Back Marker – A car running off the pace near the rear of the field.

 

Beep... beep... beep

“Damn it!” I punched the alarm clock off the nightstand. “Stupid fucking alarm.”

After missing a few races, my body seemed to have gotten used to the extra sleep. Now I didn’t want to wake up.

Beep... beep... beep

Since punching it didn’t work, I chucked it across the length of my motor coach, hoping it did the trick this time.

Beep... beep... beep

Apparently not.

I was sure at that point—the goddamn thing could be bombed and still make that atrocious noise.

“Goddamn the person who decided it was a good idea to get up early. Goddamn the person who invented alarm clocks. Goddamn the entire fucking world right now!”

I continued to mumble unintelligently about all the people and inventions over the years that I thought deserved to be struck down by lightning. It made me feel slightly better about having to get up at five o’clock for an interview instead of being with Sway today.

I completely understood that she had an obligation to the track. With Charlie going crazy lately, I needed her there to keep things under control. I received daily calls from Mark Kelly, our track facilitator, about all the things going wrong. I was beginning to think running a track, managing a sprint car team, and racing full time on the Cup Series might be too much, but those were just thoughts.

I had Wes, the pilot of our private jet, fly Sway home last night after we went out for dinner and spent some time press forging. I couldn’t get enough of her and her amazing libido. Knowing the influence she had on me, I glanced down when I felt the burn in my stomach.

Yeah, I wish buddy, but there’s no crankcase to bore today... but tomorrow, that’s another story.

After taking a quick shower to wake up, I got dressed for my interview with ESPN. Just as I was wishing I had some coffee, Alley was knocking on the door.

“What?” I snapped, throwing the door open.

“Don’t what me.” She pushed a steaming cup of coffee toward me as she entered the motor coach with paperwork. “I brought you coffee.”

“I’m sorry.” I smiled at the steaming heaven. “Thank you.”

Settling the coffee and papers she had tucked under her arm, her brow furrowed as she reached for my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah—why?”

“I’ve never heard you say you were sorry.”

I shrugged. “It’s probably the last.”

“You have a busy day.” She pushed my schedule forward. “You have the interview with ESPN in thirty minutes.”

I sighed, focusing on the coffee, steam rolled in waves.

I don’t think many people realize how much NASCAR has evolved over the years into the demanding business it is.

Monday was usually spent recovering from the race. Sometimes I had appearances on behalf of my sponsor, autograph signings, and standing for photographs. Tuesday and Wednesday were used for testing the cars at tracks where upcoming races would be held. We usually experimented with the cars, finding the right setup that would allow for the fastest qualifying time on that particular track. Then taking notes of the setup, tire pressures, and the tire wear, we would then transfer that information to race-day. Thursday I would then fly to the track we were racing at for the week. Friday was practice and usually qualifying, depending on when the race would be held. If, for instance, the race was on Saturday night, everything was moved up a day.

At the track, I had various media commitments for my sponsor, and then there were the interviews from the press, radio stations, newspapers and the local track.

Saturday was devoted to practice again—called Happy Hour. Despite the name, it’s crazy and hectic, as it was our last chance to ensure the car was perfect. Sunday was race day. My day usually began with a sponsorship meeting, attended by fans, where I answered questions about the day and season, or whatever else they decided to ask me.

The drivers’ meeting was held two hours before the race and provided NASCAR officials the opportunity to go over rule changes and other issues that teams had to remember throughout the day. Following this, our team gathered for a team meeting in the hauler to discuss what was heard at the drivers’ meeting since only the driver, crew chief, and owner attend. At times, there was information that we needed to let the rest of the team know.

Thirty minutes before the race, driver introductions began. Usually I walked across the track, waved to the fans, and then went back to my car to wait for the rest of the pre-race ceremonies to conclude.

There you have it, my week. And guess what, when the race was over, it all started again Monday morning.

Glancing down at the paper, Alley continued, “Then you have an interview with People magazine at nine. After that you have the drivers’ meeting, team meeting, introductions, the race, and then we leave for Olympia tonight.”

I nodded, showing enthusiasm for the last part.

