Shut Down – Turning the engine off to avoid mechanical damage. Drivers will shut down the engine to avoid more severe and expensive consequences when an engine is vibrating.

 

After qualifying Friday morning, the night was open. Knowing he needed a break from everything surrounding us, Jameson decided it was time he hit the dirt.

There was something about those cars; when he was in them, nothing else mattered. It was just him, the rumble, and eight hundred horsepower in his hands.

Justin had called on Thursday letting him know he was heading out to race sprint cars at Summerville Speedway, a 4/10 clay dirt track about two hours south of Darlington.

Around one that afternoon, and after a stop at the local Ford dealer, we found ourselves cruising down Interstate 95 toward Summerville where sweet tea and sunscreen held memories for me.

For one night, it would be nice to get away from the politics and go back to why Jameson loved racing in the first place—why any of us loved racing. It brought the excitement, the thrill, and the draw.

Summerville, in my mind, might just be the hottest place in the South. Today was no different. And did I mention Jameson’s Mustang didn’t have air conditioning? Well, it didn’t.

Not only that, but I was pregnant, and heat seemed to be something I was producing now. I felt like I was a heater. So you add that, the blistering haze outside, no air conditioning, and Jameson touching me too much, and I wasn’t real happy by the time we made it to this sauna they called Summerville, South Carolina. Oh, and the humidity today was something like 100%.

Stepping from the car, the heat was like an inferno. In a state full of mountains, swamps, and beaches, all I saw here was heat and clay.

“At least it doesn’t smell like cow shit.”

I sniffed and nearly threw up. “And a paper mill is better?”

“It’s not shit.”

He had a point. I looked around, reminded of the way it was out here. Just like an old worn country road and overgrown wheat fields, the town was homegrown.

Lathering myself in ungodly amounts of sunscreen, Jameson reached behind the seat for his bag that held his Simplex driving suit, a few spare t-shirts, his black Puma racing shoes he couldn’t race without, and his helmet.

His eyes lit up when Justin and Tommy approached. Laughter on the other side of the haulers drew my attention to a group of girls.

Pit lizards. They had them here, too.

With a quick kiss, Jameson left me alone and headed toward the registration booth with Justin and Tommy.

An hour passed as the boys set up the cars, and after a few hot laps, I found myself in the pit bleachers waiting for Jameson’s heat race.

Tommy dropped down beside me. His greeting, “What’s up, fat girl?”

“Nice...” My leg mindlessly kicked his shin. “I see your hair is just as bright as the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on the bench behind us before stretching his legs out in front, his boots coated with the thick red clay. “Melanie doesn’t seem to mind my hair.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grinned, seeing my opportunity to make fun of him, too. “Still seeing Pussycat Doll, eh? What is that, some kind of dating record for you?”

His orange eyebrows raised, and his forehead resembled a Shar Pei puppy with wrinkles. “Pussycat Doll?”

“Never mind.”

“Actually, I only spent one night with her,” Tommy confessed. “It’s not like I’m in Pocono all that often.”

“Yeah, this lifestyle doesn’t lend well to relationships, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Tommy laughed, bringing his water to his mouth. “But I’m not looking for one. I like this, helping Jameson.”

“He appreciates it.”

Our attention drifted to the track when the cars roared past for the start of their ten-lap heat. Jameson started in the rear with the inversion, quickly picking off the first two cars by the third lap.

Tommy sighed. “I can’t believe he can race stock cars the way he does and then come out here and do this like he never left dirt.” His water bottle tipped to Jameson, who was broad sliding past Cody Bowman for second. The cloud of dirt created by the cars shifted our direction along with the breeze of methanol.

With the amount of sunscreen and sweat on my body, the dirt clung to me like I was one of those lint rollers.

“So...” Tommy smiled at me when they threw the checkered flag. Jameson had won his heat with Justin, finishing second followed by Tyler and a few local guys. “He knocked you up, huh?”

I shook my head as I stood, attempting to rub some of the dirt from my black tank top and jean shorts. “You’re so subtle.”

Jameson stopped his sprint car in front of the flag stand. The engine ran lean as he ran it out of gas to turn the engine off. Winged sprint cars were completely different from a stock car. The biggest difference was their direct drive.

You don’t just start a sprint car by turning a key. They’re push started to turn the engine over.

The process, once the driver was inside the tiny cockpit, was simple but complicated to someone who has never been inside one. First, he placed the engine in gear with direct cable link called the coupler to the rear end that engaged the gear. Then, he turned on the fuel, a switch usually located near the steering wheel, and a push truck pushed him off. With their high compression ratios, it took a good push to get the rear tires turning. Being direct driver, once all four wheels were turning, the engine could turn over. Once the oil pressure was around 80 PSI, the driver fired the engine.

When they shut them off, they took it out of gear and turned the fuel valve off. As the engine ran out of fuel it would run lean, causing the revolutions to build before the engine was switched off.

That was the sound Jameson’s sprint car was making.

I’d always been partial to it as it was a thunderous, throaty sound. I was sure you’d appreciate my love for it once you heard it. It was unlike any other sound. Just the same as a sprint car, there was nothing else like those fire-breathing, high power-to-weight rockets. I think that was why Jameson enjoyed them so much. They were different—just like him.

