Page 145 of Vile Bastards
He releases my wrist but climbs out of the car anyway. I’m relieved to see that he leans up against it to smoke a cigarette rather than follow me inside.
There’s a woman behind the desk which is nice; I haven’t seen a single other female on the premises thus far, and I know for a fact that I’m the first to race this track.
“Scarlett Force,” I greet, thrusting out my driver’s license before the woman can ask.
Let’s get one thing straight: she looks like she’s about to shit her pants. I cock a brow as she drops her gaze to my ID and then lifts it back up to my face.
“Can I help you?”
Uh-oh. It’s that sort of ‘can I help you’, the one that sounds like ‘go fuck yourself and die’.
“I’m here to register for the preliminaries,” I add, waiting, waiting. She still doesn’t take my license, and I’ll admit: I let my temper get to me. I flick the license onto her desk. It hits her keyboard and bounces into her lap. The woman’s filler-pumped lips turn down in a frown. Not raggin’ on fillers in general, but she’s the sort who doesn’t look like she’s got full lips, more like she’s just jacked hers up with an air pump like a pair of pink bicycle tires.
“I don’t have you on the list.”
I smile at her. It’s not a very nice smile. Serial killer-ish, I’d say.
“Yeah, well.” I lift up the lanyard with my name on it. “I haven’t seen you check. Also, I very clearly am on the list.” I fold my arms on the surface of the countertop and lean over it to look at the lady more closely. “Like I said, the name is Scarlett Force.”
“There are no women on the list; I would remember if there were.” She retrieves my license and places it purposefully on the counter beside me. “We only have one unregistered driver, and he isn’t you.”
“Alexei Grove?” I query, but the woman has given up on this entire conversation. “Because if that’s who it is, he gave me his spot. Why would Adam—who takes his job very seriously—allow me in if I weren’t?”
The secretary sighs and finally deigns to look at her computer screen, clicking around with the mouse about a million times in such a way that makes me wonder if she’s actually doing anything over there. Do not escalate this, Scarlett. You knew coming here was going to test your temper. Undoubtedly, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
“It looks like Mr. Grove called in to report a change in the driver for today, but although that might’ve gotten you in the front door, we need him to come in with his ID and sign his spot in the tournament over to you. There’s nothing else I can do unless he’s here with you.”
I just stare at her.
“That makes zero sense … Jazz.” I stretch her name out like a curse after checking the placard perched proudly on top of the counter. Her parents should’ve named her Blues because she’s a serious downer. “I got in the gate, didn’t I? If Mr. Grove called in to change the name of his driver, and the buy-in was paid, what does it matter?”
Jazz glares at me as if I’ve personally offended her. Usually women love me, but every once in a while, I get one of these, the sort that look at me as if I’m a threat. This bitch needs to take her internalized misogyny and shove it up her bleached asshole. My girls and I call these types ‘handmaidens’.
“It matters because this is track policy. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do for you.” Jazz stands up and offers me a tight smile. “If you’ll excuse me.” She starts to move away, and I feel this wild surge of panic.
No way in fuck am I going to miss out on this race because of a goddamn technicality.
A man walks out of another office at about that same moment and sees me standing there. He frowns and sighs heavily, making his way past Jazz as she disappears through a side door, and then pauses just in front of me.
“You’re supposed to be down at the track already,” he says, giving me a once-over the way a butcher might examine a piece of choice meat. He then clucks his tongue, as if his male-pattern baldness provides him a supreme right to judge me from head to toe. “You’re not the girl we interviewed. Is she sick or something?”
“Dude, I’m here to race,” I explain, and the man’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. He gives me another once-over, looking aghast at the very idea. “Alexei Grove called in to confirm that I’m taking his place. All I need to do is register.” I tap my fingernail against my ID, still sitting on the counter, and the guy looks from it to me, back to it, to me again.
