (27 page)

I was quoting the very words she’d used to comfort me after she’d first moved to Sydney what felt like a lifetime ago, but they were as true now as they had been then. As long as the three of us had each other, we had everything we would need.

Since then, we’d saved up a little, even with the cost of the wedding. The small extra allowance I received driving the Mini, plus the few bonuses from my wins, added up to a decent little fall-back plan. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t last forever, but it was enough that we could make it work for a while.

She opened her mouth to argue.

“Daddy, can I have apples for school?” Phoebe asked, with her mouth full of mushed Weet-Bix.

“Of course, baby,” I answered, turning to throw one into her lunch pack. I glanced back at Alyssa before she could resume her argument. “You have to admit that the bonuses from racing the Mini have helped us get in front. Besides, I’m not pissing away my salary like I used to.”

She looked thoughtful for a second.

“And,” I continued while I was on my winning streak, “I’ve still got my cars and a few stocks left that we can sell if we get desperate.” I winced as I mentioned selling my babies; we’d managed to avoid losing any so far, but I would willingly sacrifice anything for her happiness.

“And what would I do? Any other law firm would be just as bad. It’s the nature of the career.”

I shrugged. “Don’t work for a law firm then.”

“I’m not going to go back to working in a shop.”

“I’m not asking you to.” I already had an idea forming in my head, but I wasn’t sure exactly how she would respond to it.

She sighed. “I worked so hard to get to where I am. To get my degree and be able to use it. I don’t want to throw it all away now.”

“Then don’t.” I smirked.

“What are you thinking?”

A splooshing sound told us that Phoebe had taken advantage of our distraction to pour herself a glass of milk; unfortunately, it went all over the floor instead of into the cup.

“Here, let me get that,” Alyssa said, grabbing the paper towels from the bench. She poured some of the remaining milk into the cup and began to soak up the mess.

“I have an idea,” I said.

Alyssa shook her head slightly. “And that would be?”

“Work for me.”

“What?”

“I’ve never had a manager. Now that I’m on the cusp of a new career as a privateer, I really think I should have one.”

“I wouldn’t have the first clue about how to be a manager.”

“I’m sure it’s not hard.”

She laughed. “Tell that to all the stressed managers out there.”

“What I mean is, the job is all about putting the client’s career first and advancing their opportunities. I know you’ll have my best interests at heart, so you just need to do whatever needs to be done.”

“Like what?”

“Like talking with the sponsors and negotiating contracts for this privateer gig.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment until the piece of paper towel in her hands grew wet and attracted her attention anew.

“Besides, managers get a cut of their talent’s salary.”

She laughed. “And in this scenario you’d be the talent?”

“Of course!”

She stood up and met my eye. “You really think I could do it?”

“Why not?” I asked. “You’ve got the law degree behind you, so I know you’ll be able to read the contracts for me. You’re a naturally warm and giving person, and I’m sure the sponsors will respond to that.”

“And the fact that it would mean you’re able to palm a significant chunk of your to-do list onto me?” She raised her eyebrow.

I chuckled. “Well, that’s just an added bonus.”

She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, Dec.”

“Give me one reason why not.”

She bit her lip. “I just don’t know if I want everything in my whole life to revolve around your career.”

I tried to cover how much her words stung, but I couldn’t.

She reached out and stroked my face lovingly, reassuring me silently. “What I mean is that I’m so deliriously happy with the way we are at the moment that I wouldn’t want to ruin it by working together.”

“It won’t ruin anything,” I argued. “If anything, it’ll make it better, because you’ll be less stressed.”

She regarded me thoughtfully. “What if . . . something
happened
to you?” She looked at Phoebe, indicating she didn’t want to say anything that would worry her, but I realised she was talking about something as in an accident.

I thought about it for a minute. If Alyssa fashioned her career around mine, and then I couldn’t drive . . . 

The fact that we’d be down from two incomes to none would devastate our finances, but I was certain we’d manage. Somehow.

“Well, maybe you can use me as a test case?” I suggested. “If it works and you like it, then you can try to get a couple of other drivers on board, maybe?”

“I’ll think about it.”

I smiled. “That’s all I can ask. But it would be helpful if you could do it. I mean, God knows I don’t exactly read the contracts I’m given. I’d hate to be having to deal with something as important as sponsorship dollars. Especially with the risks I’m facing anyway.”

She shook her head with a small, knowing smile on her face. I could tell she was at least partially swayed by my argument. The more I thought about it, the more perfect a solution it seemed, and the more excited I was by it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: RACING LINE

ONE WEEK.

THAT was all it took for everything to be different.

The first day that I’d planted the seed that maybe she didn’t need to work anymore, Alyssa had a deep and meaningful conversation with Andrew Kent and had managed to score his son’s phone number, among other things.

She couldn’t really explain everything that they’d discussed for confidentiality reasons, but apparently, Danny had called Pembletons as soon as I’d told him my idea. The two men had already discussed the possibility that I would whisk Alyssa away to help me, at least temporarily. Andrew Kent’s only suggested alteration to the plan was that Alyssa should take an unpaid leave of absence instead of quitting, stating that her job would be there when she was ready to have it back.