“Now remember,” Alley began, “People magazine will ask personal questions, just... be careful. You not only have yourself to think about, but remember Sway before you go broadcasting personal details about your relationship.”

“What kind of details will they ask?”

“Well, for one, they are going to ask if she’s pregnant.”

“What should I say?” Personally, I knew what I would say to that question, but it wouldn’t be polite.

“I suggest you deny it for now.” Alley reached for her keys on the table. “Sway hasn’t even told Charlie yet. And with everything going on with Darrin ...” Her gaze held some warning. “I think it’s best the media doesn’t find out yet.”

Alley knew what she was doing. After all, she was my publicist for a reason.

I despised doing media interviews, but I knew it was part of the job and learned it early on when I raced USAC. As soon as you were out of the car, the world was waiting to know everything and nothing as none of it even mattered.

I couldn’t understand why they always needed to know such personal information.

The People magazine interview was filled with ridiculous questions. How I felt about being the best-looking driver in NASCAR? What my ideal date would be? Did I have a girlfriend? Was I going to propose? Did we plan on having kids?

It was personal shit I honestly thought no one would want to know and didn’t want anyone to know. I gave vague answers and eventually managed to kick out the reporter to make it to the drivers’ meeting.

That was one meeting you couldn’t be late for. If you were, you started in the rear of the field regardless of your qualifying run. Taking a seat in the back next to Bobby and Tate, they greeted me and asked how I was feeling.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear that after the accident with Darrin, they stuck up for me. I would have done the same for either of them, but they put their careers on the line, for me. That meant something to me.

After the drivers’ meeting, it was back to the hauler to meet with the team, but of course, I only made it a few feet before Maggie, a reporter with SPEED, found me for an interview.

Maggie was one of the more respectable reporters so I answered her questions. Signing autographs along the way, she kept up with me, knowing this was her only chance for an interview.

“How’s the car?”

“My Simplex Ford is running great.” After signing a die-cast car, I handed it back to the kid next to me leaving him with a bright smile. “Hopefully we can get on and off pit road clean and finish out with a top ten.”

“How are you recovering from the injuries?” Maggie asked. “Do you notice if being back in the car affects anything?”

“You know, I’m sore, and my wrist was bothering me after Happy Hour, but other than that, I feel great. Better than I thought I would feel after an accident like that.”

“How are the lungs?” The microphone tipped back at me.

“I still have some problems there, but I have a few breathing exercises I do to help me. They definitely don’t let me forget.”

“Now that Darrin is suspended, do you feel Mike Tanner is any competition for you?” Maggie asked.

I shrugged, signing another poster. This time a younger girl, maybe around six, pushed her toy car toward me, same bright smile as the boy.

I knelt to her level. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

She grinned back when I noticed her JAR Racing sweatshirt with Justin’s sprint car on the front. “Hallie.”

I winked, handing the car back to her after I signed it. “There you go, sweetheart.”

Maggie tried her question again. “So, is Mike competition for you?”

“Not that I’ve seen. What, is he like thirty-ninth today?”

“Yes, thirty-ninth.”

“Well... there you go.”

Maggie laughed and went on to interview Bobby who got the pole today.

Before I entered the hauler, Lane was jumping on my back.

I cringed, my ribs were still sore, but I smiled despite my pain.

“Hey,” I ruffled his hair, trying to shift his weight to be more comfortable. “Long time no see, buddy.”

“Uncle Jameson! I miss you.”

“You missed me?”

“That’s what I said.” He rolled his eyes.

“No, you said I miss you,” I corrected.

He offered another eye roll that I found entertaining coming from a three-year-old. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Am not!”

Am I really arguing with a three-year-old?

“Yes, huh.”

“Am not.”

Alley seemed to find humor in the fact that I was arguing with a child.

“I want a hot dog.”

Lane and I walked over to the infield concession stands where he proceeded to pick out his hot dog.

“I want that’d one.”

“Which one?” The attendant smiled down at Lane when I asked the question of him.

“That’d one.” He pointed in the general direction of the hot dogs.

“Can you be more specific? There are like ten goddamn hot dogs on there.”

