Stagger – The difference in size between the tires on the left and right side of a race car.

 

“Wow, it’s so big.”

“I know.”

“Like really big.”

I let out a soft chuckle at her enthusiasm. “I know.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little... too big?”

“Please, Sway.” My lips grazed her ear from behind. “Nothing is too big.”

Pressing my hips forward, I emphasized my point. She shivered, and I delivered. Bending her forward over the kitchen counter in our unfinished house, I lifted her cotton white skirt. Slowly, and as seductively as I could, I slipped her panties down her smooth bare legs, kissing my way back up to stand behind her.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she put this skirt on this morning, knowing damn well I was one horny boy these days. To say she was anything less, would be an understatement. Though she was only into her third month of pregnancy, Sway’s hormones were out of control. She needed a rev limiter. She wanted it every day, multiple times a day, and I wasn’t about to deny her. It seemed the more I healed from the accident, the more I felt the same way. I was afraid I’d hurt her or the baby with how rough she liked it, but she never complained.

“Harder,” she moaned, throwing her head back.

“I’ll hurt the baby...” I hesitated. Bent over the granite counters, her hands hooked on the eating bar above. I steadied my feet with the sawdust around us. Sway’s skirt was draped over her back, her panties now in my fisted hand.

I think I’ll keep them today.

“I said harder, Jameson!” Sway growled. When she looked over her shoulder, I almost lost it right then. Images of the last time I had her laid across a counter flooded my mind. Groaning at the memory, my movements sped.

Once she bit down on her lower lip and screamed my name, I unraveled quickly.

“That was fun.” Sway smiled sitting in front of me on the counter. “We christened one room already.”

With her underwear in hand, I pulled my jeans up.

Sway reached for her panties.

“Ah-uh.” I grinned, shaking my head slowly. “I’m keeping these for today. That way...” My fingertips swept lightly across her collarbone and down her arm. “In case I feel the need to ravage you again, you’re ready.”

“That sounds... oh God...” she moaned when I stepped in between her legs. Just my jeans rubbing against her bare center was arousing her once again, which made me chuckle.

“Sway ...” My lips pressed to her throat and her head tipped backward. “I’m not seventeen, you know... I need at least a few minutes.”

Her hand dipped inside my jeans, grasping me firmly.

“Really?” Her eyebrows arched when she felt me harden under her touch.

“Fuck it,” I mumbled, carrying her into the soon-to-be living room.

There was no furniture. Hell, most of the house hadn’t even been dry walled. So instead, I leaned her against the wall facing the south side of the house. This time I didn’t even bother pulling my jeans down, though they eventually fell with my quick movements.

With any luck, sometime today I’d get to show her the upstairs of the house.

 

“Wow, it’s huge up here, too.” Sway grinned back at me, stepping onto the second floor.

“Don’t start that again.” Her pouty face had me reconsidering my words instantly. “I need a few minutes and, besides, we have years to christen this house.” I grabbed her hand. “I want to show you something.”

I led her to the room I’d been dying to show her since we arrived an hour ago. The room I called the contractors about two weeks ago, and they amazingly finished before all the rest for my surprise.

We walked down the hall toward the master bedroom and entered the double doors. With a gentle nudge, I grasped Sway’s hand and guided her inside.

The master bedroom was beautiful, I’ll say that much. The east side was wall-to-wall windows that overlooked Lake Norman. Mahogany wood floors wrapped throughout the room and led you back around the walk-in closets, then into the master bathroom. Though the master bath was amazing, it was still a bathroom to me.

I was excited about the shower I designed myself; it had dual heads along with ten other jets in the six-by-six space, including a bench that I already envisioned Sway straddling me on.

God, I think dirty. She’s right. I am a dirty heathen.

I glanced at Sway. She was biting down on her lower lip, and I knew exactly what she was thinking when she stepped inside the glass doors, stripping her clothes as she went.

Well, fuck... now the surprise would have to wait.

Once our clothes were intact another thirty minutes later, and I could stand up without getting dizzy, we walked back into the master bedroom. Eight times in one day, it’s enough to leave any man light-headed for lack of bodily fluids.

Smiling, she started to head out the door when I gently reached for her. “Again?” she asked.

“No... I can’t,” I groaned, shaking my head. “I seriously don’t think I could get it up again without being chemically assisted.”

“So, why did you stop?” She gave me a smile. “I’ve seen this room.”

I returned the smile, tipping my head. “Yes, but you haven’t seen this addition.” I placed my right hand against her cheek, running my thumb over her lower lip. With a nod, I motioned to the unopened door. “Open that door.”

“That one?” She pointed toward it.

“Yes, that one.”

“Why, is there a cougar in there?”

I glared. “No, there’s a clown. Now open the goddamn door.”

Sway laughed freely, reaching for the doorknob. My breath caught in my throat when she gasped at the sight of our unborn child’s room.

With a much-deserved favor from Emma, the room had been painted with a soft tan color and the floors matched the master bedroom. That, combined with the dark floors, gave the room a lived-in feel regardless of the lack of furniture.

What sent Sway into a fit of hysterical happy tears was the black and white photo Emma had framed on the wall.

The photo was one from Sway’s ultrasound, blown up to a larger size and showed all the details of the arms, legs and head.

Under the photo was text that read:

 

We are patiently waiting your arrival baby Riley

 

Approaching her from behind, I wrapped my arms around her, resting my hands over her stomach. “Do you approve?”

She sniffled and eventually choked out, “Yes, very much so... thank you.”

Sway needed comforting so we lay there, on the floor, holding each other with Sway gazing endlessly at the photo that she removed from the wall to get a better look at.

“I think it’s gonna be a boy.”

“Really?” I asked kissing her temple. My fingertips traced circles over her collarbone. “What makes you think that?”

“I just have a feeling. I had a dream about a little boy the other night with your crazy rusty hair and green eyes.”

I smiled thinking of a little me running around and then cringed. That was not something I was ready for. I’d rather have a little Sway running around with her emerald eyes and soft mahogany curls, but I’d settle for either one.

“Mmmm,” I sighed.

