Alternator – A belt-driven device mounted on the front of the engine that recharges the battery while the engine is running.

 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being an asshole. Focusing on what’s not important. I could go on and on.” He sighed. “I’m gonna make our dreams come true. I promise.”

“I know you will.” I touched his shoulder. “But can you hand me that ice cream?”

“Really?” He gave me the what the hell look he was so good at.

“Yeah, why?”

Jameson chuckled and leaned back against my headboard. “I don’t know... maybe because I’m pouring my heart out to you, and you want ice cream.”

“Ice cream first—pour your heart out second.”

“Got it.” He nodded, his eyes focused on the container that was now in my hand as he read the label. “I didn’t realize I stood in line behind Chunky Monkey.”

“Oh, you don’t.” I smiled a beaming smile at him as I took the lid off. “You’re behind Fish Food, then you, then Chunky Monkey.”

“At least I know my place.”

“Definitely,” I said with a mouth full of ice cream. “I wouldn’t want you confused.”

I giggled, ice cream dribbled down my chin. “Want some?” I pushed the spoon at him.

“Not really, I want something else.” His eyes twinkled with that shine I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Really?” I teased. “I can’t think of anything better than ice cream.”

Jameson growled, and in one quick but gentle movement, I was flat on my back with him hovering. “You can’t think of anything better ...?” His hand that was resting against the mattress slowly moved from beside my head, ghosting over my skin like a feather—traveling across my arm, over my abdomen, and lingering near the crankcase. His long slender fingers traced circles around my ignition switch.

Christ, that’s nice.

My poor crankcase had been neglected for way too long. The closest she came to any action recently was the doctor checking my cervix. Not a good time.

I even called said doctor the other day and asked if I could get some valium prescribed. He kindly declined and said that I couldn’t take it while being pregnant, which I thought was complete bullshit. I needed it.

But now, he was here all sexy and dirty heathen like, with his Grizzly Adams beard that had me shivering every time he brushed his face near me.

 “What were you saying again?” he growled into the sensitive skin below my ear, the scruff scratching in the most delicious way. “Something about ice cream being the best?”

“No... I said no such thing,” I panted out as his fingers snaked underneath my panties, teasing the properly lubricated crankcase.

“No, no, I remember. You said... ‘I can’t think of anything better,’” he quoted. “Yep, that’s what you said.”

“Did not.”

“Yes, you did.” He yanked his fingers away. “No ice cream for you then.”

What did the fucker do next? Pulled away completely, took my ice cream, and began eating it, with that dirty smirk on his adorable Grizzly Adams face.

Before I could get my ice cream back, Emma was knocking on the door obsessively. “Can I at least have my bag, assholes?”

We both started laughing. She was out in the hallway with nothing but a pair of tiny shorts and a tank top.

I was well aware of how cold this house was in the mornings, so I motioned for Jameson to hand her the bag on the floor near the door.

“Hold on.” His eyes lit up. “I got an idea.” His smirk turned evil.

“What?” I whispered, trying to be sneaky.

I was up for any idea to pay Emma back after sitting around this house for two weeks waiting for Jameson to get home.

Do you have any idea what it’s like spending that much time with Emma? She was another reason why I requested the Valium.

“Where’s that lotion she’s so obsessed with?” Jameson asked, looking through her bag.

“In there somewhere.” I laughed. “She’s like Buffalo Bill with that shit.”

Never in my life had I ever seen someone put as much lotion on as Emma does. Seriously, I counted one day, seventeen obsessive times she smeared lotion all over herself. It was as though she had some kind of paroxysm with putting lotion on.

And Jameson was the complete opposite. He hated anything on his skin. It was really entertaining to take him to the beach.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously.

He pulled out a bottle of sunless tanning lotion from his own bag. Pouring out the contents of Emma’s lotion, he then transferred the tanning lotion into the bottle.

“Should I be concerned that you have self-tanning lotion in your bag?”

“No, you should be proud that I bought this thinking of paying my sister back for that road trip.”

“You are a genius!” I whisper shouted at him. This was the best idea he’s had yet, besides asking me to marry him—that was a damn good idea if I may say so myself.

Jameson quickly and stealthily completed the mission and opened the door to hand Emma her bag. Emma eyed him cautiously.

His shirt was off, and he was only wearing a pair of jeans that were slung low on his waist with the top button undone, compliments of me.