“Ummm... that’d one.” Lane pointed to the furthest hot dog on the rack. “That’s the one I want.”

“I don’t see why you and Sway like hot dogs,” I grumbled, paying for it. Lane jumped on my back again, hot dog in hand. “They’re ground up lips and assholes. You know that, right?”

When Lane scrunched his nose, I realized I probably shouldn’t have said asshole in front of him, but it was a little late to take it back now.

Lane shrugged his tiny shoulders. “I think lips and assholes taste good,” he admitted, taking a bite. “Yep, good. Tasty.”

I was about to tell Lane he shouldn’t repeat “asshole,” but I didn’t get a chance before Alley approached us. “Hey, buddy, whatcha got there?”

“Lips and assholes, they’re dewicious.”

I flashed a grin hoping she wouldn’t kill me.

“Jameson,” Alley seethed through a forced smile. “Give me my son. Phillip is inside waiting for you. Oh.” She smacked at my chest. “Don’t forget you have a radio interview later today with KPW.”

Lane jumped down and clung to his mother’s leg, eating his lips and assholes. I snuck past them inside the hauler only to have Alley smack the back of my head.

Once inside, I tried to prepare myself as to why Phillip was here.

“What kind of statement did she give you?”

Placing his briefcase on the counter, he took a seat across from me in the booth. “Mariah gave a written statement to the police as a plea bargain. She admitted to everything.”

“Everything?” I repeated, trying to process his words. “What’s everything?”

“Their whole plan.”

“And that was?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” His warm eyes held apprehension.

I nodded, focusing.

“Darrin’s sponsor, Wyle Products, renegotiated his contract at the beginning of this season. They actually contemplated releasing Darrin from his contract for his unsatisfactory performance last season. When this happened, Wyle took interest in you. At the time, you’d won six races in a row in the Busch Series.”

I groaned in disbelief. His reactions to me in Daytona made sense now.

“When Darrin found out you were racing in the Cup Series at Daytona, he wasn’t so pleased. Then his girlfriend of the last two years took notice as well. That started it for him.” Phillip sighed, looking over at me. “I don’t think this is over, Jameson. We don’t have a case against him right now, but if he tries something off the track, we can get him. As it is, he’s governed by NASCAR. Besides the penalties handed down by them, no judge is going to convict him of anything more. I have an associate in criminal law who tried a case similar to this a few years ago for an NHL player and the outcome was similar. The judge dismissed the trial before it even began.”

It was sickening to hear this. Just because I was considered a professional athlete, a fellow driver could try to kill me if he wanted to, as long as I was on the track. To me, that was bullshit.

“You filed a restraining order against him, right?”

“Yes, there is one against Darrin, Mariah Fowler, and Chelsea Adams.” His eyes narrowed before an amused look materialized. “We had nothing on Dana so they denied that one.”

Hell, it was worth a try. Dana Sloan, in her eyes, was my biggest fan. We did not share the same enthusiasm for each other. Now Chelsea, well yeah, I dated her in high school but since then, I wouldn’t say I even wanted to be in the same room with her. Now that she was assisting Darrin, too, I really didn’t care for her.

“Now for my next topic,” the amusement in his voice was gone. “Mariah indicated Darrin wouldn’t stop until he’s taken everything you have, and that includes Sway.”

My heart instantly started pounding. “What do you mean?” I growled between clenched teeth.

“She’s his next target.”

“Do something.” I was on my feet in an instant pacing around the narrow hallway. “Call the police, do something!”

Gentry, Kyle’s brother, and one of the tire changers for the crew walked inside the hauler with Aiden. They both immediately turned around when they saw me.

“Jameson,” Phillip warned in a grave voice. “I can’t stop him from doing anything, and neither can the police. I’ve filed a restraining order on Sway’s behalf, but that doesn’t stop him from breaking it. A restraining order means nothing to a man like Darrin. Restraining orders can be enforced across state lines in accordance with the Full Faith and Credit Clause of the U.S. Constitution via the National Crime Information Center database. Violating a restraining order is a serious criminal offense that merits arrest and possible prison time. If he breaks it, he’s screwed.”