“What?” Sway asked, turning to face me, holding the picture to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

“I can always tell when you have a secret.”

Her eyes fell to the photograph, once again tracing the outline of our baby. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“Nope,” I shook my head.

“I’m scared it’s too soon for us to become parents,” Sway blurted out.

I laughed. “You’re probably right, but it is what it is.”

“We’re doing this backward, you know.”

When I didn’t say anything, her anxious eyes met mine.

“That’s what makes it fun,” I told her.

Eventually I ended up showing Sway the rest of the house and the race shop I was having built.

She loved everything about the house, but I knew she enjoyed the baby’s room best. I couldn’t wait to start our lives together after today, but first I would need a purpose.

I knew that wasn’t something I could rush into, especially after the other night. I needed to show Sway how much she meant to me, and I needed to earn her trust.

 

We could only keep Jameson in the house for so long before he found his way to the sprint car shop and insisted on making some changes to the cars. What he was doing, no one knew, but it was more of him needing to be around the cars.

I also knew that even though he was out there, he needed to eat. I stopped by the store, picked up some food intending to cook for him.

His sprint car shop for JAR Racing (his sprint car team that he started) was located about a mile from his parent’s house and five miles from the new house on Lake Norman. It was around twenty-four thousand square feet with white walls, red and black trim, and the JAR Racing logo in the center of the concrete floor surrounded by a pair of checkered flags.

Don’t think I didn’t already imagine what my ass would look like sitting on it.

I must have walked right past Jameson leaning against his toolbox near the wall when I heard that smooth rasp on the phone with whom I assumed was his grandpa. Grandpa Casten was a crazy old man with a nasty temper much like any Riley, who built all the race engines for both JAR Racing and Riley-Simplex Racing, the Winston Cup team. Engines were extremely expensive so it paid having family in the business. For a new team on both sides, it was what kept them going. That, and a brand new engine ran $75,000 - $80,000, and when you took around four to each track, you got deals where you could.

Some teams even went the route of leasing engines to the tune of $45,000 a piece. Currently there were five World of Outlaw teams and nine Winston Cup teams leasing from CST Engines. They were good and knew how to build strong engines.

“We have too much lift and not enough clearance. They’ll need to have pistons fly cut, or we have to run a different cam,” Jameson said to him.

Most thought Jameson was just a driver. They were wrong. He knew everything about sprint cars, from the setups to the engines, and could build one from the ground up if needed. Though he was still learning with stock cars, he’d picked up enough that he knew what the car was doing and how to make it do what he wanted.

Jameson turned sharply when he heard the click of my flip-flops hitting the heels of my feet as I walked closer.

My eyes caught his. He smirked, shifting his position against the toolbox to appear more relaxed. The phone rested against his shoulder as he scribbled notes across a note pad laying on his toolbox.

Dressed comfortably in loose khaki shorts and a Simplex polo shirt, he looked tempting.

I waited patiently for him to hang up, but it wasn’t like his engine talk wasn’t turning me on.

“Grandpa,” Jameson sighed, tossing his pen aside. “The cam is .499 intake with .520 exhaust and 1.6 rockers.” He picked up the pen and jotted down a few things before tossing it again. “We’re gonna have a spring bind problem.”

I lost track of what he was saying because though he was talking to his grandpa, his grass green eyes never left mine. “Just make the changes. Fine... tell Nana I love her... yes... of course I want cookies. All right... love you too, jerk.”

When he cleared his throat, I spoke. “I came to offer food.”

His eyes flashed with humor as a smile lit up his face. “Is that so?” he asked with a certain sparkle.

He moved from his position near the toolbox to stand over an engine block that was open. Somehow, my feet moved, and I, too, was standing over the engine.

Jameson slid a black plastic glove on his right hand. His eyes moved over my body slowly as though he was memorizing it. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, feeling exposed.

“I need to get this camshaft in,” he said, moving closer yet again.

“What’s all this?” I motioned to the engine. “Why are you doing this?”

“Grandpa needed some help this morning.” He perked up at the idea of engine building. “I’m installing the camshaft. Would you like to watch?”

I felt moisture seep down my thighs at the thought.

Then he began the most erotic engine slang I had ever heard from him.

“I’ve already installed the camshaft bearings, prepping them with assembly lube.” Jameson ran his gloved finger over the opening in the block—back and forth, provocatively. “Now, you take the camshaft,” he chuckled deeply, holding the long piece of metal in his hands. To tease me further, he stroked the lobes once, and I elbowed him, his eyebrows raised as he giggled. Yep, he giggled.

“You should do a proper cleaning of all the journals and lobes, which I’ve done already. Then, you spread lube over the distributor driver gear and all the lobes of the camshaft. It’s messy, so you start with the gear and the first four lobes at the rear of the cam,” he whispered, moving closer. “Then you spread some Molly lube on the two rear journals and insert the cam in the block, slowly, until you can leave it hanging on those last two journals. That way, the next four lobes of the cam are easily accessible for greasing. Each lobe needs to be fully coated.”

Laying myself over this goddamn engine, I had to mentally block out the neurons firing in my head and have him coat me in Molly lube, whatever the hell that was.

He stared down at me, the knowing smirk growing. “It’s really messy, but if you lube all the journals first and then try to insert, your hands will slip off so it’s best to go a little at a time.”

Just before the cam was inserted all the way, his eyes found mine. “Would you like to help with insertion?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and then raising his shirt to sweep across his forehead. Although I took comfort in the fact he was just as worked up, it still wasn’t much consolation.

I drew in a breath that sounded like being in the dyno room as I stared at the cam.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he chuckled. “When you get to the end, you grab the camshaft with one hand and then reach inside the block and feed the rest through.” His hand reached over the top of the block, feeding the camshaft through. I watched intently as his forearms flexed with the controlled movement.

“If you leave the cam plug out, you can ease the last few inches in easier. Then you put the upper gear on.” He bolted the gear on. “And your cam is ready to go, fully lubricated and spinning smoothly.” His wrist flicked the gear once, spinning it. “See, perfect.”