Emma—being Emma—covered her eyes and screamed like a child over seeing her brother without a shirt. She then took her bag and ran down the hall, still wailing.

“This is going to be awesome,” I said as he sprawled out on my bed again, ice cream in hand.

“How long does it take to show up?”

“I’ve never used it so I’m not sure... but we’re about to find out.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

“This shit is gonna make me fat.” He tipped the carton in hand to read the nutritional facts, or lack thereof.

“You know, the last time you filled her lotion with that, she smelled like burnt popcorn for a week.”

Jameson looked up from his carton confused. “Last time?”

“Right before you left for Pocono.”

“Ah, yes.” He laughed. “That was actually Tommy.”

And I wasn’t surprised at all by that.

 

A few hours later, Jameson was helping me shower. Well, actually, I should rephrase that. I was trying to shower during my two-hour maximum standing allowance during the day, and Jameson was making sure I didn’t miss any spots. I had so much fucking soap on me I could have been a bubble bath model.

“Seriously, Jameson.” I slapped his hand away, the water exaggerating the sound. “Enough with the soap already.”

“Sorry, I got carried away,” he mumbled and proceeded to pout.

“Here, look.” I’m very good at distracting.

“Ah... shit, Sway... that’s ...” his voice faded.

“Amazing?” I finished.

“Yes, yes, amazing.”

Only problem with checking bearing alignment and reciprocating motions with all the soap: it gets places you don’t want, like your eyes.

“I can’t see anything,” Jameson gasped, wiping his eyes, causing more of the soap to blind him. “Shit.”

“Don’t move. You got it in my eye now,” I told him, squinting.

Whatever happened to tear-free soap?

“Oh, sorry... shit... it burns. There’s too much soap in here.”

“Says the person who was pouring it on my ass minutes ago.”

“That’s before you distracted me,” Jameson defended, trying to place the blame on me. “You shouldn’t have grabbed me like that.”

“Here, hand me that hose thing over there.”

My hands were frantically trying to find the hose … I found it... but it wasn’t the hose I was looking for.

“Stop that. You’ll distract me again.”

“Oh, sorry.” I giggled. “My bad.”

Soon, Jameson found the correct hose thing and sprayed us down, washing away the bubble brigade. Once the bubbles were all gone we decided this really was a bad idea, got out of the shower, and finished the round in my bedroom.

I would much rather be doing some align boring right now, instead of this assessment but, sadly, this was all we were permitted to do. So I continued, as did Jameson.

I was making a lot of noise, and so was Jameson. My neck muffled his though so all you hear was me... acting like a fucking spastic hyena once again.

What must the neighbors think?

I tried to reach behind me to help Jameson out with his need, as well, since his magical fingers were sending me over the edge.

“No.” He shook his head. “Just you ...”

My high-pitched hyena cries peaked a few seconds later as I moved my hips against his hand. While doing this, Jameson added his own reciprocating motions. It added to the entire experience of being manhandled by my dirty heathen, and I let go because I knew he was enjoying it as well.

Now, I’ve never given a man an orgasm just by rubbing my ass against him, other than the time Jameson and I woke up in a sleeping bag together after a race the summer he won the USAC Triple Crown, but in the land of the knocked-up-naughty-bed-ridden-pigizzle, there was a first time for everything.

Or a second time, if you counted the first.

I didn’t realize this was happening until I heard him gasp loudly as his arms tightened around me. I felt his entire body clench and begin to shake and tremble right along with me as he growled, “Oh, fuck,” against my shoulder, pulling my hips harder against his.

That was by far the best reciprocating motion assessment I had ever experienced.

“Did you?” I don’t know why I asked, I could feel the warm sticky mess on my ass and back.

He didn’t answer me and let out a deep breath like he’d been holding it in and rolled onto his back, right off the bed.

“Fuck ...”

“Hey, where did you go?”

“I fell.”

“Poor dirty heathen.”

I didn’t offer to help him up. Instead, I reached for the Chunky Monkey and began eating my ice cream once again. My flailing spaz was letting me know it was time.

Jameson peeked his head up from the floor. “That’s okay... I’m all right. Thanks for checking.”

“No problem,” I mumbled with my mouth full.

 

After showering again, without the bubble brigade, I decided it was time to change my sheets since I got them dirty. This had me smiling all the way down the hall to the laundry room. Once I entered the laundry room, I spotted Emma in there doing laundry, of course, bouncing up and down while she shook her ass to the music blaring through her iPod.