I tried desperately to control my breathing, but it was a futile attempt. “Where is he now?”

“He’s in Charlotte.”

“How were Mariah and Chelsea involved?” I had to draw my attention to something else.

“Mariah said she fed Darrin lies, telling him you two had sex. Chelsea took notice in your career when you started winning in the Busch Series. When Tate was in Elma at the beginning of the year, he met Chelsea. She then used him to get to you. When you showed no interest in her, Mariah noticed you turned her down, as well, and befriended her. That’s how the plan developed from what I gathered.”

“So why, Sway?” I asked abruptly. “How does this have anything to do with her?”

“Because he couldn’t succeed in ending your career. From what Mariah says, if he couldn’t succeed in ruining your life, Sway will do fine for him.” Phillip placed his hand on my shoulder, attempting to comfort me. “Be careful and don’t underestimate him. The man is off his rocker. I’ve also hired a bodyguard to follow her and Charlie around when she’s not with you. He will be in contact with you. His name is Van Lambert. He’s an ex-Navy Seal.” He clicked his tongue with a grin. “Top notch.”

“Is he there now?” I felt slightly relieved Phillip had taken so many precautions in protecting Sway.

He checked his phone. “Yes... as we speak, Sway and Charlie are at home.”

“What’s his cell phone number?”

“Look at your phone.”

I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in a while. Scrolling through the numerous text messages from Alley and Emma regarding various appearances and interviews, I noticed two from an unknown number.

This is Van Lambert. I’ll send you updates from this number. Everything looks good.

The next text was his phone number as a way to contact him. I felt relieved, yes, but I also felt anxious that Sway wouldn’t want someone following her around. After thanking Phillip, I called Sway to warn her before I got ready for driver introductions.

“Hello?” a sleepy Sway answered after a few rings.

I chuckled softly, slipping on my racing suit. Holding the phone against my shoulder, I zipped the front after tucking my t-shirt in.

“Hey, beautiful,” I whispered in a low voice, “sorry to wake you.”

“Mmmm.” You could almost hear the smile in her soft voice. “It’s a good morning when I get woken up by you.”

“It’s a good morning when I get to hear that sweet voice of yours, as well.”

“Mmmm...”

I groaned at her soft noises. She knew exactly what to do to send me over the edge. I could hear rustling on the line, imagining her naked body.

I needed to think of something else.

Clearing my throat before speaking, I told her, “So... I called for a reason.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sway hedged, but vibrating marred her voice.

 “Sway, what’s that noise?”

She didn’t answer right away, but when I heard her moan, I fell back against the wall, sliding down until seated on the floor.

“Sway,” I warned. “I don’t have time to take care of the problem you created. Stop that.”

“Ah... Jameson... feels so good... mmmm ...”

“Fuck, stop that. I need to tell you something.”

I made a noise that was some sort of guttural growl. “Sway, please...” my voice trailed off once my hand slipped inside my suit.

Sway’s moans turned into throaty, sexy fucking gasps, as my hand continued to palm my erection. I couldn’t do much with my racing suit, and I was about to rip it off to take care of this when Spencer barged in.

Feeling like a teenager who got caught bleeding his pressure valve, I tried to adjust myself to go unnoticed.

“I need to go.”

She didn’t respond, and for the life of me, I couldn’t hang up the goddamn phone. I was utterly fixated on this, even though it was pure torture.

“I’m not sure my bearings are aligned properly,” Sway moaned. “I think some boring needs to be done or maybe some deburring...”

Oh, my God!

You could have heard the sharp intake of breath I took outside.

Sway’s moans grew louder, and she began a very explicit portrayal of the way she was touching herself and the things she wished I were doing to her.

I’m not sure if Spencer could hear her, but when he sat down in the booth with a smirk, I began to think he had an idea of the cruelty. Moving from the floor, I sat in the booth across from him, using the table to conceal my erection from my brother.

“Sway,” I warned again when she told me how she was slipping the vibrator over her ignition switch. She knew damn well I loved dirty car talk as much as she did. I bit down hard on my fist and threw my head back against the wall when she told me her oil pump was lubricating all the right areas.