I think he knew he’d gotten to me, but he was quick to add, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

Next thing I knew, we were knocking over tools, parts, and using a sprint car for balance as our bodies collided in raw emotion.

“Cars again?” I let a little giggle slip. “Not that I’m opposed to it.”

“Hmmm... yes, cars again.” His teeth did that nipping thing I loved so much, and a low moan caught in his throat when my hand slipped inside his jeans. “Sprint cars. I hope you stretched.”

Hot damn.

“Mmm, sprint cars.” Moaning, I noticed the floor was glistening with what looked to be oil. I pointed to the floor. “Is that oil on the floor? Jameson, be careful. Don’t slip in that.”

“I won’t slip in the oil.” His hands moved to my face, searching for my lips. “Concentrate. On me.”

“I’m serious. Be careful; you’re not paying attention, and if you fall you could really hurt yourself.” I looked around the shop. There were tools, tires, hoses, and oil scattered throughout. For someone who was recovering from broken bones, this wouldn’t end well. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I won’t slip in the oil.” His hands, once again, forced my attention back to him. “Now you... pay attention. It’s me and you, just me and you.”

“Pay attention? That’s not happening. Not when you... oh, God...” Just as I was about to see stars, he was gone. “Hey, what happened?” I looked behind me, searching around for him. He was on the floor, smiling. “Are you okay down there?”

“I slipped in the oil.” Poor guy looked ashamed.

I started to turn around to see if he was truly okay, but he pressed me hard against the rear tire of his sprint car, my bare ass on cool rubber.

“What’s going on down there?” I noticed he wasn’t quite as, shall I say, hard as before.

Jameson shrugged, his eyes wary. “It’s cold in here. Maybe he’s shy.”

It was freezing in here. That was no lie. My nipples could cut through an iceberg, but these days, they did that a lot.

“Shy, you say?”

“Yes, shy,” the wary eyes dropped. “I slipped trying to be sexy and completely ruined my pride. He needs his ego stroked.”

“Stroked?” I reached between my legs where he was knelt, running my hand from the tip to base, he hardened further with a groan. “That kind of stroking?”

“Yes, stroking... good.” My foot slipped against the oil pan, spraying oil against us.

“Fuck... that stings,” Jameson’s hand flew to his eyes.

“What stings?”

“I think I have oil in my eye. I can’t see now.”

“I’ll help you,” I mumbled, guiding his face to mine.

Thoughts of the oil spill were fleeting as he slipped inside with an oil slick of my own. It should have hurt. There I was sitting on the edge of a rubber tire as my dirty heathen pushed against me, and oh, was he dirty. I mean actually dirty.

His hands were covered in grease, oil, and God knows what else, which in turn was now all over me. I looked like I was trying to disguise myself for battle.

“I came here to tell you I was going to make you breakfast,” I said, trying to reason with myself as to why I was now spread out, once again, on a car, except this time it was a sprint car.

“Don’t distract me with food,” he warned. “Can you stick your leg on that tire?” Jameson reached for the hem of his t-shirt yanking it over his head in one quick movement. His muscles flexed, moving closer. The bruises from his healed ribs were beginning to turn yellow, although new bruises formed along his right side from his brawl with Mike.

I placed my leg on the tire as requested as he spread my legs out in front of him.

“No talking? I think a little dirty talking is good sometimes. It’s a good distraction.”

“Don’t test me, honey.” He removed my hands from the tire and placed them against the wing above me. “You might want to hold on.”

“But I make a bitchin’ omelet,” I said, placing my hands behind my head. “That’s what I came here to tell you.”

“Omelets, really?” he groaned, picking up the other foot and placing it on his shoulder. He then placed both of them together against his right shoulder. His hands wrapped around my hips pulling me toward him. “I love omelets.”

“I know you do.”

“How’s that?” Jameson grunted. “Does it feel good?”

“Good... yes... soooo fucking good.”

“Really good?”

“Amazing. Back to the omelet.” I could see him roll his eyes, even though his head was down. He hated it when I tried to talk food while we were humping. “I might be inclined to make you one this morning.”

“You really want to talk about omelets when I’m fucking you against my sprint car?” He stopped and eyed me carefully. “If you keep that up, I’ll be forced to fight dirty.”

“Dirtier than this?” My fingers swept down his greasy forearms and chest.

 “You have no idea what I’m capable of. I haven’t even begun to show you everything I’ve dreamed of doing in this shop.” He reached for an air socket next to his bare foot, thrusting harder, but keeping the air socket in his hand. Carefully, he drew the cool metal of the socket up my thigh he was holding firmly against his chest. “You were saying?”

“I surrender.” I shivered. “Just fuck me already.”

I had no idea what he planned to do with an air socket, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out.

“What was that?” He threw the socket down.

“You win.”

“That’s right.” He bent forward and kissed down my calf. “Fuck, you’re really tight.”

Jameson pulled back and then pushed forward again, groaning as he did so. “Careful, don’t get tangled on that hose.”

“Hose...” He smirked. “I’ll show you a hose.”

“I’m serious. Your foot is caught in it.” I tried to reach down to yank it out of the way. “Just here... move... do that.”

“No, no... don’t... that...”

We landed together on the floor. “What happened to you?”

“I slipped on the hose.” I wiggled my hips, reaching for him.

“I’ve got your hose.”

“Yes, you do. Stop talking and fuck me,” he growled, his feet rested flat on the floor pushing his hips up. “No more talking unless it’s screaming out my name.”

Throwing my head back and moaning like a whore, I rode my dirty talking heathen and screamed his name as requested.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

“You like that, don’t you?” Jameson grinned with a smug wink. His loops of hair were in complete disarray from the oil and his face smudged with grease.

“So good.” I sped my movements chasing the release I needed after all that teasing.

“Ah... shit... honey, I’m... slow down.” His tone was guttural as he tried to halt my movements, but as soon as those words left his beautiful lips, I was falling—falling hard as my orgasm ravaged me, my hips rocking back and forth. His hands dug into my hips, bruising my skin, keeping me in place now.

He wasn’t done with me yet.