The crowd, some five thousand fans, roared to life when they spotted Jameson approaching the grass in front of the stands. He stood there for a moment, smiling at the announcer who climbed down from his tower to interview Jameson.

Tommy and I laughed. The women in attendance made their way front and center. Jameson, being the humble version of himself he was around his fans, smiled and waved to them.

“Do you recognize this kid?” the track announcer spouted off, enticing the crowd further. “He’s a super star these days!”

Jameson shook his head and pulled the microphone to his lips. “I think you have me confused with someone else. You guys can’t possibly be this excited to see a kid from Elma, Washington.”

That did it. It now sounded like a rock concert.

Most thought that a sprint car racer would be from the Midwest, but no, the Riley family was raised in the Northwest. Sure, they spent a lot of time traveling, but Jimi and Nancy did that by design. They wanted their kids to grow up in a small town.

Tommy and I got another good chuckle. Back in the day when he used to race here, he got cheers, but nothing like this.

Jameson’s arms hung loosely on his hips as he watched the crowd with curiosity and amusement to their reactions to him—a small town boy made out to be some sort of mythical creature. You could see the sweat pouring from him in his dark racing suit, the top half-pulled down around his waist.

“So, Jameson Riley...” The crowd screamed again. “You made it out to old Summerville. Is this heat from you?” the announcer taunted the crowd further.

“Nah.” Jameson smiled at a group of girls. He knew how to work them when needed. Shit, look at me all knocked up and sweaty. I was proof of that. “It must be the ...” He eyed the girls again, “... the homegrown.”

They went into an absolute frenzy. Like I said, he could work it when needed, and I knew that was all he was doing. He meant nothing by the gesture.

“How are you feeling after that wreck in Pocono?”

“I feel great.” He wasn’t about to tell him that his wrist aches at night, or he can hardly catch his breath from the lung injury, or that he had double vision at times, which he refused to tell the doctors or NASCAR about, but he was feeling good because he was back.

We could hardly hear what they were saying with the women surrounding him so we made our way back over to the sprint car hauler. Justin and Tyler huddled around their cars, scraping clay and laughing.

Justin’s girlfriend, Ami, smiled at me. “How are you feeling?”

Kicking a few rocks free from my shoes I was forced to wear in the pits, I answered with my usual smile when I thought about the life between Jameson and I growing inside me. “Good.”

“Morning sickness yet?”

“Oh, yeah, nearly every morning, afternoon and night.”

Tommy nudged the small amount of cushion that had grown on my sides these past few weeks. “It looks like you’ve been makin’ up for it, though.”

“Ignore him.” Ami kicked Tommy in the ass. He jerked back to dodge her, his feet skidding along with the layer of dirt inside the hauler. “You look beautiful.”

Ami Lewis was about as sweet as the tea in these parts. With her golden blonde hair, usually in wavy layers, and her eyes as bright as her personality. I adored her not only because she reminded me of one real full-grown Gerber baby, but she wasn’t in it for the fame with Justin.

Being a World of Outlaw driver, he, too, had his fair share of pit lizards, but Ami was far from that and good people in my book.

“How’s Jameson doing now?”

Ami and I sat down on the edge of the hauler ramp, watching the guys get the cars ready. “Cranky when things don’t go his way, but he’s healing since the accident.” My gaze over the cars fell on Jameson walking toward us. “He’d never say it, but I think he is still not feeling that well... but he’s managing. I think it’s more of him being angry that it happened in the first place.”

Ami seemed to understand and let me vent a little to her. It wasn’t like I needed to vent, but she also understood the frustrations that followed when your other half was a racer. They kept so much hidden underneath that helmet; at times it was hard to get through it. She knew that.

“You’re really great for him,” I told Ami, motioning to Justin as Tommy smacked him in the gut with a spare shock when he saw Justin trying to adjust something on the engine.

“He’s pretty special to me.” Ami beamed looking over at him.

“Hey, Ami.” Jameson bumped into her shoulder. “When did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago.” She wrapped her arms around Jameson for a hug. “I’m glad to see you out here.”

“Me too.” Jameson pulled back to kiss her cheek. “It’s been a while.”

To some girls, a kiss on the cheek would bother them. Not me. I knew the bond we all held with each other. Ami would never make a move on Jameson, as I would never cross a line with Justin or any other driver or team member. It’s the way it was with us.

Alabama blared through the loud speakers, carrying through the pits with the wind.

Ami was distracted by Justin dumping ice on her. After that, with the heat today, I had half a mind to sit my fat ass in the cooler full of water and Gatorade.

“Hey, dude, there’s Quincy Saller.” Justin pointed at the well-known Outlaw owner.

“He hates me,” Jameson said, taking a drink of his Gatorade in hand.

“How do you do that? You’ve been here all of five minutes,” Tommy mocked Jameson.

He shrugged. “It’s a talent, I guess.”

Playful Jameson was out tonight, dancing around to the beats of an upbeat country song. Dressed in his racing suit that formed nicely to his toned physique, he swayed his hips slightly with a wiggle and then slid across the hauler, repeating the same move on the other side.

I threw my head back in laughter at his country-dance he made up, as did Ami.

His lips slid over my shoulder. “This reminds me of that summer.”

“Me too.”

His gaze on me remained playful, and I couldn’t look away. He blinked, dark lashes casted a shadow on his cheeks. My eyes focused on his sun-kissed nose, the same freckles I traced when we were younger.

