The F1 Champion Regretted Losing Me

Nina

The old fan creaked away by my ear as I lay beneath that secondhand Chevy, sweat trickling down my forehead. The wrench turned smoothly in my hand, and the stink of engine grease clung to my skin. This was my daily life—running a hole-in-the-wall auto shop in the slums of Los Angeles.

The rattle of someone banging on the roller door reached my ears, followed by a voice that made my stomach turn.

"Nina, your old man owes us two hundred grand. With interest piling up, it's three hundred now. Boss says if you don't pay, this shop becomes ours!"

Damn it—the debt collectors again.

I cursed under my breath and slid out from under the car. Sunlight framed the two men in the doorway, and I recognized them as members of the local gang. The bald one in front was Tony—an ex-con who'd done time for putting someone in the hospital, a genuine hard case. Cheap tattoos ran up his arms, a cigarette dangled from his lips, and he flaunted an IOU in one hand. The letters on it were crooked and uneven, but I could still make out my deadbeat father's signature.

I gripped the wrench tighter, fighting the urge to spit out another curse.

My mother died not long after I was born. My father was a hopeless gambler who abandoned me at home and never looked back. After one incident where I nearly starved to death, my grandparents took me in. I lived with them after that. My grandfather was a retired veteran who ran an auto shop and had a real gift for the work. I'd been assisting him since I was six, and by sixteen I could rebuild and customize a car on my own. That skill was how I made my living—but no matter how much I earned, it was never enough to feed that lowlife's habits.

Three years ago, my grandfather passed away and left the shop to me, making me promise to run it well. This place was his life's work. How could I ever tear it down for the sake of that scumbag?

"Nina, hand the shop over while you still can. You know I've got a soft spot for beauties like you. I won't make things hard for you."

Tony leaned his face close to mine, his choking tobacco breath washing over me, his greasy stare turning my stomach. The thug behind him chimed in. "Yeah, Nina, just give it up. Stick with the boss from now on and I guarantee you a good life—way better than rotting in this dump, playing with engine grease all day—"

I didn't let him finish. I shot to my feet and drove one long leg hard into his gut.

"Fuck you!"

Seeing his man slam into the roller door, Tony's expression changed in an instant. He spat out his cigarette and swore. "Fuck! The bitch actually swung at us!"

I watched his big hand lunge for me, not the least bit rattled. I whipped the wrench up—it whistled through the air—and brought it crashing down on his shoulder.

Tony let out a scream and staggered back several steps.

I didn't stop there. I closed in, grabbed him by the collar with my free hand, and pressed the wrench against his temple. My voice came out low and vicious. "My grandfather left me this shop. You lay one finger on it, and I'll crack your skull open—and I mean every damn word!"

The slabs of muscle on Tony's face twitched, and I saw the fear in his eyes.

The thug I'd kicked earlier climbed to his feet but hung back, head ducked, too scared to come closer. "Boss, this woman's out of her mind—she really goes for it. Tom from the Hatchet Gang landed in the hospital not long ago because of her. He still hasn't come out."

The fear ran deep in Tony's eyes now, but clearly he couldn't stomach being threatened by a woman. He clenched his teeth and said nothing.

I stayed silent too, only sneering as I pressed the wrench a fraction closer. The air in the shop seemed to thicken, the tension stretched taut like a string about to snap.

Finally, Tony spat hard on the floor, his bloodshot eyes glaring at me. "Fine, you've got guts. I'll give you two more weeks. But Nina, this isn't over! Even if you beat me to death, the debt still gets paid. You know old John's methods better than I do. There's no escaping this!"

I kept my face hard and said nothing—but I knew he was right.

Old John was the boss of the Bloody Hand Gang. There was no counting how many gamblers and junkies in the slums had died at his hands. If I couldn't come up with the money in two weeks, he wouldn't just seize the shop—he'd drag me off to some underground brothel and make me sell my body to pay it off.

Tony yanked his collar free from my grip, kicked his subordinate, and headed for the door. At the threshold he stopped and turned back, giving me a sinister smile. "Nina, better go scrape that money together fast. Otherwise next time I come, I'll ruin those hands of yours first—see how you swing a wrench then."

I didn't move, only tightened my grip on the wrench. "Get out! Don't make me say it a third time!"

I watched the two of them disappear around the corner. It was the hottest part of the afternoon, yet my back was drenched in cold sweat. My palm felt sticky. I glanced down—somewhere along the way I'd sliced open the web of my hand, and it was bleeding freely.

"Fuck!" I snapped in frustration, tossing the wrench into the toolbox and snatching up the half-empty bottle of water from the table. The water hit the raw wound and I sucked in a sharp breath at the sting. Blood mixed with water and swirled down the drain; it ran for a full half minute before the pain eased.

Another set of quick footsteps came from the doorway. My nerves snapped tight—I thought Tony and his crew had come back, and I grabbed the wrench again in a flash. But it was a chubby figure that came stumbling in.

"Nina! I just saw Tony and his guys—were they here for the money again?"

The fat man wore a pair of black-framed glasses, the lenses fogged over from running here too fast. I let out a breath. He was my buddy Jack, who'd started hanging around the shop with me back in high school. Jack might look like a simple guy, but he knew how to work people—there wasn't a soul in the whole neighborhood he didn't know. I wasn't much for dealing with people; I just kept my head down and fixed cars. Ordering parts, collecting payments, drumming up jobs—that was all his department.

I didn't answer him. I grabbed a towel from beside me and wrapped it around the wound, clumsily changing the subject.

"Jack, take a look at the welder for me, will you? Think it's broken again—it wouldn't spark when I tried to fire it up earlier."

"Forget the welder!" Jack stamped his foot, frantic. "Three hundred grand, Nina—where are we supposed to find that? Rent and the electric bill are due next week. All we pulled in this month were three beat-up pickups. If things keep going like this, we're both going to starve!"

My expression darkened further. My fingers dug into the towel and blood seeped through again.

"Enough! It's just money, isn't it? I'll figure out a way to get it!" I ground the words out through my teeth, as if venting the rage of my own helplessness.

Jack knew my temper well. He dragged over a chair and sat down across from me, his tone softening.

"Nina, you know now's not the time to fight. What we really need to do is figure out how to solve this. Actually—" He hesitated, studying my face. "I've got a job here…"