Flipping me over, he nudged my knees apart almost carelessly, my back pressed to the hard, cool concrete floor of the shop. His eyes burned into me as he dragged his fingertips from my mouth, down the center of my body, between my breasts. His paced quickened as he raced toward his own release.

Groaning into my ear, I could feel him shivering and pulsing inside of me, his back arching at the force as he chanted my name. Our cries of pleasure filled the four thousand square foot shop.

It took a while to be able to move again and figure out what body part could move in what direction without pulling a muscle or dislocating something.

“Why are you crawling?” I laughed, watching him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t actually stand anymore. I’m too dehydrated to walk. Crawling seems a lot easier at this point.”

 “You weren’t complaining earlier when you won yourself an omelet,” I pointed out, still watching him crawl.

“Well no, you promised me an omelet.” He looked back at me over his shoulder. “And don’t forget that part. I want my fucking omelet.”

“I shall cook now.”

I helped Jameson up and made it back to the kitchen.

How many race shops had kitchens in them? Only Jameson would do something like that, but it was handy for me.

 

The rest of the afternoon Jameson worked on his sprint cars. It seemed to provide a good distraction for him. We both knew what was waiting for him once he returned to the track.

His distractions got the best of him, and we soon found ourselves paying Emma back for the cougar in the hospital. Like I said, Jameson with free time wasn’t looking good for Emma.

We had a plan, only our plan went haywire somewhere along the way.

“Don’t touch that.” Slapping my hand away from the electronic tarantula, he glared. “Leave it alone.”

“Why not?” I placed it back on the ground pushing away from him, resting my head against Emma’s wooden bed frame.

There we were, dressed in our black hoodies again, pranking Emma.

“It’s perfect the way it is,” he told me. “Don’t touch it.”

“Do you really think this is going to work?”

His eyebrow arched. “Don’t question my skills, Sway.” His expression was total disgust that I would even think he didn’t have this all covered accordingly.

I shook my head in disbelief as he began crawling away on his hands and knees. “Why are you crawling again?”

Jameson looked over his shoulder. “Ambush 101.” The disbelief expression returned. “Have you no skills in this department?”

“What, did you take a class?”

He grunted in reply.

I got down on my hands and knees to follow him. Strutting, I purposely tried to mess with his intensity. He deserved to be put in his place, and it worked.

 “All right... that’s hardly fair,” he growled, scooping me inside Emma’s closet. “Here’s the plan.”

The frivolous expression was back.

He glared, of course, when I let a squeaked giggle escape. “Pay attention... I can’t have you messing this up.”

“What the fuck?” I punched his thigh. “This was my idea, asshole.”

His frivolous expression suddenly turned curious when we heard laughter from downstairs.

“Shit... is Aiden with her?”

This was not going to turn out well, I knew that much.

For one, you could see in the room, directly to the bed.

Two, they sounded drunk.

Third, Emma drunk equals Emma horny. Funny, it seems to run in the family.

I turned my attention back to Jameson.

“Don’t move, and for shit’s sake, don’t say anything,” I warned. “It was your idea to hide in the damn closet, remember that!”

A few things happened rather quickly.

Emma came into the room naked. Aiden followed, also naked. Jameson turned a bright shade of red.

Emma and Aiden started humping like porn stars and lastly, I giggled.

What was even funnier was Jameson tackling me to keep cover. How Emma and Aiden didn’t notice me giggling like a goon or the thuds of Jameson tackling me was unbelievable. The act itself lasted way longer than Jameson and I wanted.

“My God!” Jameson was mortified with the sounds of his baby sister mounting her cowboy. “Just stop already!” Whining to himself, he covered his ears, humming loudly, in attempt to drown out the horrific noise coming through the wall.

Again, how could they not hear that?

I used my only source of distraction I knew. I showed Jameson the swollen funbags.

“Aiden, not so hard.”

Jameson’s eyes shot to mine. “You have to be fucking kidding me?”

I couldn’t offer him anything at that point, as nothing would have helped. Even the funbags weren’t holding his attention. I had nothing left.

Another five excruciatingly long minutes later, the moaning and grunting reached a climax of epic proportions. I was actually surprised at how loud they were—as was Jameson.

His hands were covering his ears, his head buried in my lap as he hummed loudly.

Another five minutes later and, at last, they were sound asleep. Jameson designated me with making sure Emma was covered before we snuck out. She was, so we made a mad dash for the hallway. We couldn’t go far, so we sat on the other side of the door, Jameson turned the spider on. “That was horrible.”

He was still cranky having heard that. Setting the mechanical spider on the hardwood floor, he lay on his stomach and then cracked the door to see inside the room. Getting the spider in the room was one thing; getting it on the bed was a whole other feat.

I had to go back in there. Crawling on my hands and knees, attempting to ease Jameson’s mood, I tossed the remote control spider on the bed.

“Did you turn it on?” he asked when I returned, panting. I was evidently extremely out of shape.

“Yes, I turned it on.” Jameson lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. “Stop that. You’re distracting me.”

“I do not fucking care at this point,” was his annoyed response.

You’d think he was the hormonal pregnant bitch these days.

It took some time for them to notice the spider. After all, they were asleep. Once they did... it was a clusterfuck.

Emma leapt off the bed, screaming, from the room ranting about the biggest mother-loving spider she’d ever seen. Aiden, not so manly, screamed like a four-year-old little girl and all but climbed the wall to get away from it.

Jameson and I laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe, let alone stand on our own two feet.

We ruined the whole damn thing, but hearing Aiden scream like that was totally worth it.

Jameson pointed at Aiden. “You... scream... fuck...” he couldn’t finish and crumbled to the ground laughing again. I joined him.

Realizing the spider was a fake, Emma was pissed.

“Jameson!” she screamed, kicking him. “You better run fuckface because when I catch you, I will chop off your dick!”

Jimi and Nancy heard the commotion going down on the second floor of their home and came up to see.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Nancy said, holding back her enraged daughter. “No one is cutting off any dicks tonight.”

Jameson laughed again as a glaring Jimi kicked his leg.