The following day, Alyssa handed in her formal intention for a six-month leave of absence, effective immediately. Not all of the partners were happy, but Alyssa had Andrew Kent’s support so she didn’t give a shit what the other partners thought.

On the third day, we set up communication central in our home study. We had a fax machine, a two-line phone, a mobile, two laptops, and a desktop computer. We paid for the telephone company to come and install the extra lines we required, even paying double for them to put us as a priority on the list.

By the fourth day, I had a confirmed co-driver, even though I had yet to raise the sponsorship money I would need in order to hire the car from Danny or pay Kent’s fees. As expected though, the media went crazy the minute the press release was issued that I was driving as a privateer at Bathurst. Then when we announced that Dane Kent was heading out of retirement to race alongside me a few days later, it went mad again.

By the end of the working week, Alyssa had used the contacts that Danny had unofficially given me to generate some significant sponsorship money. It was more than enough to cover the cost of the car, the signage, the entrant fee, our accommodation, and the insurance. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Alyssa had pulled together a minor miracle in much less time than I could have ever imagined, so it wasn’t a great surprise to me when she had three clients within the first week. True, one was a driver on hiatus with an injury, one a driver who’d retired almost three years earlier, and the other was me. But nonetheless, for a manager-stroke-publicist just starting out in the game, it was a fan-fucking-tastic start.

Then she used the perseverance and grit that I knew she possessed in spades to find opportunities to promote me that would help to keep the sponsors satisfied. She contacted
Woman’s Idea
, the magazine who’d interviewed us months ago, and arranged for them to do an interview with Dane and me. The same photographer arrived on our practise track day and took photos of us in our suits as well as in more casual clothing. Even better, Alyssa had secured a time-for-prints agreement with her, so we got free use of the photos for our promotions.

It was all going so well.

In fact, the only problem with the new arrangement was that I barely saw Alyssa. During the day, she worked her arse off on the phone arranging this, that, or the other, and then at night she would pore over the contracts that came in, reading and rereading any clauses that had the potential to cause us trouble. I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone taking better care of me or my career.

“You know, you really shouldn’t have signed the first contract thrown at you by Sinclair Racing,” she murmured one night over the top of the paperwork she had brought into bed.

“Why’s that?” I asked, kissing her shoulder, trying to get her to focus her attention on other things besides the paperwork: namely
me
.

“It really was a stock-standard contract that gave them all the power. I’ve seen some of the negotiated agreements, and there were
a lot
of clauses they would have been willing to move on.”

What she’d said stayed with me as I headed into work the next morning. I wondered whether that was what bound Danny’s hands when it came to Hunter, and why he was so seemingly willing to lend his support to my
alternative
venture. Was he unable to do anything to censure Hunter without cause? Was that what he’d meant by needing to wait for hard evidence? Certainly Hunter had been on a tighter leash since Townsville. I would probably never know for sure. One thing I did know was that Danny would never tell me.

THE COUNTDOWN for Bathurst was on.

During the weeks leading up to it, both Dane and I had interviews with morning TV shows, radio, local papers, pretty much anyone that would have us. The words “media slut” were a more than adequate description of us during that time. But it was all worth it for the end goal.

There was, however, one magazine that was champing at the bit to get either, or both, of us, that Alyssa simply refused outright. After all, they’d already made their money off me, through their “star writer” Miss M and her trashy, rumour-filled stories. Each time Tillie or Talia tried to call us, Alyssa was quick to dismiss them.

Of course, that didn’t stop them from running the story about my comeback. Only, instead of exclusives, they had to use second-hand information. At first, they made a half-arsed attempt to tar and feather me, but without printing long-dead issues, they had nothing.

It was a crazy time for everyone. I was working on my privateer career in the evenings while still holding down my day job. In the end, I was still signed up to race at Phillip Island, albeit only in the Mini. Because I didn’t have to pit for Hunter now, it was set to be a fairly easy weekend. I just worried about Alyssa’s safety. I wanted to ban her and Phoebe from attending, but I never could.

In the end, she took the need out of my hands by apologising and telling me she would be too busy to attend—what with Bathurst a little under a month away. Her announcement left me free to concentrate on nothing but my driving. Well, nothing but my driving and avoiding Hunter like the plague.

I finished the weekend at Phillip Island first in the Micro Challenge championship, because I’d managed to claim pole, and then place first, second, and first in the races. It should have been cause for celebration, but there was no time, because the big race was creeping closer and closer.

Somehow there seemed to be more things left to organise each day and nothing ever seemed to get marked off as complete. There were items on the list I’d compiled from Danny’s advice that took much longer to arrange. Customised race suits and HANS devices were two items we’d have to order as early as possible because we needed to ensure they had the sponsors’ logos on them, but we couldn’t order too early or we risked missing a sponsor.

Although Alyssa organised so much other stuff, I was responsible for the design of the car’s exterior and the sticker placement. Of course, she helped me a lot with that as well because she knew the sponsor contracts inside and out. She knew who’d been granted major sponsorship and any mandatory placements. It cost a small fortune to have concept designs drawn up of the final car, but it was worth the money because it meant we could get the required sign-offs before spending the money on the vinyl stickers and finding some problem after the car was finished.