“Come here,” his slow, husky voice drew me to him as he motioned with his head to the hauler behind us.

The sprint car hauler wasn’t too much different from Jameson’s cup hauler, but there were a few differences. The biggest difference was where the cars were located when they transported them. In a cup hauler, the cars were stored above with the team electronics and work area below.

In a sprint car hauler, the cars were stored in the rear near the door almost similar to those toy haulers people use to haul around dirt bikes. Same concept.

When they unloaded them, it left a large work area for them. Most electronics were kept up front, creating an office up there. They usually hauled two cars to each race, extra wings, a few engines, shocks, springs, rear ends, tires, and axles—all ready to repair a wadded up race car.

The spare wing and numerous other parts were hauled to the infield prior to the feature events in case they needed to make changes during the two-minute break they allowed to get back to racing. Though it’s the South where most feel life is slower, sprint car racing was fast paced, adrenaline fueled and hot tempered. It was dirt track racing. It was where the local guy could compete with legends. It was where the man who worked eight-to-five all week could get his next fix. It was where clay met rubber.

“What are you doing?” I asked when he closed the door behind him. There was no air conditioning inside the hauler either. With the humidity, closing the door made it like a sauna.

“Getting my girl alone,” he said, lowering his voice. “She has been far too sexy today, strutting around the pits. My engine has reached the rev-limiter.” His lips brushed against my neck as he spoke the last part, arms leaving me as he walked backward toward where all the spare parts were stored. A sly smile slid across his lips.

I’m not sure if it was intentional, but at that moment, I didn’t care.

“Come on, honey, I got a few minutes to kill.”

He waited for me to draw up alongside him, and instead of turning away, he continued to walk backward, his smirk only getting bigger.

That smile got me every time. It was the same smile he had the night we met in Elma, the night he won Knoxville Nationals, the night he won the Chili Bowl, and that night he won me in Charlotte.

It was my smile.

“Do you remember that first night in Charlotte?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Why?”

He shrugged, pushing me back farther into the parts area. “I think about it a lot. It changed everything between us. Something I’d been holding onto for months was decided with one look.”

“One look?” I gasped, remembering the night, the way he felt against me, the race, the bar, and the way his body hovered over mine. The sensation when he entered me for the first time, knowing our relationship would never be the same. Oh, I remembered all right.

“I remember the way you looked in victory lane ...”

His mouth moved to my lips, just for a second, taking me off-guard as he slid his tongue to mine, and his moan made my skin tingle.

Fingers grasping me tightly, his hands were on my hips and then moving higher with impatient hands. “I thought about you that entire race,” he continued, the stubble on his chin scratched my jaw as he dragged his lips over me. “The way your eyes lit up with each touch and the fire between us... I know you felt ...”

I nodded. It was all I could do. My fingers gripped the front of his shirt as my breathing became shallow, I wanted him so bad.

He exhaled slowly. “You felt so good, you drove me fucking crazy.” His teeth nipped at my neck, reminding me he was still here, the feel of his tongue was a relief to the haze of the heat. His fingers went to the waistband of my jean shorts, and mine went to his race suit, pulling it down. Next was his T-shirt, and that was gone, too, within seconds.

“What’s gotten into you?” My hands gripped into his hair so tightly I incited a groan from him.

“Must be the heat.” I knew he wasn’t referring to the heat between us.

I moaned, or at least I thought I did. Some kind of noise escaped, quickly swallowed by his mouth. He curled his free hand into my hair, pushing my face almost painfully to his. He shifted all his weight forward. We fell back against the shocks on the wall. Jameson smacked his head on the rear end hanging above us. It didn’t stop him, though. He winced slightly, rubbing the spot, and continued.

His steady hands pulled my panties down, palms ran up my bare thighs before his body pressed into me. Watching me with half lidded eyes, he nipped at my wrist and then moved back to my neck.

He pressed forward, assembly prep completed, and it was time for some align boring.

And then... we heard Tommy.

Jameson’s head fell forward.

“Damn it.” His shoulders hunched, as he seemed completely defeated. His sigh heavy with annoyance.

“Where’s Jameson?” we heard Tommy ask Justin, who was apparently out there, too. My cheeks flushed at what he must have heard. He had to have heard.

Justin laughed. “We found his pants in the hauler.”

Jameson chuckled, remembering that he dropped those near the door earlier today.

“Where’d the rest of him go?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re helpful.”

“Never claimed to be.”

Knowing this wasn’t happening, we both sighed and untangled ourselves right before Tommy peeked his head inside and laughed when Jameson kicked it shut. “Get out of here.”

Tommy cackled, leaving us to right our clothing.

When we finished and stepped outside, Tommy, Justin, and Tyler all stood with smiles.

“Do you honestly know how many times I’ve seen this boy’s ass over the years?” Tommy asked Justin, holding a wrench in his left hand and a beer in the other.

“Don’t answer that,” Jameson bellowed from the front of the hauler, trying to find his helmet he’d tossed aside earlier.

They all got a good laugh out of our disappearance, as did Ami. She smiled, wiping some grease from my shoulder. “It’s really hard to get it on in there. Tommy is always walking in.”

I slung my arm around her. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one.”

“Nope, we have done things in this hauler I hope no one ever finds out about.”

