Read #Swag (GearShark #3) for Free Online Page B

that and not an immediate hell yes.
    We turned into the Speedway lot and coasted across the pavement.
    I wanted the car. This was the closest I’d come to driving nirvana since the Vette was totaled. Yet for some reason, something held me back from saying so.
    There was a slight hesitation to my usually quick willingness to pull the trigger.
    And it wasn’t the price tag.
    As I steered through the smaller gates into the stadium, I caught the distinct sight of a bright-yellow Skyline.
    Nah, it wasn’t the money. It was something else.

 
    Joey
    My hair.
    There was so much of it, it got its own sentence.
    My mother was Latin. Yes, the irony of a Latin woman living it up in Paris was not lost on me. She was all curves, dark hair, and olive-toned skin. She was a gorgeous woman, actually; it was the reason she’d caught my father’s eye and managed to become his third and final ex-wife.
    I’d inherited a lot of features from her, like my endless curves and the thick mass of dark, curly hair, which frankly, I found unruly and sometimes bothersome. My skin tone wasn’t pale, but it wasn’t quite as olive and golden as some Latin women. That was courtesy of my father, along with my height, for which I was grateful. I had so many curves I couldn’t imagine trying to pack them all into a shorter frame.
    At least being five seven, the length of my body attempted to slim out my hips and chest.
    Not that it worked much.
    So many days, I’d cursed my womanly body. Working in a male-dominated field—correction—a field where men thought they were God’s gift to women, I’d wished more than once my chest was flat and my booty was, too.
    Even so, I didn’t often cover up my curves with baggy, oversized clothes. I tried that; it only made me feel like I was wearing a sack, and I still got lewd comments and propositions anyway.
    Always out of earshot of my father or any of his loyal employees of course.
    And I never said a word. I wasn’t about to run back to my father and tattle. I was a big girl and I could handle a bunch of dicks.
    Not literally. Figuratively.
    Physically, I preferred my dicks one at a time.
    :-)
    I didn’t dress suggestively either. Frankly, I didn’t have to. My body had the ability to turn any outfit into something I worked.
    Usually, on the track, I wore leggings and tank tops covered up by jumpsuits I had made with all my sponsor logos and brands on them.
    I wasn’t in a business where I necessarily had to dress for the part. Although, I had a feeling that might be changing in the next couple months.
    Or, um, right now.
    That’s where my hair came into the equation.
    We were the first to arrive on the set of the interview. Once again, GearShark had a whole team of people on standby to make the interview and shoot happen.
    I’d never done a photoshoot before. Sure, I’d had headshots done, but it was from the shoulders up. Photographers my father hired would never dare take a full-body shot of his only daughter.
    
    On occasion, at races, the press would capture shots of me, usually when I was half dressed in the jumpsuit and it hung around my waist like I had a giant sweatshirt tied there.
    I’d been in magazines before. Never a feature article, though.
    At first, I’d come into the pro racing circuit thinking being a female might actually help me. It might set me apart and grasp some attention.
    It set me apart all right. From everyone.
    Sure, some magazines ran articles about me, never more than half a page, and they were always accompanied by the kind of shot a photographer accidentally snapped when he was taking shots of some of the other drivers.
    I knew for a fact some of those paps had shots of me on the winners’ podiums, but none of those pics ever made it public.
    Conspiracy? I tried to think not.
    Some days it was hard.
    The second Drew, Trent, and I got out of the car, we were surrounded. It seemed the team today was the same team from both Drew’s and Trent’s