“What are you doing?” she asked, nonchalantly looking at my sheets while yanking her headphones out.

“What does it look like, Captain Obvious?”

“What happened... did you pee the bed?” she teased, folding a pair of jeans.

I’d had about enough of Emma in the last three weeks. Between the road trip from hell, the biker bar, the taint tank, the endless amount of Britney Spears songs, her stalker tendencies toward Miley Cyrus, and her obsessive lotion fetish, I snapped.

“No.” I smiled widely. I used this smile once before when my Political Economics professor in college told me not to come to his class drunk anymore. “But they do have your brother’s jizz on them.”

She was obviously not prepared for my response. Her features were surprised, shocked even. When it finally dawned on her what I said, she had a reaction similar to the cameraman in those Jackass movies when Steve-O shits himself.

“Oh, my God!” she was screeching and retching and gagging and a lot of other concerning noises. “I’m gonna be sick.”

And what did I do next?

I tossed the sheets on top of her and laughed my ass off. I was laughing because the gagging motion she was making strangely resembled Mr. Jangles when he was trying to cough up a hairball. It was also incredibly rewarding after everything she’d put me through recently.

“That... is... so...” More retching and other weird noises I’d never heard a human make came from her. “Gross...” She didn’t make it and ran full speed to the bathroom.

Mission accomplished.

I trotted back to my room to get dressed. I had a doctor’s appointment in less than an hour so I thought it was time to put on clothes, other than sweat pants and tank tops. I was becoming good at being lazy.

Once dressed, I met Jameson downstairs in the living room where he was sitting with Charlie. I caught the last half of their conversation when I finished waddling over to Jameson.

“...you’ll win. There’s no way Tate can catch you,” Charlie told Jameson. “Even if you do finish last the next few races, you’ll win.”

When I yelled at Jameson a few weeks ago for punking out, I had no idea he would turn into the determined heathen he’d become. Charlie was right; no one stood a chance against him now. All that frustration, all those fears he had, all those emotions he felt about what Darrin had done to us had now been turned into determination to become a champion and prove the world wrong.

I wasn’t sure if he’d moved on, but he had channeled his anger.

“Yeah,” Jameson mumbled, running his hand across his jaw. I made him keep the beard; I kind of liked it for now. “I don’t wanna get my hopes up, but I think I got it under wraps.”

“You do, son.” Charlie stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a nap to tend to.” He tipped his head at us and then proceeded up the stairs with Mr. Jangles in tow.

Charlie reminded me of Mr. Jangles these days. Every time I turned around he was taking a nap, but Andrea told me this was normal. If there was one good thing about this bed rest, it was being around Charlie more. He’d also become a reality TV whore like Emma and me. We all fit in nicely together.

I felt bad for Van having to endure not only Emma, but also all of us watching reality TV all day long, on top of the endless amounts of ice cream we all consumed. Charlie had yet to try all the flavors of Ben and Jerry ice cream we’d tried. He had some catching up to do. Van also gave in when he finally tasted their Mud Pie flavor. So we were now a bunch of reality TV whores and Ben and Jerry taste testers. If you put all four of our weight gains together, we equaled a tiny person named Ben or Jerry, whomever you preferred.

Van was also not very happy about that. Something about running ten miles a day and feeling fat jiggle. I wanted to ask him how he thought I felt but didn’t. I’m sure, by my frequent complaining, he knew my thoughts on getting jiggly.

Just as we were about to leave for my appointment, Emma finally came out of the bathroom with a washcloth attached to her as she frantically scrubbed her skin. She obviously didn’t rub the self-tanner in very well, but how could she have known?

Anyhow, now she looked like Nemo with strips of orange and white and, once again, smelled like burnt popcorn. She used an excessive amount, too, but, of course, it wasn’t like she knew what exactly she was lathering up.

Jameson and I both burst into laughter, but as soon as Emma spotted Jameson, she started gagging again and ran back to the bathroom without saying anything.

Finally, something has made her speechless.

“What was that about?” Jameson asked through shakes of laughter, his arm slung around my shoulders.

I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell him what I did, so I simply waved around like a peacock with my arms flailing trying to tell him. I eventually gave up and just sat there laughing with him until I needed to change my underwear because I once again peed my pants.

 

On the way to my appointment, Jameson took a detour that led us to Summit Lake. He spotted a for sale sign off Highway 8, so he followed it and we found ourselves at one of the most beautiful homes I had ever seen.