Spencer laughed at my expression, Sway continued, and I almost cried at how evil this all was.

Finally, her incredibly sexy moaning reached a climax as my entire body became rigid. When she was finished we were both panting. I was leaned forward, my head slammed against the table, shaking it back and forth.

Spencer, of course, found this hilarious.

When Sway started laughing, I snapped.

“Sway,” my tone was brusque. “You will pay for that.”

“Ah, sweetie, don’t be like that.” She giggled. “I didn’t mean to get you worked up.”

I still hadn’t moved an inch because at that point, if anything even rubbed or brushed against me, I’d be changing before driver introductions.

“I hope you have a good race,” Sway chimed.

“Yeah... no thanks to you.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’ll be how I want to be. That was mean.”

“It was good... mmmm...” she moaned again.

“All right, you start that again, and I’m hanging up.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “I won’t.”

“What did you have to tell me?”

“That you better be ready when I get there tonight.”

“Oh, I will be waiting for you in bed.” She laughed. “That’s what you had to tell me?”

“No, I needed to tell you that Phillip hired a bodyguard for you.”

“Why?” she all but shouted.

“Just calm down.” Spencer laughed, shoving a pop tart in his mouth. “Listen honey, Darrin told Mariah that you were his next target. It’s for precaution when you’re away from me.”

Sway was quiet for a moment before she finally agreed. “Okay.”

“I have to go,” I said softly.

“I know... I love you. Good luck tonight.”

“I love you, too... but you’re still in trouble when I get there.” We both hung up, and my head fell forward against the table again.

“That bad, eh?” Spencer teased.

“Shut up, asshole!”

“Tough break.” He shook his head.

Mason and Kyle came inside for our team meeting. Their laughter at my appearance was not appreciated.

When we finished our team meeting, the boys left me alone to finish getting ready. Finally, my erection had gone away, but the memory hadn’t. She would pay for this.

Sean, my personal trainer, came inside to tape up my ribs and wrist for the race.

I mentally prepared myself for a night race by listening to the White Stripes, “Seven Nation Army.”

My collarbone had healed fast. Even my doctor was impressed with how quickly it healed in five weeks. Unfortunately, my wrist was another story. It gave me pain during Happy Hour yesterday so Sean suggested we tape it up. They kept the pins in and forced me to wear a brace. Apparently, the bone was too weak to remove them. In turn, I couldn’t grip the wheel enough with the brace on.

When Sean was done, I finished putting on my shoes and made my way to the car. It took half an hour to get to it with all the reporters and fans hounding me but, alas, I made it to the car after introductions.

A night race at Bristol was one of the most aggressive races on the schedule. You have bumping, banging, no room, and riled up drivers all fighting to stay on the lead lap and snag a much-needed victory. With it being my first race back, I knew this was going to be tough.

The team, waiting for the race to begin, was just as rowdy as any night race, tossing insults, chirping at other teams for the fun of it. Not only were the drivers tense on nights like tonight, but so were the crews. They knew if anything, tonight, they needed to be on their games.

 

I tried to focus when I pulled myself inside the car, I really did. But the anxiety I felt, the fear, everything was coming back. Taking in heavy deep breaths, I struggled to keep panic from overwhelming me, telling myself this was just a race, like any other race. I’ve raced in probably a thousand races, but never after such a horrific accident.

I clenched my eyes shut and tried to get my breathing under control, feeling the burn in my lungs. The sound of the engine idling provided a soothing hum. I found myself relaxing ever so slightly. What really soothed me was when I pulled off pit road onto the track.

“You got this, bud. Stay focused. Don’t think about anything else but driving through the windshield and hitting your marks,” Kyle shouted. “We got the best driver—let’s show them what we got!”

He drank five energy drinks this morning so far. It was going to be interesting today that was for sure.

Simplex was partnering with Red Bull and dropped off two cases this morning in the paddock for the boys. That was a bad idea for the group of guys on our team.

Kyle continued to rant about how good we would do as I tried my best to block him out. We ended up qualifying ninth, which was all right. It was better than thirty-ninth where Mike qualified.