“I don’t want to clean up the blood. I’m tired, and I’m pretty sure that would bleed a great deal,” Nancy finished, her rusty curls fell over her shoulder when she had to snag a lunging Emma.

“He put a spider in my bed!” Emma complained.

Nancy, eyeing Jameson, seemed to consider her complaint for a brief moment. “How did he put a spider in your bed?”

“I don’t know... it’s right there.” She pointed to the crushed spider.

“That’s not a spider, that’s a toy,” Jimi huffed. Considering it was three in the morning, they clearly were not pleased about being woken by this. “Stop acting like goddamn children, and go to sleep!” he seethed, stomping down the stairs.

“We should buy another home,” Nancy followed. “They don’t seem to want to leave.”

“Fuck that,” Jimi slung his arm around his wife. “We’re kicking the assholes out tomorrow. Too many assholes in one house. We need less assholes.”

To think I’m about to have one of these crazies in six months. I must be out of my mind.

I turned toward Jameson who was still laughing lying on the floor. “You do know that your sister schedules your meet and greets, right?”

“So?”

“Next thing you know you’re going to be doing them in shopping malls surrounded by teenage girls.”

He cringed. “Fuck that.”

As he walked to his room, he kicked her door.

 

The next morning, the tension between Jameson and Emma was much the same, but what was amusing to me was Jimi, as always. He was good for a laugh or two.

Gathered around the dining room table eating breakfast, we attempted to act civil.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Jimi barked, giving Jameson a pointed glare.

“Do what?” We all looked over at Jimi.

“Touch her.”

“Why?” Jameson scoffed, pushing his scrambled eggs around his plate and keeping his arm around my shoulder. “She’s my girlfriend. My hands have been places you probably don’t want to know.”

“Jameson!” Nancy balked at her son’s crudeness. “Not at the table.”

Jimi was undeterred. “You already knocked her up in my kitchen. Nothing is happening on this table.”

We were all quiet. You could have heard a pin drop.

It took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to giggle at that point and give everything away along with my embarrassment.

“You didn’t?” Jimi’s eyebrows arched, his fork pinged as it dropped against his plate.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” Jameson asked.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t,” Jameson laughed, not convincing.

Images of his attack on me, on this very table, inundated my mind.

Hot damn, that was a good time.

Jimi threw his napkin on the table in complete disgust for his son. “I hope you have a little rusty-haired shit just like yourself.” His glare shifted to me. “Sorry Sway, but you’re screwed.”

As the days passed in Mooresville, we moved on from our pranks, and it was time for Bristol and Jameson’s first race back. We had concerns with it being a short track, but Jameson showed no signs.

Though I was going with him to Tennessee, I couldn’t stay for the race on Monday. I needed to leave on Friday night in order to be home for the Northern Sprint Tour, and then the World of Outlaws came to town on Sunday.

I hated missing the Bristol race, as tickets for that race sell out two years in advance, but this was the biggest event at our track. I needed to be there.

It only meant two days away from Jameson, as he’d be flying to Elma after Sunday’s race to catch the Outlaw race and the fair on Monday night.

Every year we had the “Big E Weekend,” which consisted of racing, parades, fireworks and the best tasting food around. This also meant I had a ton of work to do, too. Between insurance waivers, scoring, driver sign-ups, hospitality schedules, payouts, it would be a mess if I weren’t there to help. In turn, that was where I was needed.

Jameson was driven and pushed himself every day in order to make the Atlanta race.

Once his cast was removed and the broken ribs healed, NASCAR cleared him to race again. The main concern was still his lungs, which recovered well, but still gave him coughing fits from time to time.

My only concern for him was it being a short track and a night race. Bristol Motor Speedway was a half-mile track with 36° banking, though it’s been debated it’s only 26°. Either way, it’s steep. There is stadium-style seating surrounding the concrete track with two pit lanes allowing all sides to catch the action.

With it being a night race, tempers flared. Tempers I didn’t want Jameson involved with during his first race back.

On Wednesday, we arrived in Tennessee and met with an even bigger surprise in the garage. Our surprise: the driver who had replaced Darrin Torres for the remainder of the season.

Mike Tanner.

Jameson’s reaction was to avoid him, which was the right thing to do.

What Mike did was the wrong thing to do. He approached Jameson and me standing in the garage, waiting for his car to be released from inspection. The inspection process in the garage occurred many times throughout the race weekend and focused on all aspects of the car, from fuel to aerodynamics, to be sure they were in line with the NASCAR rulebook.

Stationed securely to Jameson’s right side, Mike walked toward us.

“Jameson,” he greeted and then turned to me. “Hey, Sway—how are you doing these days?”

You couldn’t miss the denigrating tone he used when he acknowledged Jameson.

“I’m fine,” I snipped. I was furious that he would so blatantly ignore the fact that I was with Jameson.

Idiocy is the only word I could think to use for his next move. He leaned in closer and whispered in my ear, “Why don’t you leave him and come have some fun like we used to?”

My hothead reacted by pushing Mike away from me against the bay doors. “Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” Jameson spat, moving closer, towering over Mike. “I will only warn you this one time. Stay away from Sway.”

Mike stared at him with a blank expression, searching his eyes. Maybe he was trying to see if he was serious, or maybe he was just that stupid. Regardless, the lack of respect Mike showed, doubting his intentions, only impelled Jameson.

“I’m not scared of you, Jameson.”

“You will be,” Jameson replied in a no-nonsense tone.

Auspiciously, Spencer walked into the garage before the argument could escalate any further. “Hey, Jameson,” his resonant voice carried throughout, triggering other drivers and team members to look over. “Alley is looking for you.”

Jameson remained set, his jaw clenched, before he spun on his heel to face Spencer. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he whispered a few words to his brother and then pulled me along with him.

“You should have learned your lesson by now,” was the only advice Spencer offered Mike before I was too far away to hear anymore.

Jameson continued to drag me along like a caveman. His hand in my own was trembling slightly from the adrenaline, his expression remaining frightening.

When we made it back to the motor coach in the infield drivers’ compound, he wrapped his arm possessively around me as a group of men walked past and smiled at me.