I immediately fell in love in the kitchen with its dark cherry cabinets and black granite countertops. I was already imagining a repeat performance of the Sway Banana Split.

The house was beautiful, but way too fucking expensive. I almost went into labor over the price. Seeing how we already had one home in Mooresville, I hardly saw the need for one so expensive here, but I also knew I couldn’t stand living in the same house with the Lucifer twins much longer.

We walked through the house after I told him I didn’t want to but, of course, he threw out the smirk and I gave in despite myself.

I finally told him my worries when we were standing in the backyard looking at the view of Summit Lake from the home’s private dock.

“We can’t afford this place.”

“We can, we—”

“No, we can’t. We have a baby coming, and we already have a house in Mooresville,” I interjected, whirling to face him. He stared down at me with an amused expression. The setting sun was illuminating the rusty highlights in his scruff along his sharp defined jaw.

“We can. I—” he started again, and I shook my head.

“Jameson, you’re—” I began, but stopped when he pressed his fingers against my mouth.

“Stop interrupting me or I’ll toss your pregnant ass in that fucking lake,” he warned with a twinkle in his eyes. I smiled, so he continued, “Sway, we can afford it. If you forgot, I’m a huge NASCAR star and soon-to-be champion,” he finished, breaking out into his signature-crooked grin. “We can do this.”

“You’re pretty confident you’re going to win there, huh?”

“I have no doubt in my mind I’m going to win.”

“Jesus.” I rolled my eyes when he winked. “If your head was any bigger it’d need its own zip code.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Fine. We’ll get the house, but you’re buying it money bags.”

“House for us?” He pulled me against his chest looking down at me.

“Yes... house for us.”

 

In bed with Sway was torture. Pure fucking torture. Sure, we had messed around numerous times today, but this was hell. All I wanted was to make love to her, but no... no penetration for another eight weeks. No matter how hard I tried, it was all I thought about when she was close to me.

“I hate this,” I groaned, throwing myself back on the bed.

“Hate what?” Her eyes were still glued to that dumb reality TV show she was watching.

“This.” I motioned toward my straining erection. “This is like that goddamn summer all over again.”

“Huh?”

“Our summer, it’s like reliving it all over again.”

“What are you talking about?” Her brow creased as she turned her head to look at me.

I sighed dramatically, throwing my arms over my face. I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember, but how could she really? I never said anything. I never told her how I’d imagined her intimately back then. She had no idea of all the countless one-night stands I had; I was imagining it was her, rather than those women. I even went as far as saying her name one time in the heat of the moment with another woman. I think, at that point, I realized my feelings might be deeper than purely physical desires.

“Staying away from you, do you know how hard that was for me?” I told her after a few moments.

“Apparently not ...”

“Well, do you remember that time outside of Williams Grove when you fell asleep on my lap, and we woke up like that the next morning? You complained about my... uh... flashlight, as you called it, digging into your hip.”

She giggled like I thought she would.

“Yeah... not a flashlight”

“Wow,” was all she said.

“Wow, what?”

“I didn’t know you were attracted to me then. I mean, I know we made out occasionally, but I guess I just thought maybe it was a means to an end or something.”

I groaned, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her on top of me. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this... but I’ve always been attracted to you,” I intoned. “I didn’t know what those feelings meant for a long time. That summer ...” I shook my head at the thought. “Watching you run around in those tiny jean shorts you wore all the time and those skimpy tank tops, it was hell.”

Sway giggled again.

“It gets really hard to discreetly adjust yourself when the reason for the hard on, is sitting next to you or on your lap.”

Another giggle.

“Okay, stop with the giggles... wounded ego here.”

“Wounded, you say?”

“Yes, very much, now heal me.”

“Healing... hmm... what classifies as healing?”

I reached up to touch her cheek. “You know exactly what kind of ego healing I need.”

“Ego stroking, I suspect?” Sway smiled widely as if I gave her a year’s subscription to free ice cream.

“Yes, yes, ego stroking is good.”

Although we’d spent a good amount of time like this over the last day or so, the excitement of her touch hadn’t been lost on me. It was pretty much all I wanted to do, all of the time. I had to have my lips on her and our skin touching. Given her response to it, she appeared to feel the same.

Our lips moved against each other for long moments, until I pulled away only far enough to move to kiss under her ear and down her throat.