I chuckled to myself at how he thought he was some sort of badass on the track. There was a difference between your local bullring and Winston cup. I found that out my first race. Now, Mike was about to.

“Okay, Jameson,” Aiden said. “You got two laps and then the green. You’re at pit road speed now.” His voice was cheerful.

“Copy, I’m at 4600.”

I was quiet on the radio after that, concentrating on my marks I laid out to focus on during the race. I always set marks on the track that I would pick out as a focal point. It helped to keep your mind clear and not get distracted during the race.

Some people had the misconception that NASCAR racing didn’t require a lot of skill because we simply go in a circle and turn left. In reality, that wasn’t accurate at all. Much of the strategy depended on the uniqueness of the track. Tracks had grooves. It was a place on the track where the car worked the best. There were some tracks that only had one groove and you couldn’t pass. Other tracks, such as Atlanta, it was much easier to pass because there was a sweet spot on the track.

“Green, green, green... inside, still there clear. Left side... left rear... there you go. See, keep it up two turns, two cars!” Aiden shouted. “Whew!”

Aiden also had a few Red Bulls.

He was loud and obnoxious with his narrative annotations of events taking place on the track.

After around lap ninety, I had enough of him and Kyle. I was about ready to rip the goddamn radio out of my helmet and navigate my own way around the track.

You rely on your spotter to help you. Throughout the race, you’re in constant contact with them about accidents, track conditions, and the positions of other cars. So to have my spotter hyped up on Red Bull was a pain in the ass.

“Aiden—fuck!” I shouted, completely annoyed. “Seriously, calm down. I need to be able to understand you.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “But fuck, did you see the eighteen come down on you like that?” His voice rose slightly.

“Just focus, okay? Ethan, take the drink from him, PLEASE!”

Ethan let out a chuckle and helped me while Aiden cooled his guns.

“All right, Riley, here you go. Outside at your rear, outside, still there... still there... clear.”

I was running sixth when the caution came out.

“Caution’s out... forty eight blew the front rear in three.”

My brakes were hot so I mentioned it to Kyle. We talked about what changes to make on the pit stop and ways to cool the brakes. You’re on them so often at Bristol they are bright red about fifty laps into the race.

“Turn your rear brake fans on.” Reaching forward, I flipped the switch for the brake fans. “Should we take four tires or two?”

“Two,” I told him. “I can work with two if it gets me out ahead of some of these cars. I need clean air.”

“10-4. Here we go boys, two tires and fuel. Don’t make any other adjustments. Just get him out. Keep coming... three... two... one.”

“Gentry, pull the tape off the grill... Brady, make sure the lug nuts are tight,” Mason fired his orders at the crew as I tried to keep myself calm and focused.

Taking two tires put me third, behind Tate and Bobby when we took the green flag.

What made this interesting was the lapped traffic in the mix, complete with the number fourteen of Mike Tanner fighting for his lap back.

My dealings with the number fourteen went back to USAC. Back in the summer of ‘99, I was racing in all three USAC divisions for Bucky Miers, a World of Outlaw driver who owned half the cars that fielded the midget and sprint car divisions in USAC.

That year, Bucky was not my favorite owner to drive for. It all started with assigning me a number in the Silver Crown series (non-winged, heavier sprint cars). My usual number for racing had always been nine. In every car, even my first go-kart, always nine.

Well, when I raced in Silver Crown, Bucky didn’t have a number assigned since it was new for him. USAC assigned ninety-five.

I ran that way at Terra Haute, but by the time Knoxville rolled around, I leaned on old Bucky to change the number because if you added those two numbers together, they equaled fourteen.

Anyone who knows me understands I’m not superstitious per se, but I did not care for the number fourteen. Back when I raced quarter midgets at Williams Grove one year, I wrecked on lap fourteen. It sent me to the hospital with a broken ankle. Then, while racing a winged sprint car in the fall of ‘98 at Lernerville, I was bumped by the fourteen of Frank Luther, parasailed into a field only to flip fourteen times and land in a pond a few yards from the track.