Tommy perked up. “You know, everyone thinks they’re so sneaky around here, but we can hear everything. There’s no insulation.” He looked between Ami and me leaning against the side of the hauler now.

“Go easy on the beer, fire crotch. It is daytime.”

He smiled, blue eyes amused under his black hat. With his orange curls looping out just like Jameson’s usually did, he looked like a damn Halloween costume. “Yeah, okay. I will, if you can keep your legs closed for one night.”

Jameson was quicker than I was and backhanded Tommy upside the head without saying anything as they scrambled to make a few adjustments on the cars. All three sprint cars were lined up outside the hauler, caked in clay.

Tommy was distracted after that, leaving Ami and I to add tear-offs to the helmets, something I always enjoyed doing for Jameson.

“It’s racy tonight.” Justin waggled his eyebrows at Jameson as they pulled their racing suits back over their shoulders.

“Ah, yeah,” Jameson replied with a southern drawl I didn’t know he had. “Best of luck to you two.”

The taunting was on. They were all friends inside the pits. On the track, no one was friends.

Jameson smiled when the horn sounded twice letting us know it was time for the drivers to line up for the A-Feature.

All this—the sounds, the sights, the laughter among the boys—it was like reliving all those summer races together, one bullhorn at a time.

Tommy made a few frantic adjustments to Tyler’s car before he pounded on the wing letting him know he was ready. They pushed the cars into line for the trucks to lead them to the track to be pushed off.

Tommy controlled all the set-ups of both of Jameson’s sprint cars, as well as the one he had for himself on occasions like this. Tommy Davis was a sought after guy at the dirt tracks. Not only did he have a degree in engineering, he knew sprint cars better than most seasoned vets. Jameson had confidence in him, and without Tommy, JAR Racing wouldn’t be what it was.

This team—Tommy, Justin, and Tyler—was essentially his buddies growing up. Tommy, of course, went to high school with us. He met Justin and Tyler back when he raced for USAC, a division that has three premier divisions of midgets, sprint cars, and silver crown sprint cars.

When Jameson started racing Busch and then eventually in the Winston Cup Series, he couldn’t let go of his dirt side. So to keep with that, he started JAR Racing in 2002 and teamed up with Simplex, Ayers Manufacturing, and PowerPlus Performance, to field two cars in the World of Outlaw series, the premier division for winged sprint car racing in the United States.

For being their first year, Justin was running fifth in the points with Tyler running ninth. The best part was they were all having fun.

And though Jimi would never tell you, he kept it going for Jameson. With all the obligations on the Cup side, Jameson didn’t have time to take care of everything when the Outlaws raced twice or sometimes three times a week. Jimi made sure things were done right. He knew how much it meant to Jameson.

Tommy, Ami, and I made our way back to the pit bleachers to watch the feature.

The lights of the track burst on at the setting sun, highlighting the fire-breathing sprint cars on the track. The top wings, all shiny and polished, glistened as they passed by the front-stretch. Greasy food, beer, methanol, warm rubber, sunscreen, fresh grass all outweighed the paper mill smell, thank God. Inhaling deeply, I was reminded of everything I loved about this place on a Friday night at the local dirt track.

They announced the drivers and their catchy nicknames they had most of their careers. Justin West was “Wicked West,” and could pull off some of the wickedest slide jobs you ever saw. Tyler Sprague was “The Sleeper,” and waited until the last moment to make his move. Jameson, well he carried his from NASCAR, “Rowdy Riley,” and watching him race dirt, the name did him justice.

The cars circled, thunderous and defined, the cellophane tear-offs stuck to the chain-link fence—each with a loud pop as they lifted in the turns and then the sharp growl as they feathered through the high-banked turns. The dust cloud swirled, breaking above the tree line before dissipating into the night air.

The green flag waved, and we could barely see the cars with the wave of dirt that blew toward us.

About ten laps into the forty-lap main, most were hugging the bottom where Jameson and Tyler were riding the cushion of caution up top. The cars were sticking and would be considered dry-slick with a black layer of rubber laid down.

Tyler grabbed a new line on the inside near lap seventeen. Jameson kept with his line up top and managed to knock off a few cars and hold on to third for a while.

Jameson still had it and could hang with the guys like he never left dirt. Coming back to dirt, most thought, why would you risk it with the deal you have going with Simplex and NASCAR? Sure, Jameson had a sponsorship with Simplex that prohibited him from doing activities that could hurt him. The thing was, dirt racing was how Jameson relaxed. Simplex knew that. In turn, they respected his decisions and trusted him to be careful.

Honestly, I think he raced dirt again to prove he still could. I mean, sure, there was the relaxation part, but he never got away from dirt for too long; it was his roots, and he needed to know for himself that it still was. It was almost as if this was his reality check.

The dirt had layered, hovering over the track. As each car whipped past, the wind circled the cloud, creating a vortex, sucking the cars to the clay. Justin had a good three-car gap on the rest of the field of twenty cars with twenty to go and pretty much checked out after that. No one could catch him.

Before we knew it, the forty-lap feature was done with no cautions.

Though Jameson finished third behind Justin and a local kid named Danny Utley, he was all smiles when he pulled himself from the car.