“I love you,” she whispered, tracing my jaw. “And this beard.”

“More than ice cream?”

“I don’t know if that is something I should answer.” Sway tapped her finger to her nose lightly. “Ask me again when I’m not pregnant.” She reached up with her hands to pull my face back toward hers.

“Fair enough,” I muttered, clutching her torso to mine.

 

Sway had dozed off watching television, so I quietly watched her sleep. It felt so good to be home with her, in my arms where she belonged, where I belonged. I took comfort in knowing I only had three races remaining, and I’d finally get a break. As it was, I had to leave Wednesday morning and, seeing how it was Monday night now, I was already getting anxious about the departure. At least I had a few days with her, though; basically enough time to recharge myself for the end of the season. I’d needed this.

Reaching for the laptop beside the bed, I checked the NASCAR website and found yet another article about my mission to succeed. It was funny how quickly they wrote about the rise and fall of what they called greatness to now, the rise again, as though it had never happened before in the sport.

 

October 28, 2003 – SteelSpeed News Charlotte, NC

The talk of the racing community has been Jameson Riley or, as some would say, Rowdy Riley. I caught up with him outside Lernerville on Wednesday night before the Bass Pro Shops MBNA 500.

Jameson’s head was bent forward, his arms folded over his chest. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this was just some kid, or just another dirt track racer.

Only the JAR Racing suit and the signature number nine, combined with the familiar rowdy way stand, told you otherwise.

The man next to him held clout at this track and couldn’t fly under the radar either.

Jameson stood, nodding to everything his legendary father was saying. And, once again, some might think, “Here’s a kid whose Daddy fed the way, footed the bill.”

The thing was, Jameson worked harder than anyone to get to where he was now, and there was no doubt he would be what he set out to be.

Jameson drummed his fingers against a stack of tires during the drivers’ meeting, uninterested in the conversation around him and the fans surrounding them. He appreciated the fans but, in reality, this kid didn’t see himself as someone to be worshipped. He just wanted to race. You see, a guy like Jameson Riley wasn’t in it for the fame and never would be. He was in it for his love of the sport. Although unavoidable at times, he shied away. Avoiding eye contact with most everyone that night, it wasn’t from intimidation as one might think. It was from vulnerability and his indifference. He just wanted to race, and that was what people forgot when tragedy struck his family. And that was how greatness emerged from a melancholy and fatalistic view.

 

It always felt strange reading articles about myself.

I checked my messages. There were about ten from Alley, going over my schedule of appearances for the next few weeks. A couple were from Van, letting me know he’d be back Thursday night; I told him to take a few days off since I’d be with Sway. He needed it after spending that much time around the girls.

Sway’s Bob Marley tank top rose slightly when she moved, revealing the bulge of her stomach. I smiled, reaching down to touch it. I was utterly fixated on her baby bump these days, knowing that was my son growing inside there. Sure enough, he kicked my hand. I knew he liked the sound of my voice so I maneuvered myself so my head was right at her stomach.

I ran my hand back and forth, tracing his kicks. The more I touched, the more he kicked me. It was like a little game between us. I would press my hand to a certain spot, and he’d kick me.

Since I knew he liked the sound of my voice, and I knew Sway did, I decided to sing to him. I didn’t really choose any one song, just hummed a few different ones to him. As soon as he heard the vibrations of my voice, his kicks stopped.

“What are you doing down there?” Sway mumbled softly and stretched her arms above her head.

“Singing to the spaz.” We shouldn’t really call our son a spaz, but he was—an adorable one, though.

Sway sighed, curling into a ball beside me, bringing her knees up as much as she could with the bump in the way.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some food?” I asked, kissing her forehead, my hands still resting on the baby.

As soon as I asked that, her stomach began rumbling. “You shouldn’t have mentioned food.”

“I’ll get you anything you want.” I kissed her again. “You name it, and I’ll go get it.”

“I want those coconut shrimp we had in Key West.”

“Okay,... well, that will be a little harder to do.”

“Harder?” Her tiny hand slipped inside my jeans.

“If you distract me... I can’t go get you food,” I hinted. But really, I didn’t want her to stop.

I rolled over her so I was between her legs, ready and willing.

And, by the look of pure sexual frustration on Sway’s face, she did, too.

“Food?” I suggested when her stomach growled again.

“Yes, food,” she agreed and sat up when I felt the baby kicking against my stomach. “See, he wants food, too.”