I did not like the number fourteen. My dislike for the number went as far as not pitting in the fourteen stall or setting up in a garage bay with the number fourteen on it. I had restrictions.

Now Bucky was amused by the dislike for the number, as was my brother. I was not.

That Silver Crown car was horrible, too. In Dodge City that year, I blew up the engine. In North Wilkesboro, it caught on fire during inspection. In Haubstadt, the right rear tire fell off during the race. By the time Indianapolis came, the number fourteen was changed to nine because I refused to get in the evil fucking car until it was changed.

And you know what, a funny thing happened that night in Indy. I won.

Knowing this, I’m sure you can imagine my enthusiasm for any driver racing the number fourteen. Mike started on the wrong foot and kept it up. The fact that he was driving Darrin’s car wasn’t the problem. It was the fucking number that I had the biggest problem with. 

“Cole, you copy?” I asked, noticing the car in front of me was Tanner.

“10-4 Riley, what’s up?”

“Oh, havin’ some fun with Tanner here. Wanna help?”

“Fuck yeah.”

With the help of Bobby and Tate, we had Tanner boxed pretty well when I pulled up beside him. In the turns, I’d slide the back end sideways, pushing against his car about the time Tate leaned on the other side. This caused the air to be taken off the front end, in the turn; he had one loose race car on his hands. You could see his hands frantically adjusting the wheel in the turns and overcorrecting it.

“Jameson,” Kyle warned with a hint of amusement. “NASCAR reminded me that you are still on probation and to stop fucking around.” Then he laughed. This shit was funny.

“An official said stop fucking around?”

“Oh, you get my point.”

“Yeah, I know.” I laughed. “Just having a little fun with him.”

Mike was sandwiched in between us; there was no way around so when I pushed up into him in turn four, Tate shot forward. Mike pushed up into the marbles, got loose, and turned himself sideways on the backstretch.

Kyle and Ethan started laughing. The child within me flipped him off when we came back around. “Welcome to the Cup Series, Tanner!”

“All right, bud,” Kyle guffawed. “You’ve had your fun, now focus on the race.”

I did have my fun, but my car turned to shit around lap two hundred when the brakes got so hot they started shredding tires. I couldn’t keep the goddamn thing straight. I was utterly amazed when we finished fifth, but satisfied I at least finished my first race back with no real complications. Once I was out of the car, I was feeling the strain on my body, but it was good to be back. For someone who has raced pretty much non-stop since he was four, it wasn’t a good feeling not racing for close to five weeks.

After a handful of interviews and a nap on the plane, I was landing in Olympia and driving to Elma.

When I made my way to Sway’s, Charlie was in the kitchen.

“Hey, Charlie, it’s like three in the morning.” I sat down across from him at the table. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied with a shrug. Leaning forward, he poured himself another shot of whiskey. Judging by his appearance, he’d been at this for a while.

“How are you feeling?” I glanced down at the bottle of whiskey.

“Okay, I guess—could be worse.” He laughed, his eyes glazed. “Everyone says I’m losing my mind, but what the fuck do they know.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes before he looked up at me. “Sway told me she’s pregnant.”

Hiding my smirk, I drew in a deep breath, prepared for Charlie to lecture me about knocking up his only daughter. Instead, he surprised me by placing a black box on the table and sliding it toward me—along with the bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.

“What’s that?” I asked, motioning to the box.

“It’s a ring.”

“Are you asking me to marry you, Charlie?” I chuckled at my weak attempt at humor this late.

“No, dumbass.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s for Sway. If you want to marry her.”

Reaching for the whiskey, a smirk materialized as he poured each of us a shot. After taking the shot, I carefully opened the box revealing a roughly two-carat emerald cut platinum diamond ring surrounded by diamond prongs. Not that I’d given too much thought to the ring or the proposal, I did know I wanted to marry Sway, and that ring was exactly what I imagined now.

“It was Rachel’s, passed on down from her mother.” A small smile ghosted across his lips. “Sway loved that ring, even at six years old. Rachel always wanted her to have it so I hung on to it for her.”

“And you want me to give it to her?”