It was moments like this, surrounded by our inner circle of family and friends, where the man who dominated on the track let his guard down. In turn, we saw the twenty-three-year-old kid that he was. Gone was the man who challenged everyone who questioned his skill and who told him he couldn’t do it. Present was the magic behind the wheel, Jameson Riley. Vulnerable but extremely relentless, most forgot he was a kid living his dream within the shadows of the greatness Jimi created in the world of racing.

I wasn’t sure anyone would ever see him in the light I saw him, for who he really was.

But, then again, would they understand such a complex man full of adrenaline and desire like he was?

I don’t think they could.

“You want a beer, man?” Justin opened the cooler once everyone was back at the hauler. He held his trophy close, petting it as he handed Jameson the beer.

Jameson nodded, taking the beer from Justin and then tried to steal his trophy.

The celebration at the hauler was in full swing like the good old days. Though we were all having a good time and sharing stories from the past, most at Tommy’s expense, something kept drawing my attention toward the shadows of the track where the lights had flickered off, but I couldn’t understand why.

Seated securely on Jameson’s lap, he didn’t let me forget where he wanted my attention with his touches that never failed to hit me with another round of heat and desire. The heat from the day hadn’t dissipated in the least and neither had our unfinished business. Now wasn’t the time, though. Right now was about hanging out with our friends.

Ami was leaned against Justin’s sprint car. His one arm was draped over her shoulders, and the other was holding his trophy, taunting Jameson.

“It’s not too often I beat the boss man,” Justin would say every now and then and hug the trophy tighter causing us all to break into laughter.

Tommy had disappeared, but none of us thought much of it since we had seen his attention toward a few of the pit lizards.

When he returned, we thought some of it because Van, our bodyguard, who I’d met all of one time, was beside him. He was sneaky, stealthy even, and wasn’t noticed unless he wanted to be. I personally had no idea he even followed us here, but I guessed maybe that was his plan all along.

I could actually count the number of occasions when Tommy had acted his age of twenty-three. As he jogged up to us, now was one of them. “Jameson, we need to leave.”

“Why?” His hands slid from my thighs as I stood.

“We just do.”

That confirmed my earlier theory. Darrin was here.

A few minutes passed as Jameson stared into the distance.

Tyler jogged over from the Simplex/Ayers tent where he’d just been. His shaggy black hair matted from the sweat of the race fell loosely over his forehead before he swept it away.

“Hey, man, uh...” His brown eyes danced around, searching for words that wouldn’t set Jameson off. His hand rose to scratch the back of his head, stalling. “We have a problem.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jameson replied, his eyes darting to Tommy and then Justin. “When did he get here?”

“Stay here.” His tone was militant. There would be no discussion.

Tommy stayed beside Ami and me while Jameson, Justin, Tyler, and Van approached the crowd he knew Darrin was in.

“He’s like a bad rash,” Tommy said almost conversationally as we followed. There was no way I was letting Jameson go over there without me. For one, I was scared of the dark, two, I didn’t trust Tommy all that much, and third, I had to know what he was going to say to someone who nearly killed him and had the nerve to show his face again. “He’s irritating and itchy, but nothing gets rid of him.”

I couldn’t help myself and smiled despite the events unfolding. “You know a lot about rashes, don’t you?”

Tommy cracked a fleeting grin. All our eyes focused on the boys standing near the hauler of a local driver.

When Jameson actually spotted Darrin for the first time, it was all Tommy and Justin could do to hold him back.

Tommy’s head snapped toward Jameson when he mumbled something under his breath, and apparently, Tommy heard it. The tension rolling off Jameson was enough to vibrate him. My firm grasp on his hand seemed to be the only reason he wasn’t shaking.

“I told you to stay back there.”

I didn’t say anything and drew in a deep breath, preparing myself for the release of his anger.

“Oh, look who it is,” Darrin said, stepping toward us as his hands reached for me, but he stopped short when Jameson pulled me hard to his side. A few men gathered near Darrin, protecting him, I assumed, but I never looked at them only briefly acknowledging people standing there.

Jameson said nothing to him. He stood there with his shoulders straight and arms hanging at his sides while holding my hand.

“I see your possessive tendencies are still there.”

“Fuck you. You’re lucky I’m letting you stand here right now.” Jameson, trying to be the bigger person here, walked away.

“You know I’ve learned something about you lately.” Darrin grinned as though this was some casual conversation. “You make a lot of threats with no follow through.”

Jameson’s shoulders hunched, and he froze by the rear tires of the hauler.

“You’ve pissed him off now,” Tommy warned. Laughter broke out around the group, trying to keep this from turning on us.

“Like I give a shit,” Darrin replied, completely relaxed.

“See, that’s your problem,” Tommy snorted, calmly cracking another beer open he pulled from his pocket. “You should care.”

That was when Darrin decided to get snippy with Jameson. This was probably his second worst idea; the first was showing up here at all.

“So you’re just gonna stand there with your back to reality?” Darrin tried again. “It’s okay for you to hit on my girl, but the same doesn’t go for your bitch?”

Now I really wanted to hit him. If I hadn’t been so intent on Jameson, I would have. Justin and Tommy stepped toward Darrin, blocking Jameson who was remaining in control.

“Why are you so upset your girl wanted me?” Jameson acted as though he was thinking before he added, “Oh, I know, because she screams my name at night, huh?” Jameson snorted, amused with himself. “It fucking kills you that she was all over my dick in Daytona.”

For a moment, Justin and I gaped at each other, frozen at Jameson’s haughty response—me more than Justin.

