Magnetic Shift

MAGNETIC SHIFT

LUCY D. BRIAND

Copyright © 2016 by Lucy Briand
First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by in any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
available upon request

Published in the United States by Spencer Hill Press
www.SpencerHillPress.com

Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
www.midpointtrade.com

This edition ISBN:
9781633920668 paperback
9781633920675 eBook

Printed in the United States of America

Design by Lorin Taylor
Cover by Jenny Perinovic

magnetic shift

Lucy D. Briand

chapter one

I jumped down from the truck, gawked up at the fence arching over Daytona International Speedway’s tri-oval track, and groaned as my gut twisted in the worst way. This death pit of metal, iron, and steel was going to be the end of me, I just knew it.

Okay, so technically this wasn’t any worse than the mounds of scrap metal and car parts at the salvage yard back home. And the fact that I was sent here against my will really sucked—like bash-me-over-the-head kind of sucked—but that wasn’t why my stomach was doing flips, either. Being thrown smack-dab in the middle of a media-crazed sport while trying to keep a lid on my magnetic influences, on the other hand …

Bye-bye, frying pan. Hello, fire.

I pulled a roll of cherry-flavored Tums out of my pocket, peeled the wrapper, and was about to drop my fifth one of the day on my tongue when a heavy twitch in my senses shifted my focus toward the track. A bright green-and-blue stock car had entered my awareness and roared past me through the banked
turn ahead. A normal person would have thought that to be exhilarating, but me … every fiber of my body had actually felt the thirty-four hundred pounds of steel rolling at one hundred and eighty plus miles per hour around that bend.

Ah, hell. Who was I kidding? There was no way I’d be able to keep my emotions under control in this place. I was already more bitter than a key lime and my curse was teetering over the barriers I’d taught myself to keep up.

The car caused a gust of wind to whip by, barely stirring air that had turned thick and humid thanks to the series of freak torrential downpours we’d had all week. I closed my eyes, curled a few stray strands of hair around my ear, and gave my right temple a quick rub.

Throbbing temple. Never a good sign.

The dark-haired man, who’d introduced himself as Jimmy when he’d picked me up, set my suitcase down next to me. “This way, Lexi. Dean’s waiting.”

Ah, yes. Dean. The owner of the Cup series race team and the creep who’d accepted my douchebag stepdad’s offer and taken me as payment for one whole year’s worth of sponsorship ads for his salvage yard.

God forbid we make him wait.

Jimmy turned his back to me and started toward the garage area at the center of the track’s infield without pausing for an answer or to make sure I was following. And why would he? In his eyes, I was nothing more than some glorified slave.

Huffing, I blew the long bangs out of my eyes. I never should’ve gotten off that bus—or better yet, never boarded it to begin with—but it wasn’t like I’d had a choice. I’d been sold. All deals were final.

Blood boiling, I shot my hand out over my suitcase, and the metallic handle popped up and slapped into my palm.

Crap. I glanced around. It didn’t look like anyone had seen what I’d done, but I’d have to be more careful from now on.

I glued my gaze to Jimmy’s heels as I hurried after him. The wheels of my suitcase grumbled loudly over the pitted pavement and, though I refused to look up, when we reached the long stretch of half white, half yellow multi-car garages I felt eyes watching me as we passed the open doors.

“Ah, shit.” Jimmy came to a halt, making me almost face-plant into his back. “I left the invoices in the truck. I gotta go back.”

He swung around me and jogged off the way we’d come, calling over his shoulder, “Go on ahead to Colton’s stall and ask for Dean, will ya?”

“Wait, what …?” Was he just going to leave me here? My gut tightened something fierce. “How am I supposed to know which one it is?”

He glanced back without stopping. “Look for the angel 129.”

Angel 129? Was he kidding me? What did that even mean? He disappeared around the corner, and the weight of my backpack grew heavier on my shoulders.

Crap. Crap. Crap. This wasn’t happening.

Techs and team personnel stared at me from the garage stall where Jimmy had left me stranded. The crew must’ve been wondering why a seventeen-year-old girl was hauling a suitcase and overstuffed backpack through the infield of the site best known for hosting auto racing’s equivalent to the Super Bowl. The car sitting inside had the words “SunCorp Petrol” plastered all over it and the number 220 on its door. The stall belonged to
two-time Cup Champion, Mitch Benson. The team owned by the great Carl Stacy.

Great, my ass.

My stepdad, Roy, idolized the man. Saw him as a role model of sorts. I didn’t follow the sport much, but I’d caught enough highlights on the shop’s radio and seen enough of his team’s promotional posters plastered around the workbench to know who the ass was. Even the part-timers at the shop wouldn’t shut up about him. If you asked me, the guy was a snobby old fart.

After passing a few more open doors, I looked up ahead, squinting through the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, hoping to figure out where the hell I was supposed to go. It was safe to assume the “129” part of Jimmy’s instructions meant I needed to find team 129’s stall, but how was I supposed to do that? The round yellow number signs sticking out above the doors only numbered the stalls, with no indication of which team was where. No way was I asking around for help. I was already a freak and I looked pathetic enough dragging around all my worldly possessions; I didn’t need
newb
tattooed on my forehead, too. My only option was to wander around and hope I stumbled on it.