I giggled. “Maybe you should piss on my leg, too.”

“Maybe I should,” he snapped back at me, tilting his head my direction. “Maybe other men won’t fucking test me then.”

“That’s gross.”

“Well, you said it.”

“I wasn’t serious. What’s the matter with you?”

He didn’t say anything as he let go of my hand, leaning against his motor coach. His eyes fell to the ground when he realized how ridiculous he was reacting to all this.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

Jameson snorted, his eyes still fixated on my hand he reached for. “How can I not be? He slept with you, and now he has the audacity to approach you in public, right in front of me. How else am I supposed to feel?”

Stepping toward him, I raised my hand to rest against his cheek. He sucked in a shaky breath and met my eyes when I spoke. “Do you have any idea what it’s like loving Jameson Riley, knowing that every pit lizard and garage groupie out there wants him and would give anything for one touch, just like I did?”

His eyes narrowed with repudiation. “Do you have any idea what it’s like loving Sway Reins, the woman who with one look could melt any man’s heart?” Jameson breathed inches from my face, holding me to his chest. His hand came up to touch my cheek gently.

“Must be hard.”

He pressed forward. “Hard indeed.”

“This turned you on?”

He hung his head in shame. “No, you turned me on.”

“Sad.” I shook my head, guiding his lips to mine. “Come here, you possessive pervert.”

We didn’t get a chance for things to heat up before Alley returned looking for Jameson. “Stop that,” she barked slapping at us tangled together. “Jameson, you have an interview in ten minutes—get moving.”

Interviews were always exciting so I decided it would be beneficial, if not entertaining, to attend. Sitting along the side of the stage with Alley, Jameson, Kyle, and Jimi did the first press conference since the accident.

Just a few minutes into it, I was impressed by Jameson’s calm manner. They questioned him endlessly on his thoughts on Darrin, all of which he answered with vague responses.

What stunned both Alley and I, was Jimi’s reaction to his thoughts on the wreck.

Jimi wasn’t a man of many words in the public eye. Never had been. Over the years, he managed to avoid press at all costs, until now.

“I will not sit back and watch another driver try to kill my son.” His tone was final. “These two have been battling all year, and I’ve let it go, but Darrin will be held accountable for his actions if I have to sue NASCAR myself,” Jimi threatened, triggering a loud cheer from the crowd gathered in front of the stage.

The reporter then turned his questions to Jameson once again. “Jameson.” My eyes scanned Jameson who was slouched in the director’s chair, completely relaxed. “You and Darrin have been battling all season long with each other … like Jimi said. Now that he’s been suspended, what do you think your chances are for a championship here in your first full cup season?”

Jameson nodded, his eyes focused on the microphone as he tugged on the bill of his hat. “You know... we had a shot before the wreck.” His head skewed slightly toward Jimi. “Now... it’s hard to say. We missed three races and took a massive hit in the points, but Warner Leddy did us a huge favor by getting in the car at Watkins Glen and Michigan. I have an excellent team and sponsors who support me. We have amazing cars with Riley Simplex Racing.” He reached for the water in front of him and took a quick drink. “If we can manage top ten finishes and stay consistent, I think we still have a shot at it, but all those aspects have to line up to do so.”

“Why do you think Darrin wrecked you after the race?”

Jameson let out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s a question you should ask him. Only he knows why.”

We knew Darrin’s motive, but we didn’t know why he was so intently focused on it. He was obsessed, and I had a feeling it wasn’t truly over between Jameson and Darrin.

Phillip was working on bringing a lawsuit forth with reckless endangerment, but with lack of details surrounding the accident, they didn’t have much to go on.

While the pre-hearing conference was held last Monday, it wasn’t looking promising. Most fines issued by NASCAR were beyond any fine Darrin would have received if the accident occurred off the track. You had to prove without a doubt to the courts that Darrin’s actions were inherent to the sport, something that would be difficult.

Another thirty minutes into the press conference, I left with Alley and waited back at the motor coach for Jameson.

Once there, I spotted Aiden stepping out with a sandwich and his southern grin boyish.

“Hey,” I said, nodding my head with my own grin. “You’re spotting for him tomorrow?”

I couldn’t help myself and giggled.

“It’s a day race.” Aiden scrunched his nose. “I think I’ll be okay.”

The night race in Bristol was not Aiden’s favorite. He once paid Tommy $1000 to spot for Jameson if it was going to be a night race.

At Bristol Motor Speedway, in the heat of August, perched on the towers outside turn two, the bugs would swarm by the millions.

Apparently, last year they had this big debate where Aiden basically refused to go up in the tower on night races in the South.

Jameson would get a kick out of this and would say something along the lines, “If you hear Aiden’s voice crackling—he just swallowed a cicada.”

Poor Aiden even went as far as wearing a ski mask pulled down over his mouth so the bugs would stay out. It was that bad.

I wasn’t inside the motor coach long when Jameson returned with my favorite smile plastered across his face, abnormal for an afternoon with the media.

“Oh, how I missed you,” I mumbled against his lips, my legs wrapped around his waist.

He laughed. “Well, hello there, honey.”

Smiling like a fool, I unwrapped myself from around him but essentially slide down his rock hard body.

Naturally he groaned, I did just slide down his crank shaft. “I missed you.”

Though it had only been less than a half hour that he was gone doing his interview with Track Pass, I still missed him.

And then he got cocky with, “Can’t control yourself, can you?”

“What can I say, you have that effect on me,” I said, giving him a wink.

His hands went a little wild, like normal and ended up under my shift palming the funbags as he pressed me against the side of the motor coach.

“Don’t worry. I feel the same way.” He breathed, rubbing his face over my jaw and then licking my lower lip, as if that was sexy. And it was. “I can’t control myself around you.” His tongue darted out, tasting me again, and then his hands fisted in my hair deepening the kiss.

“Hot damn….” I went limp in his hands.

And then he pulled away, leaving me goo. “Come on, Joanie, I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Lead the way, Chachi.” I said, wiggling from his arms, he walked me to the golf cart.