Darrin laughed. “I’m sure I could make yours scream in one way or another. Is that what you want?” His eyes taunted. “Or are you going to ignore me then, too? You really should walk away.”

“I tried to walk away from you, but you think you have something to prove.”

“I do... that you’re nothing.”

“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face here after Pocono!” Jameson shouted, pointing at Darrin. He was losing his cool demeanor and ready to fight.

“Jameson, stop!” I slammed my hands against his shoulders trying to make him see this wasn’t worth it, but was it?

All I saw, though, was his murderous gaze trained on Darrin. It was like I wasn’t standing there. None of us were, in his eyes.

“You should listen to your girl for once.”

“Leave her out of it.”

“Oh, I think she needs to be in it. After all, you brought mine into it.”

“Stay away from her.” His voice lowered, the same menacing, warning tone it had that night in the bar in May—threatening and explosive. “Go ahead take your best fucking shot.” Jameson pushed past Justin and Tommy to stand face-to-face with Darrin. “Or can’t you fight without your car?”

“I never liked you, Riley,” Darrin said conversationally, his eyes watchful of the crowd gathering, drinking in every flicker of emotion registered on Jameson who remained cold and impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Even back when we raced USAC, I never liked you. Just because your dad is a legend, you think you’re hot shit out there.”

“Jealous?” Jameson snorted.

Darrin took a quick step forward; his eyes flared at the taunting but remained controlled.

“She sure is pretty.” Darrin winked at me.

You could actually feel the change in Jameson between his stance and breathing. The heat of his anger scorched my hand on his wrist.

“Leave her alone.” Jameson’s control was nearly gone.

“Do you really think I will leave you in any condition to stop me?”

Here was the problem I discovered when those words left Darrin’s mouth. He had the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting to Jameson. And he had patience. Something Jameson didn’t have.

It wasn’t like he was thinking in that moment, no, he was far too engrossed in the confrontation now.

“You touch her and I will kill you,” Jameson growled, trying to control himself. “You can be sure of that.”

Van’s self-reserved eyes met Darrin. They exchanged a look and then focused on Jameson. To anyone else, the glance was just a distant fleeting look, but Jameson saw something defined in the intensity behind him and stared at Van as if he said something directly to him. But he said nothing. It was just a glance toward Darrin.

“I don’t think you have it in you,” Darrin smarted off, focusing again on Jameson.

“You’re missing the point, asshole.”

“Am I?” Darrin shrugged. “Enlighten me then, rookie, what’s the point?”

“There will be no version of this where you are going to come out ahead of me. Maybe you will get the best of me, get to me when my guard is down. Maybe you’ll win...” Jameson stepped closer, his movement warning and guarded at the same time. “But you can be goddamn sure that I will come after you.” Jameson’s voice resonated ominously into the night air.

Tempers were flaring in the blistering heat of the night and the heat between them seemed to be providing suffocating smog around us.

A familiar standoff, one I’ve seen many times, began between him and Darrin.

Jameson’s eyes swept over Darrin, gauging a reaction he knew he’d have.

“That’s your plan?”

“No...” Jameson shook his head. “That’s not my plan. I’m letting you know... you can try and test me... take what you think you can... but you won’t get away with it.”

Darrin looked at his buddies gathered, all of them showing amusement. “I think you’re—”

Jameson smiled a cold, bitter smile, letting out a venomous, cynical laugh. “You really think I give a goddamn what you think of me?” he asked, his jaw tightened, his eyes throwing daggers at Darrin. “You know what... fuck you,” he sniffed with a laugh. “Fuck you.”

Justin and Tommy remained beside me. Both seemed ready to throw down, as did Van, with any indication from Jameson. But they were giving him space to decide for himself.

Darrin lurched toward him with a heavy step. “You should take it seriously.” He spat, looking like he was ready to strike. “I could end your career if I wanted!”

Jameson stood there like he wasn’t afraid. “Go for it.” His eyebrows rose coolly. “Come after me, and I assure you, you will regret it.”

I wasn’t sure how, but things seemed to get heated between everyone, and before we knew it, guys were shoving each other, and Jameson was pushing Ami and me, who’d wrapped herself around me like a monkey, back.

“Go back to the hauler and wait for me there.” He pushed us gently away.

“Jameson, just—”

“Leave!” he screamed at us.

I wasn’t waiting around, and Van wasn’t letting us. He had Ami and me practically over his shoulder in a second, leaving Jameson alone with Darrin and Justin.

“We should call the police or something,” Ami suggested, pacing the hauler when the boys didn’t return within a few minutes. We heard the fight along with the rest of the pits who decided to scramble over there. We heard the yelling—Jameson’s and Darrin’s voices the loudest—but we still couldn’t see anything.

“You two should stay here,” Van said sternly. “Jameson is fine.”

“We should call the police.” Ami got in his face. Well, she tried to. Van was nearly two feet taller than her.

“No.” Van remained calm. “We shouldn’t.”

It wasn’t but three more minutes and Justin, Tommy, and Jameson came back, all sporting battle wounds.

Jameson ignored everyone and headed for the parking lot. “Come on, Sway.” He reached for me, dragging me along. I waved a quick bye to everyone, but the only one who seemed to notice was Ami, who offered a sympathetic wave.