“He’s not even here yet, and he’s already running our lives,” I teased, rolling off the bed. “I shall return with food, and then you have some ego stroking to do once again.”

“Yes.” Sway smiled. “Ego stroking.”

 

The following day, after food was delivered and egos were stroked, we once again had to take Sway to the doctor. She went every few days now to check the baby’s progress and to make sure she wasn’t dilating any further.

So there we sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. I had to fly out to Texas tomorrow, so I was spending as much time with Sway as possible, even if it meant we were at the doctor’s office.

Sway glanced through a magazine I couldn’t see the cover of, and I tried to figure out the woman next to me. It was a public office, about ten other patients waiting to be seen, and she was breastfeeding, or so I assumed. If not, what the fuck? I didn’t have anything against breastfeeding and agreed it was the best for the child, but wasn’t there an age limit?

The child, definitely not a baby, eventually pulled away and wiped his fucking chin. If you could wipe your chin after drinking milk, you shouldn’t be suckin’ on your mama’s tits.

“Hi,” the child said to me. “What’s your name?”

Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to lie, ‘cause I was.

Sway nudged my ribs so I felt the need to tell the truth.

“Jameson,” I said politely.

His mother looked at me, comprehension flashed. “Like, as in Jameson Riley, the race car driver?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wow,” she gasped, scrambling for words. “I’m Emily.” she pointed at the boy. “That’s my son, Ben.”

Trying to change the subject away from me, I asked her, “Uh, … how old is he?”

“Oh, he’s forty-one months,” she informed me.

While I sat baffled trying to figure out what forty-one months added up to, I decided to focus on the bigger issue at hand and not my poor math skills. Why the fuck was she still breastfeeding? Do women breastfeed that long? Alley didn’t. Would Sway breastfeed that long? Could I handle that if she did?

Thankfully, Dr. Sears called Sway back so I politely excused myself. The ultrasound was entertaining. Our flailing spaz didn’t disappoint. He was getting much bigger and was practicing his breathing, which Dr. Sears told us was a good sign. Sway was measuring at twenty-four weeks—still another eight weeks of bed rest.

Sway voiced her anger rather loudly about being on bed rest, which had Dr. Sears laughing, or feeling sorry for me. I wasn’t really sure by his harried expression.

As we were exiting the room, Emily was being escorted back to a room, carrying her forty-one-month old kid-baby on her hip.

“Bye Jameson, it was nice to meet you,” she told me. “Can you say bye to Jameson?” she asked in baby talk to this Ben kid-baby, who she held like a baby kangaroo and took the pacifier out of his mouth.

“Bye,” he said shyly, and then nuzzled his head into Emily’s shoulder.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sway asked as we got inside the car. “How old was that kid? He looked eight years old.”

“How long do women usually breast feed for?”

Sway shrugged. “Fuck if I know. I’m hungry.”

 

While we were making our way home from the ultrasound, Sway was exceptionally horny. It took some Herculean self-restraint not to find a bathroom to take her in when her hand was running up and down my thigh as we waited for Dr. Sears. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves lately, probably because of the three-week separation we’d just endured and the fact that I was, once again, leaving tomorrow for another three weeks.

Once we were on the road, Sway unbuckled her seat belt to unzip my pants.

She moaned, fucking moaned, when she unbuckled my belt. “I love the sound of your belt clanking.” She looked up at me. “It reminds me of that first night in Charlotte.”

I smiled, but was too focused on what she was about to do to answer.

Reclining the seat back slightly, I gave her more room to do her thing. I was all for a little micro-polishing. I do have to admit that it was rather difficult to concentrate on driving with her mouth wrapped around me.

Although that didn’t stop my conscience from telling me this was a very bad idea. Because it was indeed a very bad idea to be doing this, but there I was with my pants unzipped and my pregnant fiancée stretched across the center console of the car with her head in my lap.

I cradled the back of her head in my hand as she slid her mouth up and down. It wasn’t until I was groaning and begging her to continue that I realized we were approaching town with a restricted school zone.

“Not again,” I groaned as I slowly brought the car to a stop. Sway chuckled softly at my sudden road rage.

In Elma, population 3,049, you wouldn’t think it was possible to have a traffic jam, every day, in the exact same spot, no matter what time of the day it was.