As we neared the infield, a group in the infield got louder as they partied near their campsite. They all raised their drinks of choice when they saw who was in the golf cart and yelled something along the lines of, “Whew, Rowdy Riley!”

Jameson and I both smiled as we drove around the outside of the pits, through the entry gate and then around the other side of the venue, to the grandstands.

Turning the engine off, he palmed the keys. “Come on, Joanie. Let’s go to the sock hop.”

I walked a few steps down into the grandstands of Bristol Motor Speedway before turning my face up into the moonlight.

This was no sock hop; it was better. Jameson approached me, his chest pressed to my back and I couldn’t help but smile, enjoying the warm summer night against my skin, happy just to be here with him, alone.

His hand brushed along my hair as he stepped closer, his body touching mine. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured as his arm finally came around me. “Your skin glows under the moonlight. It’s breathtaking.”

“It’s the hormones.” I turned, my eyes remained closed, wrapping my arms around his neck and keeping my head angled up for his kiss.

His lips felt cool for once against mine. He pulled me up off my feet holding me to his body. Being this close I could feel the erratic beating of his heart, relieved I had the same effect on him.

Taking a seat in one of the stadium seats, he tugged me onto his lap overlooking the speedway from the view the fans would see tomorrow night.

It had been a while since Jameson had seen a track from this view.

As we sat there, the only sounds were from our steady even breaths and the cicada in the distance.

“I’ve always dreamed about this,” Jameson whispered into my hair.

“Racing here?”

“No,” he chuckled.

“What then?”

“Not just racing. I mean, yeah, there’s that, but mostly I dreamt of being here.” His face brushed against the side of mine softly, his attention remained on the track. “Seeing my dreams come true, having everything I ever wanted, and being here with you.”

“And do you have everything you ever wanted?”

“Yes.” His voice had that familiar smooth velvet tone. He kissed the side of my forehead once. “With you, I have it all. I’m gonna make our dreams come true—just don’t give up on me, honey. I know I’m hotheaded, and I have an anger problem that would frighten most, but I love you. I’m gonna take care of you and our baby. I’m going to do everything I can to keep you with me forever, and I will make you my wife.”

“You act as if I don’t have a choice...” I laughed.

I felt him shrug with indifference. “You don’t really.”

I giggled staring back at the track, as was Jameson.

“What’s it like being in the car during a race?” I asked, changing subjects.

“Uh, it’s an intense feeling, that’s for sure, and different than being in a sprint car race. With sprint cars, the race format is different and, of course, you’re in the car longer. With stock cars there’s that, too.”

“Do you get too hot?”

“Oh, yeah. You sweat something like five to ten pounds of water in each race.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. It’s hard on your entire body. My hands cramp from gripping the wheel, but you can’t grip it too tight or you won’t feel the changes happening to the track. Sometimes it’s hard to hang on in the beginning or restarts when you know you gotta be on it, but you’re shaking from the adrenaline.” I felt him sigh, as this was what he loved. “Like I said, it’s intense and something I’ve never felt, other than behind the wheel.”

“Can you see the crowd when you go past the grandstands?”

“Not really. You can on caution laps but in races, no. It’s a blur, but the fact that they’re there, cheering you on, is enough. People pay to see you race... it’s a hard thing to grasp at times. It’s like being a musician, pouring your heart, your soul, your sweat into a song and then people buy it and actually want to listen to it.” I felt him shift again, adjusting against the seat. “I feel that same way about racing. I put so much of myself into racing that it’s hard to draw a line between that and anything else. It all blurs together eventually, and you find yourself balancing on the edge of whatever line that is. Soon, you don’t know yourself without it.”

He was quiet for a moment before he added, “I don’t like this lifestyle sometimes, and the invasion of my privacy, but it gets easier. I think.”

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?”

Jameson had yet to get inside his race car since the accident, other than the safety clearance NASCAR had him do with getting in and out of the car. If he wasn’t nervous, I was sure I had enough for the both of us.

“I don’t know that I would say nervous—anxious, I guess. I want to be back in the car.”

Eventually conversation drifted away, and we sat there.

Being here with him, wrapped securely in his arms, I felt safe, as though the rest of the world didn’t exist outside this bubble we were in. I was right to say we were going about this the wrong way. Ordinarily you would date, have sex, get married, and then have a baby. Some even waited until they were married to have sex.

Not us, though; we started with sex, ended up dating, created a little, crazy irrational baby out of wedlock, and then maybe someday we’d get married. Jameson was right. Doing it this way, the crazy-irrational-break-your-heart-dirty-heathen way, was half the fun. It was our way.

 

Thursday morning was another whirlwind of press and interviews for Jameson, and we had yet to spend any time together since our evening in the grandstands. Around nine, I was sitting on the pit box, getting ready to watch Jameson’s first practice since the accident.

I was a nervous wreck. I bit off all my fingernails, and if it didn’t look so ridiculous, I probably would have started on my toenails.

A group of fans drew my attention on the other side of the wall and that was when I noticed Jameson approaching, his confidence radiating from him. His black racing suit was zipped down a few inches revealing his white t-shirt underneath. His helmet tucked under his arm as he reached out to sign a few autographs as he passed by a fence swarming with fans.

Once he made it to the pit box, he swung a leg of over the wall.

“It feels good to be out here again,” he said with a smile, taking in a deep breath of the smells surrounding us, exhaust burning, and the sweet smells of octane fuel, tires, and warm asphalt. It was the smells of racing. The smells of everything he knew and had known his entire life. It’s what we knew.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmured, stepping over the wall toward his car parked on pit lane. Spencer, who was checking air pressures, stood and clasped his hand over Jameson’s shoulder.

My heart practically jumped out of my chest when he slid through the window moments later and began his ritual of putting on his gear.

Was I ready for this? Was he ready for this?

All the fear I’d felt watching the accident on television that Sunday afternoon came crashing back. The images of his body lying motionless inside the car afterward burned into my brain, and it was all I could see, all I could focus on.

The other drivers watched him, having known about the accident.

