CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Locke
The months went on, and soon we found ourselves in June, at the Pocono Raceway.
I hadn’t even watched Tawny, our Run Like a Girl spokesperson, compete in the Olympics. I didn’t even know our Shred Like a Girl’s name. But I’d been to every race that Emma had been in, all twelve of them, busy schedule be damned. I’d never been so protective of an asset as I had been toward Emma, so it should have been obvious what was going on.
I knew it was obvious to Laura, who just rolled her eyes and said, “Talladega?” or “Bristol?” whenever I announced I was going away for a weekend.
I was like Emma’s shadow, her damn bodyguard. Wherever she went, I was somewhere in the background. When she was interviewed, I was hanging by, just off camera. And though I always booked two rooms in whatever hotel we were staying at, we ended up sleeping together. No. Now we needed to sleep together. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was all too easy and comfortable that sometimes I forgot we had to keep things secret.
That was a necessity. Now more than ever. Laura was right that it wouldn’t be good for Emma. Emma had done UnCaged proud. Now, interviewers were starting to notice her for more than just her pretty face and gorgeous tits. After bombing out during the trial in Daytona, she’d come back strong with a twelfth-place finish in the Martinsville 500, done a respectable fifteenth in her hometown course at ISM, then she’d killed it in Bristol with a seventh-place finish. She hadn’t finished in Talladega due to engine trouble, but then at Dover, she’d been in fourth until she was tapped on the last lap and had to take a seat.
People were starting to notice her, and she was getting her due as a tough racer. With Danica Patrick out, she was now the only female NASCAR driver on the field. The ads for Drive Like a Girl had been well-received, and our profits were up twelve percent this quarter. People were starting to give her mad props, respecting her for the woman she was.
I didn’t fucking want them going back to the way they’d treated her at that press conference, like she was a joke.
She had other worries on her mind too. She’d done all her winning with Brody as her pit chief. She hadn’t replaced him like she said she would. I told her that I thought what happened in Daytona was just a mistake, but she wasn’t one for forgiveness and wouldn’t let him live it down. Even so, she told me her race winnings were going to his racing arm.
What she lacked in forgiveness, she made up for in loyalty.
But as stressful as things were all around, they were at least a little easier for me in the suite watching her. Gradually, I’d been able to relax enough to take my eyes off the race to use the bathroom or get myself some food from the buffet. Now, I’d gotten to be a bit of an expert in how Emma raced. She liked to hug the inside and stay away from the wall. If someone tapped her, she’d tap them back. She was vengeful that way. And she liked to come out in front as soon as possible and just stay there as long as she could. She was like a little jackrabbit.
I was excited for Pocono because it was a four hundred, and in the simulator, that seemed to be her sweet spot. Five hundreds started to drag her, and anything less, she didn’t have enough time to stretch her legs. After that almost third-place finish in Dover, I felt like something big was on the horizon.
“How you feeling down there?” I asked her as she and the other drivers made their way to the starting line.
“Okay, boss,” she said to me. She’d taken to calling me that a lot more, ever since I told her not to, which made me smile. She sounded relaxed, happy, just as she’d been when I left her in her hotel room this morning. “Taking your car out for a spin.”
“All right. Take good care of it.” And yourself. Take good care of yourself.
I pulled off the headset and affixed my 77 ballcap onto my head.
“Drivers, start your engines!” the starter screamed into the microphone from the podium out front.
Before this, I had to say I’d been stumbling around the sport. Not wanting to appear like a total buffoon, I hadn’t asked anyone the thousands of questions bubbling up in my head as I watched the races, having to figure it out on my own. By now, though, I was pretty comfortable. Yes, I’d seen a share of crashes, similar to the one that had taken Brody’s arm, but I trusted Emma’s ability.
So when the pace car trailed into pit road, the green flag waved, and announcer Darrell Waltrip said, “Boogity boogity boogity, let’s go racing, boys… and girl!” I was actually enjoying myself. It was impossible not to fall in love with the sport. Everyone was so damn excited, and the enthusiasm was infectious.
This time, contrary to my first race, I was actually able to get out and circulate, schmoozing with the guests. I greeted them all, made sure they were comfortable and had everything they needed, and thanked them for coming. I also provided them with all the number 77 merchandise they could fit on their person.
By the time the three-hundredth lap rolled around, I was in high spirits. As usual, Emma had made it to the front of the pack and was jockeying with Ryan Blaney for fourth. Just a hundred more to go. I could count on Emma to keep it close for the next few dozen laps, and then make her move on him, do a little one-two punch that would leave him scratching his head, sucking her exhaust.
“So, your girl going to make a big move at the end and bring home a win this time?” a voice said behind me.