“Jameson, maybe I should drive us back.” We stopped short of his Mustang. “You’ve had a few beers.”

“So what... you’re questioning me, too?” He backed against the car, leaning into it.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.”

He said nothing so I reached for him. His hand flung away from mine, his keys wrapped in his fist. “Get in.”

Not only was he angry, but he’d had a few drinks, and I knew this wasn’t good. “Jameson, let me drive.”

“No,” his voice faded when the 428 big-block V8 roared to life.

He said nothing to me, pressing a few buttons on the stereo as I buckled in, preparing for my death. I was sure I was about to die. The blue and red lights of his stereo lit up, a staircase display of rising lights bounced with the bass.

My seat vibrated with the lean idle before he revved the engine once and took off, dirt and rocks spraying out across the field as we took off for the highway.

Jameson didn’t listen to the song he chose often, but when he did, it was a direct reflection of his mood. A slow bass thumped, his head nodding to the kick. I didn’t recognize the song, but the rhythm seemed as dark as his mood.

His window was cracked. Each passing car detangled another loop of his hair, resulting in a wild mess. His chin tucked toward his chest, his eyes scowled into the darkness. Shifted slightly at the door, his right hand hung over the steering wheel, his left arm rested on the edge of the door panel as he ran his knuckles slowly across his lower lip and jaw, contemplating. I shouldn’t have been surprised by his mood. I knew it was coming.

I may have mentioned this before, but Jameson’s 1967 Shelby GT500 Mustang was my only competition in his life. He’d originally purchased the car when he was sixteen. When hauling around a sprint car each weekend didn’t work well for the Mustang, he sold it to Jimi and bought a Ford diesel truck that could haul his trailer and the sprint car.

When he signed with Simplex in the Winston Cup Series, he bought his car back from Jimi.

So, on the way back to Darlington that night, while driving that GT500, another newer Mustang crossed the centerline and revved up beside us on the two-lane highway. He was taunting Jameson, and Jameson knew it.

Jameson, humming with aggression from Darrin, shook his head and rolled it to the side to glance at me. “Really?”

“Just ignore him,” was my attempt to calm him down.

Did he do that?

Sure, he tried, but he’s a race car driver. The rest of society and I shouldn’t expect too much.

Jameson revved forward, and my head snapped back against the seat as the torque jolted me.

The car darted back behind us when another approaching car came around the bend.

Once again, the car came right back, their headlights shining through the back window. Jameson’s dark menacing gaze lifted to the review mirror, his jaw clenched in anticipation.

“Jameson.” I slapped his shoulder. “Knock it off. I just want to get to bed and preferably not on the side of the road.”

There, I voiced my concerns about being road kill and being tired. Now he knew.

He said nothing. His gaze was fixated on the road. The glow from the headlights lit up the dark weaving highway.

I’d never been in a real car chase before. This was similar, right?

When Jameson slammed the car in fourth and my stomach met my heart, I knew for sure it was no longer a car chase and I was just on my way to being road kill.

Engines roared, the only sounds besides our heavy breathing when Jameson said, “Why does everyone fucking test me?” By the gruff question, he wasn’t looking for a response.

The car beside us lurched forward again but this time kept speed. And before long, was pulling away.

What do you think the race car driver in the car with me did?

Before long, I was gripping my seat with my eyes screwed shut. I couldn’t watch. Not only was the road winding and sharp, but I also had this notion that if I didn’t see my death approaching, I wouldn’t feel it. What a crazy fucking notion that was.

“If he hits my car,” Jameson’s voice forced my eyes open, “I will fuck him up.”

“Jameson?” The overgrown grass and trees were flying by so quickly I thought we’d make it to Darlington in minutes. And I was starting to get car sick. Really car sick.

“I’m serious.”

“Jameson?”

“This guy is a fucking douche.”

“Jameson?”

His jaw clenched. He said nothing so I tried again.

“Jameson, I’m gonna get sick!” I screamed, covering my mouth.

I’d never seen him slam on the brakes and open my door that fast before.

And then I threw up in the ditch.

Turns out, I wasn’t car chase material, I just wasn’t.

He helped me get cleaned up, offered me a bottle of water, and then sat along the edge of the ditch, facing the road.

The passenger door remained opened, with me binging every few seconds.

“Jameson, I know you’re upset, but I hate seeing you like this. I feel it when you’re like this.”

His eyes snapped to mine, flashing like lightning, and I knew I said the wrong thing. I meant for it to sound like I felt for him not that I was placing the blame upon him.

“I don’t want you to feel that way!” he shouted, the quiet lost as his temper flared. He looked panicked, and guilty, and... angry. “I don’t want you around this shit!”

I didn’t know what to do. Jameson’s temper wasn’t something to mess with so I got inside the car.

As I attempted to close the door and leave him out there, his hand shot out pushing it back open. I didn’t look at him, angry that I was nearly road kill and angry that I couldn’t talk to him and actually get through to him. Not to mention, he not only put our lives at risk, but that of our innocent, unborn child.

“Oh, goddamn it. I’m sorry!” he shouted kicking at the rocks in the ditch. “I don’t know what to do anymore!”

“Jameson...” I reached for him only to have him shake me away, standing at the rear of the car now.

“I can’t keep doing this.” He bent forward, resting his hands on the back of the car. His head hung, and his shoulders slumped forward. “Fuck!” he screamed toward the sky, all the muscles in his back flexed and tensed with the movement.