A few of them approached his car, leaned in, and said a few words to him. Jameson, in turn, nodded giving them a casual wave.

Kyle winked, offering me the headphones. “Calm him down for me.”

Calm him down! Calm me down!

After a few minutes, Jameson’s car was still on pit lane.

Instead of talking over the radio, I climbed down from the pit box and made my way to his car.

Jameson noticed me right away and yanked the window net down, flipping his visor up. I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the rumble of his engine so I leaned inside placing my ear closer to his helmet.

“Honey, what are you doing out here?” he asked, angling his helmet so his words were less muffled. “Get back on the box. It’s not safe down here.”

I shook my head, touching the side of his helmet. “Are you okay?”

His eyes held mine, and I saw the fear drowning him. He was scared, though he’d never say it, no racer ever would.

I saw it. I saw it with the rapid rising and falling of his chest. I saw it in the way the determination wavered briefly.

My hand reached inside and, with hesitation, covered his heart over his belts. His eyes closed, his head fell back, resting against his seat restraints.

When his breathing slowed, I leaned closer so he could hear me.

“You can do this, Jameson. I believe in you. Don’t second guess yourself.” I smiled and winked like he always did. Wanting to distract him and knowing the funbags weren’t an option, I settled for words. “Just think of me on the hood.”

He chuckled, and though I couldn’t see his smile, I saw it in the way his eyes wrinkled in the corners. It was my smile.

When I turned to walk away, he revved the engine.

Turning slowly, I looked over my shoulder and even through the window net I saw the wink before he flipped his visor back down.

With the revving aphrodisiac, I found the need to fan myself and wiggle my hips.

That earned me another rev.

Relieved my pep talk worked, I joined Kyle on the pit box.

“Is he okay?” Kyle asked as I adjusted the head set.

“I don’t know yet.” I eyed his hotdog he’d gotten from the concession stand. “Give me that.” I snatched it away.

“Hey, that’s mine.” He reached for it only to have his hand slapped away. “I’m starving.”

I pointed behind me to the pit concessions swarming with customers. “Then go get another one.”

Kyle grunted, tossed his clipboard, and got himself another hotdog.

When Jameson’s car finally pulled onto the track, I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

He was quiet on the radio, only answering “yes” and “no” to Kyle’s persistent questions on the handling.

He didn’t take many laps; the car seemed to be perfect in his eyes. So after fifty laps, he brought it back in.

Jameson’s smile was huge as he carefully withdrew himself from the car. I could already tell his left side was sore by the way he favored it when he swung his legs around.

“How do you feel?” I asked, ready to hurl the hotdog I insisted on eating.

His eyes shined as he ran his hand through his hair. “Good.” He frowned slightly. “I mean, sure, I’m sore from the G-force in the turns. I’ll get used to it again.”

I nodded but I think he knew that wasn’t convincing me completely.

“I’m fine, honey.” He shook his head, assuring me everything was okay. Leaning against the side of his car, he set his Gatorade on the roof. “Yeah, I’m a little sore and more out of breath than I wanna be, but it felt good.” He grinned—a full on, beaming Jameson grin—and I wanted to pin him to the hood of his car and ride him.

“Good.” I smiled, and then smiled wider when he kissed me.

“Good,” he repeated, his eyes cast toward the media gathering behind me.

“I was worried about you.”

“I know.” His smile lingered.

My gaze was still on his mouth and him knowing that, he licked his lips, as if to purposely get me thinking about his tongue and what that tongue could do for me.

“Stop it,” he said softly near my ear. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.” His eyes gestured to the media again, and I knew our time was up.

Brushing the towel, he’d been holding across his face, he gave me a wink and turned to the press that gathered. Lifting his hand, he ducked his head in acknowledgment of some nearby fans cheering.

As with the previous days at the track, I watched as the media asked question after question on Jameson’s theory as to why Darrin Torres hit him.

He shunned most of them with sarcasm, but a few he answered diffidently with the help of Alley.

When he was finished with the media, he followed behind me to the hauler so he could change, and then it was off to a nearby Ford dealer for another meet and greet.

Then before I knew it, he grabbed my elbow and pushed me against the side where it was private between his and Bobby’s haulers.

I wasn’t sure what to think so I stared up at him like he was slightly crazy for pushing me up against the hauler.

“What?”

“I love you,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about anything.”

Goddamn baby emotions.

How do you define being in love? Is it a feeling, a thought, or maybe a sensation? Do you feel it when you touch, or kiss? Or do you sense it when he speaks?

To me, I could look at Jameson and feel it. I could touch him and be it. Love isn’t a feeling. It’s thoughts, sensations, feelings, gestures, and all together, they define a word.

Love.

A word to some is just a word. But to me, it was a kiss before a race, a nod in my direction, a wink of reassurance, and a loving embrace late at night. Love wasn’t just a word to me... it was everything.

Despite being in love, we were young and life is fucking hard and we were finding out just how hard it was.

Yeah, I was a crazy, irrational pigizzle, and he was a hotheaded, dirty talking heathen but this, what we had, was worth fighting for.

And then I realized the reason we had what we had was because of the life we created and it was all around us. The smell of racing surrounded us, the smells of our lives with revving engines and air tools swirling through the air, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I love you,” I said, kissing him, trying to show him I would do whatever it took to show him that. I was putting my trust and the future of our unborn child and me in his hands, the only place we ever belonged. “Always.”

And just like that, my dirty heathen returned like I knew he would. “I want to rip your fucking clothes off right now, fall to my knees at your feet and worship you, right here, right now.” He pushed his hips against me, pinning me to the side of his hauler. He smiled ruefully down at me. “I want you, Sway. All of you. All of the time.”

I bit my lip apprehensively. “That’s a good thing, right?”

He shook his head slowly. “Yes.” His eyes changed, burning with love and lust evenly. “A very good thing.”

I moaned, and his mouth clamped down on my neck, taking a hard sucking bite, as goosebumps shivered across my skin. He knew exactly what would clench the deal for me, not that his words before hadn’t already thrown in the checkered flag, but the growling of his voice when he spoke “very” sent me over the edge.