I turned. It was one of our business partners from up in Pennsylvania. During all these races, we gave private access to our biggest partners who were also NASCAR fans, and Sal was one of the biggest. Bald, large, and brash, he was in his early sixties, ruddy-faced, and built like a refrigerator.
I grinned. “She’s still a rookie, but she’s getting there. Making strides every race. She’ll win one of these days.”
He nodded and took a sip of his beer as he sat beside me at the table overlooking the oval. “Yeah. She’s definitely a hot property to have.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant “hot” in a derogatory way, but he was one of my business trade partners, so I took it at face value. “Yes. She’s definitely going places.”
He laughed. “I know one place I’d like her to go. In my bed.” He bobbed his eyebrows, grinning like a hound.
I turned to him. Was he fucking serious? If he wasn’t one of our biggest business partners, I’d have clocked him. My fists clenched, and I had to tell them to behave. “She’s a serious athlete, Sal.”
He put up his hands, conceding. “Doesn’t mean she isn’t also a hot piece of ass.”
I frowned. Big partner or not, I couldn’t stand for that. So what if his big-box store refused to carry our products? We still had fifty-five other retailers who did. I stood up. “All right—”
I froze when I heard one of the announcers shout, “Oh and there goes number 77. Fire and flames.”
Shit.
I fastened my eyes on the oval just in time to see 77 spinning across the track before colliding with the inside guardrail, then flipping, end over end in a barrel roll, once, twice, three times. Cars soared past, avoiding the wreckage, but my eyes were fastened on the mangled car as it bounced about the track like a child’s plaything. The hood with the UnCaged Fitness logo was ripped open like the top of a tin can.
“… and it still hasn’t stopped rolling from the momentum,” the announcer said through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope the driver, rookie Emma James, will come out of this all right.”
Fuck. I dropped the beer I was holding and grabbed the headset. Brody was yelling Emma’s name, over and over again, with no response.
“What’s going on?” I barked into the mic. “Emma. Answer us!”
Silence.
Heart in my throat, I raced out of the suite and down the staircase, toward the entrance to the field. Meanwhile, the race went on, the yellow caution flag out. By the time I got down to the pit area, the rest of the crew was surrounding her mangled car. An ambulance and fire truck had arrived and were putting out the flames, leaving smoke in its wake.
It hadn’t looked that bad from above, but now that I was close to it, it looked like a crushed tin can. The crew was cutting into the frame, trying to pull her out. Shit, shit, shit. “Emma,” I said again into the mic.
No response.
The twisted wreckage of the door was pulled off the side of the car, and I could see her body lying behind the wheel, limp and still. They lifted off her helmet and wrapped a brace around her neck before pulling her out of the wreckage, laying her body flat on the waiting stretcher.
I couldn’t breathe.
I didn’t know how I pushed through the crowd, but in an instant, I was kneeling in front of her. Her face was pale, but she was breathing, and when I grabbed her hand, I felt her pulse beating steadily in her wrist. But I couldn’t see any blood. No burns. The security measures we’d put in place had done their job.
So why was she unconscious?
“How is she?” I murmured to the EMTs as they worked on her, checking her vitals.
One of the men lifted her eyelid, flashing a light into her eye. The pupil dilated as expected, as did the other one. It was a very good sign.
“Good. Let’s give her a minute.”
As they worked, I watched her eyes flutter, then open. The first thing they landed on was me.
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, emotion clogging my throat. “God, Emma. Are you okay?”
She tried to shake her head, but the restraints holding her down kept her still. “No,” she croaked.
“What’s wrong?” I said, searching her fire suit for lacerations, broken bones, something out of the ordinary. “What hurts?”
“I peed myself,” she said sheepishly, trying to sit up.
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard I cried, or maybe I’d been already on the verge of crying, and the laugh just pushed the tears out. She was okay, even better than okay. She was trying to sit up. She was alert, feisty, alive Emma, and I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life. She pulled the brace away from her neck in annoyance, threw it on the ground, and looked around, like she was trying to figure out what the fuss was all about.
I completely forgot about everyone and everything around us. I was too fucking happy to care about all of that. I grabbed her in my arms and kissed her.
The rest of the crew gave the thumbs-up to onlookers, and the crowd erupted in wild applause around us as I kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. Tongue and all, breathlessly, not needing the air, like this was our first meeting, or last goodbye.
And I didn’t fucking care. She was alive. When I broke the kiss, she said, “I don’t think I’m going to win this one, boss,” which made me laugh again.
“That’s okay,” I told her, my hands on either side of her face. “You can win the next one.”
She wanted to walk, but I insisted she needed to get checked out first. The EMTs loaded her into the ambulance, and I went with her.
And I refused to let go of her hand the entire time.