My plain, black t-shirt—the only one I owned that wasn’t covered in oil or grease stains—clung to my skin.
Argh
! If I didn’t find this Dean guy soon, I was going to melt into a pile of goop right here on the pavement. I cupped a hand over my eyes and found the clue I was looking for three doors down. A crew member wearing a dark mechanic’s shirt with a white angel printed on the back strolled out, grabbed two Goodyear radial slicks from the stack outside the door, hollered a few words to one of the few scattered fans leaning over the railing of the
roof’s viewing area, and ducked back inside.

Bingo
.

Now all I had to do was keep my fingers crossed that I would find the 129 car inside that stall.

I tugged my suitcase over the threshold and wrinkled my nose at my first whiff of motor oil and high-octane racing fuel. This stuff was way more potent than the gunked-up crap I spent day in and day out draining from the old cars back home.

My gaze landed on the shiny vinyl-wrapped black, yellow, and dark green stock car perched on the ramps inside. A white angel logo—large unfolded wings, a yellow halo, and dark green Guardian Auto Insurance lettering—gleamed and sparkled on its hood under the ceiling’s florescent lights. The car also had a small, white 129 decal stuck to its bumper.

Found it
.

But wasn’t it supposed to be Roy’s ad sprawled on that hood? I leaned to the side a bit to get a better look at the roll call of different associate sponsor decals along the side of the car.

Great
.

There it was. The four-by-twelve-inch silver-and-gold lettered logo of Roy’s East Coast Salvage Yard.

Are you freakin’ kidding me?

He’d shipped me out here so he could get that stupid little sticker put on the car? How were fans supposed to see that from the grandstands? I could barely see it from here.

“Are ya lost, little girl?” A deep, young voice spoke behind me.

I sucked in a sharp breath and my hand flew to my chest. I’d been so busy cursing that damn ad I hadn’t noticed anyone approaching.

I spun around, ready to ask him who he was calling “little girl,” and came face-to-chest with a guy who looked barely older than nineteen. My mouth turned to cotton at the sight of him staring down at me. I took a wobbly step back. “I, uh …”

The sleeves of his black, green, and yellow one-piece fire suit were tied low at his waist, showing off the white short-sleeved cotton t-shirt printed with the large winged Guardian Auto Insurance logo stretched tightly across his chest. I swallowed as I flicked my gaze up to his face. Sandy blond hair peeked out the back of the matching black ball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Oh, good God almighty.

I’d never swooned before—hell, I hardly knew what the word meant—but this guy’s grin made me light-headed and woozy, and my heart raced at two hundred miles per hour. I picked up my jaw, cleared my embarrassing reaction from my throat, and, hoping it wasn’t too late, tried not to look stupid.

He stepped closer and jutted out his chin. I met his eyes, and my breath hitched. His left eye was a deep sapphire color while the other was emerald. He had mismatched eyes. My temples pulsed. I’d never seen such odd, gorgeous eyes before. My awareness of every metal object in the vicinity grew stronger.

“It’s called odd-eye.”

I blinked hard. “Excuse me?” I’d been staring and not paying attention … to his words, anyway.

“It’s called odd-eye. Heterochromia, if you want to get technical.” He pointed to his eyes. “People stare all the time. You get used to it.”

Used to it? I didn’t want to get used to it. This was a guy who knew what it was like to get stared at, to feel out of place, to be different. I liked not being the only abnormal person here.
Okay, having different colored eyes was totally different from my ability to move metal objects with the flick of my wrist, but the small similarity gave me a sense of comfort.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. My cheeks flamed. Nice. My face probably looked like a pair of lit-up brake lights right about now.

“Hey, no worries.” His grin grew wider, raising the cute, tiny dark freckle on his left cheek closer to the corner of his green eye. A strange yet pleasant sensation tingled through me and scattered into tiny flutters inside my chest.

Something rattled behind me near my suitcase. I snapped out of it and shifted my awareness to the pulse throbbing in my temples.

No, no, no. Ah, crap. Not now!

I closed my eyes and pulled myself together. After years of control, I couldn’t let myself lose it now. Not out in the open like this. Not in front of this guy. This gorgeous guy.

Within a split-second, the rattling had stopped. With a sigh of relief, I released my death-grip on the shoulder straps of my backpack.

Crisis averted. For now.

When I opened my eyes again, the guy had lost his grin. He glanced down at something behind me, but dismissed it and looked back at me. “So, you never answered my question.”

I blinked hard, trying my darndest to keep my nerves from exploding. “Which was?”

“Are you lost?” He crossed his arms over his chest, eyed my backpack and suitcase, and narrowed his eyes at me. “Something tells me you’re not here ’cause you’re a fan.”

“I’m not lost. At least, I don’t think …” His new posture intimidated me. I couldn’t focus. “I’m looking for Dean …?
Dean Grant?”

He shot his hand up, fingers pointing as if he were about to shoot me. I flinched. “Right, you must be Lexi, the girl who can drop a transmission in, like, fifteen minutes flat.” He scanned me over from my thrift store steel-toed boots to my delicate, silver eyebrow piercing—a gift Mama had gotten me not long before she died—then twitched the corner of his lips into a faint smile. “You’re not at all what I’d pictured.”