But, sadly, there I was, a mere mile from the Elma Post Office and sitting in the bottleneck thinking of how good this felt and how embarrassing it would be if we were caught. Just as I was thinking I should have her stop, since we are in the middle of town, she doubled her efforts, causing me to throw my head against the headrest and moan.

“Jesus... Sway...” I groaned, tangling my hands in her hair.

She laughed.

Traffic started moving again so I decided to pull off West Main Street and take East Waltrip Road to avoid being caught by Sheriff Taylor. At least I thought I did.

As I started to get the tightening in my stomach, and any will I had to make her stop was now gone, I noticed the buildings going by at an alarming rate. I was doing nearly ninety miles an hour and now saw flashing lights behind me.

“Fuck,” I groaned, wondering how much trouble we would get in for this—most likely speeding and probably indecent exposure. When I looked up, I realized that I had not taken East Waltrip Road like I thought, but was now directly in front of the elementary school. Apparently, my mind was elsewhere and not on navigating through town to avoid this.

“Sway.” I tried to pull her up, but I think she got the impression I was trying to warn her of what was about to come. Which I was, but clearly, we weren’t thinking about the same type of coming. And, yet again, she doubled her efforts, making me gasp out loud.

I looked up to see that school was now being let out. So there we were, surrounded by nine-year-olds, shaking with laughter as they watched Sheriff Taylor get out of his cruiser.

I wanted to laugh, at first, but then I just got scared.

Everyone knew Sheriff Taylor had a total dislike for Spencer, Sway, and me, not that his hate for us was unwarranted. We certainly did cause a shitload of problems for him when we were growing up but, come on, we were kids, right?

I had a feeling this wouldn’t be easily explained to my sponsors or my dad. I could just see the headlines:

 

NASCAR SUPERSTAR GETS PULLED OVER WHILE GETTING A MICRO-POLISHING

 

Well, clearly it wouldn’t say that, but it might as well.

The Sheriff continued his march toward the car. I realized the only way to get Sway to stop, was to pull on her physically.

“Sway, get up,” I demanded, tugging on her shoulders. I hated saying it because honestly that had to be some of the best micro-polishing she had done. The fact that we were about to get caught made it sexy as hell.

“Why?” she asked, sitting up but still leaned over the console.

Just as I was frantically zipping my pants, the Sheriff took the stick and rapped it against my window, as if I didn’t know he was there.

“That’s why.”

Comprehension flashed across Sway’s face when she finally noticed Taylor standing there. Falling back in her seat, she tried, and I will say tried because it was a doomed effort at that point to straighten out her clothing and make it look like she wasn’t micro-polishing. Her hair was all over the place, her face flushed, lips swollen and bright red. Like I said, it was a doomed effort.

Needless to say, even in my moment of sheer panic, this was unbelievably entertaining to watch.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier, asshole?” she seethed, fixing her hair. “That sheriff hates me.”

“I tried.” I pointed out, throwing my arms up in frustration as I proceeded to roll down my window.

“Well, if it isn’t the NASCAR superstar himself,” he bellowed. “Shouldn’t you be racing?”

“Ah, Taylor, I thought you could use some entertainment for the afternoon,” I joked.

“Do you realize how fast you were going, Riley? This isn’t the race track.”

You would think I would be trying to distract him from the fact that I was moments ago frantically zipping my pants and trying to get my pregnant fiancée’s mouth off me. But no, I wasn’t trying to do that when I stuttered out an “Uh.”

“Well, let me jog your memory son. Ninety … in a school zone.”

“I’m sorry, sheriff. I was distracted.”

For the love of idiocy, why can’t I think of anything remotely responsible to say?

He looked at me like I was stupid and then looked over at Sway who was still flushed and trying to fix her bra. At that point, Taylor looked between the two of us and comprehension finally flashed across his face at what exactly we had been doing to be going ninety miles an hour.

“I see,” he muttered, looking again at Sway.

My head fell back in frustration. I wasn’t sure who was more mortified at that point. Me, who was desperately praying that my camshaft would lose its lift, or Sway, who was bright red and completely oblivious to the fact that her bra was still showing. Or Taylor, who was seventy-years-old and caught two kids having sex in a car, driving down the road at ninety in a school zone.

By the grace of God, I can only assume, Taylor mumbled, “slow down,” and quickly returned to his cruiser, thankfully before Sway and I both burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

Once we slowly, and I mean slowly, at twenty-five miles an hour, started driving home, we made a new rule: no micro-polishing in the car, ever again.