Even as everything else fell into place, I was left needing to arrange the team who would support me when I went racing.

For myself.

It was going to be so strange. Sure, I would be using a Sinclair Racing car, and I was racing on their team licence, but I had to pay for that right, a pretty penny in fact. Well, a pretty penny and a fuck-tonne of ugly ones. For all intents and purposes though, it was my car and my team.

On top of the promotion and sponsors, and pit crew, there were the simple logistics of the weekend. We had to get the car to the racetrack, get us into town, and arrange accommodation for the rest of the team. I had a newfound appreciation for all of the office staff at Sinclair Racing. They made it all look so easy. We’d already decided that Alyssa was going to be with me, but because she was going to be there in her official capacity as my manager, Mum was going to be on hand to look after Phoebe for us as well.

Morgan had volunteered to oversee the car on race day, managing the pit crew and race strategy. Thankfully, he’d learned a lot hanging around with Eden over the years and she was teaching him more every day.

My boys had been given the weekend off from Sinclair Racing without even having to ask for it, and they’d already agreed to pit for me. I had to pay them, of course, and I had to get Danny to sign off to allow them to work for me, but it meant I had a crew I trusted to the ends of the earth pitting for me.

The hardest thing to deal with was the doubt in the public mind. I’d heard the rumours circulating ever since the announcement had been made, but each day they seemed to get louder and more persistent.

Two weeks out from Bathurst, I was discussed in depth on the ProV8 show. In a debate featuring current and past drivers, they argued about whether or not I was washed up. They questioned whether I would still be able to handle a V8, especially with no real practice other than my Mini races and two track days that I’d shared with Sinclair Racing.

I’d been asked the same question by almost everyone who had interviewed me: with such a hex on my career right before my forced retirement, did I feel the pressure to perform? My answer was always the same: yes and no.

I felt the pressure to be successful in the form of putting my nuts on the line with the sponsors. I hadn’t started a race for almost twelve months, but I also hadn’t successfully finished one in the six months prior to that.

My entire future in a V8 rested on this one race. If I got through the weekend unscathed and managed to finish in a decent position, it would give me the perfect opportunity to renegotiate my position with Sinclair Racing.

Then there was the pressure of the knowledge that every bump, scratch, and dent on the car would come out of my pocket. It was the reason we’d ensured we had contingencies in place, but still . . .

If the car was a write-off, we’d lose everything. That realisation made me appreciate Alyssa’s agreement to my wacky plan that much more. I was risking everything we owned, everything we were, on one race, and Alyssa stood behind me 100 percent.

Despite all of the pressure that I faced though, I was actually relatively calm about the upcoming race. There were two reasons for my calm: Alyssa and Phoebe. Just as I’d come to understand at Emmanuel’s graveside, I knew no matter what happened on race day, even if I crashed out as spectacularly as I had the last time I drove around Bathurst, they would be there for me. All that mattered to them was that I came home safely.

That meant more than I could imagine.

In addition to working and getting everything ready for the big event, I also had to plan for the race itself. It had been such a long time since I’d properly raced a V8, and my return debut would be in a one-thousand-kilometre race that would last close to eight hours. I spent as much time as I was able to preparing myself physically and mentally as best as I could for the long race.

Part of my preparations included endurance training. I would wake extra early, creep into the gym at home, and spend hours thumping away on the treadmill or the cross-trainer, interval training as best as I could. During those long stretches, I had nothing to occupy my thoughts, so I often found myself recalling the way my life had been just twelve short months ago.

Some days, I tried to envisage what my life would be like if we hadn’t met on that plane on the way to London. Would I still be in the dark over my son and daughter? Would I still have my head up my own arse? Would I still be sleeping with random women in a vain attempt to find something that I now realised I would only ever have with Alyssa? One innocent touch from her satisfied me more than a hundred random fucks. The truth was, though, that I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. I hadn’t realised how dead I’d been inside until she brought me back to life.

More often than not, the end result of my mornings spent in the gym, and inside my own head, was racing back up to the bedroom and climbing into bed with Alyssa to do our own special stamina training.

It was after one of these “training” sessions that Alyssa turned to me, biting her lip anxiously. She’d been scratching her fingers absent-mindedly across my scalp, but she stilled her hand as she spoke. “I was thinking . . .” She trailed off.

“Yeah,” I said, urging her to continue the scratching at least, because it had felt fan-fucking-tastic.

“Well, it’s just . . .” She paused again and looked into my eyes, as if trying to assess how I would take whatever she had to say. I tensed a little in preparation, not knowing what it was, but knowing it was obviously important to her. “I’ve seen the way you’re facing this race and everything. You should be scared. Hell, you should be terrified, but you’re not. You’re cool and calm and just doing what needs to be done.”

“Babe, you know there is a hell of a lot going on down below the surface that no one else gets to see.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know, but you’re still willing to face something terrifying in the hope that something good will come out of it.”

“I couldn’t have done any of it without you by my side.”

She smiled sweetly. “I know. It’s just that it’s made me realise that maybe I need to face some of my own fears in the hope that something good comes of it.”