My hands reached for him, wanting to ease his pain. This time he let me touch him.

And just like that, his hostile mood returned, but could I have expected anything less?

Abruptly, he turned to me as though I said his name. “What should I do? Is there ...” His fists clenched again. “I mean, what do they expect me to do?”

“I don’t know.” I honestly didn’t anymore. My hands slipped from his shoulders.

His face was tense when I removed my hands, and his anger had returned, luminescent like brakes at a short track, glowing with the slightest form of pressure.

“No,” he said between his teeth. “No one knows. That’s the fucking problem.”

He was burning inside with such raw emotion. I felt it, as I was sure everyone else around us did, too. He was sick of this, and he had every right to be.

“I don’t know what everyone wants from me. They want me to be myself, and when I am, and speak my mind, showing them who I am, they want me to act another way. I don’t understand what they thought I would do.” His expression was one of frustration, annoyance, and, underneath that, determination and honesty. I was confused for a brief moment.

And then I realized this was him breaking apart. This doesn’t just have to do with Darrin. It has to do with his lifestyle, sponsors, media, owners, drivers, obligations, and sacrifices—all of it.

Jameson was right to feel this way. What did they expect him to do with the pressures put upon him? Did they honestly expect a twenty-three year-old kid to know exactly when and how to turn his aggression on and off?

I eventually got him back inside the car and on our way back to Darlington, since it was around two in the morning.

I’m not sure whether he slept, but me being pregnant and sleepy all the time, I woke up inside the motor coach, assuming he carried me there at some point.

When I rolled over, he was there with his hands resting on his stomach; his racing suit from last night was still on, only the top half was pulled away. He stared at the ceiling, eyes fixed and restless.

“Good morning,” I said, testing the air.

His eyes shifted toward me, briefly, before darting back to the ceiling. “Good morning, honey.”

Well, that was a good sign. He called me honey.

“Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” I told him, waiting to see if he said anything. His head jerked slightly, the only indication that he heard me.

My tears broke through once I was in the shower but, just like that, he was there in an instant drawing me near.

“I’m sorry.” His hands framed my face. “I didn’t mean to take any of that out on you last night or put you guys in danger.”

“I know you didn’t.” I sobbed, clutching him. “I’m emotional, I guess,” harsh actions of the previous night.

He let me hold him, or maybe he held me. Either way, no more words were spoken as we just held each other. I know it may sound silly, but that was what we both needed, and the fact that he sensed it—it took away the harsh actions of the previous night.

 

Since the Darlington race was being held at night, the day wasn’t as rushed, but by nine, race day was in full swing, and Jameson’s mood hadn’t improved. He apparently made plans for us to sneak away for lunch, but before that could happen, he had a team meeting.

We walked to his hauler to find Jimi standing there, alone, waiting on Jameson.

“What was that last night?” was his greeting.

“What?” Jameson shouted, as though Jimi was stupid for even asking.

Jimi tossed a wrench across the floor. The sound of it hitting the wall caused me to jump.

“Stop raising your voice at me, and listen for once.”

“Listen to you?” Jameson stared at his dad incredulously as his voice wavered at the end. “How can you say that to me?”

The truth was Jameson heard every word Jimi ever said to him. If anything, he listened to Jimi more than he listened to anyone.

“I heard about what happened in Summerville.” Jimi arched his brow. “You should have called the police.”

Jameson grunted a response that Jimi shook his head to, leaving me alone with him.

Jimi’s eyes met mine briefly, before he smiled. “He’s worth it.” And then he, too, left.

Jameson hadn’t gone far; I found him standing outside, signing autographs for fans that had gathered.

He did that for a few moments before politely excusing himself.

He had a hospitality obligation in the media center for Ayers Manufacturing who was sponsoring the race so we took the long way and walked along the outside of the pits near the track.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.” His eyes didn’t leave mine as the sun rose on backstretch. Light filtered between the rows of Featherlite motor coaches.

“And I do?” My eyes squinted into the brightness.

“Yes.” His tone evened out, his gaze shifting from mine to the track as if it held the answer to this.

He looked restless again. I wanted to take away his pain and his burdens, letting him be the kid he deserved to be for once, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Racing for him was more than a love and deeper than most cared to understand. It was a comfort that pulled from beneath the surface of self-control.

“I’m tired of making you cry.” He exhaled, stopping to look at me. I could see the swollen reminder of last night that formed under his right eye and the split in his bottom lip.

“Then don’t,” I replied, sweeping the evidence of my hurt away with my sleeve.

I hated how often I was crying these days and desperately wanted to have a talk with this little spaz inside me regarding his or her effect on me.

“I’m not sure I know how to.” His breath stirred my hair as words were whispered into my skin. “I’m sorry.” His fingertips caught the tears that remained on the base of my chin. He had that look like he wanted to say more but didn’t.

I tilted my head to meet his gaze. “I know.”

“I’ll never stop trying.” He breathed against my neck.

I knew Jameson well enough to know he was sorry, and he wouldn’t quit, but there was a small portion of him that was guarding for the unthinkable, should it happen. He was shutting down parts he knew could be damaged.

I shivered despite the warm haze, goose bumps of a different kind grazed over my skin. His lips brushed against my neck once again. “I really am sorry.”