“Well, you knocked her up,” he replied wryly. “It’s the least you could do.”

“I, um... shouldn’t I be asking you to marry your daughter not the other way around?”

“Yes... you should.” He nodded. “Let’s hear it kid, why should I let you marry my daughter?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. It was an intimidating gesture; I knew it was meant to be that way.

I wasn’t prepared for this, and I had no idea what to say. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the words spilled out.

“All my life, all I’ve ever known is racing. I’ve always been arrogant, but deep down I never felt I had what it would take to make it to NASCAR. Then one summer night, I met this beautiful girl who believed in me. She believed that I could do it. She was there for me through it all no matter what I put her through. It took me a while to realize that, because not everything I had ever dreamed of was racing anymore. It was Sway. Racing is my career, but without Sway—none of that would be possible. I tried to make it without her, but I always felt restless as though I had a flat tire hanging on just to finish the race.” My eyes had remained fixed on the worn wood of the table. Nodding, I looked up at him. “I love your daughter, Charlie. I will take care of her and our child... and any future children. I know this lifestyle I have isn’t ideal, but I want Sway. I’ve seen first-hand the strain it causes on families, but I know Sway and I can make it work.”

Charlie was quiet for a few minutes before he smiled, his brow raised. “I’m impressed, kid.”

“So am I,” I admitted, running my hand across the back of my slick neck, reaching for the whiskey with the other.

“You know why I thought you were using her in the beginning?”

“Because I was.”

“Yes, you were.” Charlie poured himself another shot, a contemplative look flashed over his flushed appearance. “You see, I saw right through you. I saw through you because you’re a lot like me. You’ll do anything to make sure Sway is taken care of. I knew you were in love with her from the beginning. But I also knew that you were so hell bent on keeping Sway away from you, that anything you offered her wouldn’t be permanent.”

He was more perceptive then I gave him credit for.

“Do you know why I asked you to take over the track rather than as an investor?”

I shook my head.

“Because I knew it was an opportunity you wouldn’t walk away from. It was an obligation I knew you’d take and, in turn, you’d be with Sway.”

“You wanted us together,” I deduced, taking another shot for myself; Charlie did the same. I was so tired and buzzed, I wasn’t sure this conversation was really happening now. Was I dreaming all this?

“I knew that if you guys were together as much as a track owner and general manager are, you’d see you two are perfect for each other. My daughter’s happiness means everything to me, and you make her happy. Even if you ended up not providing her the relationship she wanted, you’d always be there for her with the track.”

I thought about that for a moment. He was right.

“How’d you know I loved her?”

Charlie let out a deep chuckle, his smile somewhat boyish. “Son, you’ve loved my little girl from the moment you two met. Jimi and I actually had bets on how long it would take for you to pull your head out of your ass. Won myself five hundred bucks.” He nodded arrogantly and then his face turned solemn. “I know you’ll take care of her and that baby.” His head dipped in approval. “I hope that I’m around to at least see the baby born and walk my only daughter down the aisle.”

Man, talk about pressure. Like I said, I knew I wanted to propose, but now it was like there was a fire under my ass to do it soon. I wasn’t the type of guy who liked being pressured into doing things.

When I made it upstairs to Sway’s room, after finishing off the fifth of whiskey with Charlie, I was three sheets to the wind.

Stumbling around, trying to get my clothes off was a difficult task. Thankfully, Sway was a sound sleeper; I could start my goddamn race car in her room, and she still wouldn’t wake.

I managed to get undressed and snuggled in bed with her. She sighed contently when I wrapped my arms around her tiny waist. Worming her way in, she sighed when our bodies touched. She didn’t have to be awake, our bodies knew each other to the point they could anticipate the contact.

Falling asleep wasn’t easy. I had no idea how I was going to propose to Sway, but I knew I needed to make it special for her. She deserved that much. I also needed to do it soon. Knowing Charlie wouldn’t be around much longer, it’d be a miracle if he made it to Christmas. Though I knew about his illness for close to a year now, it still didn’t change the heartache thinking he was dying and there was nothing anyone could do for him. Sure, he could try radiation therapy again, but what would that do but prolong the inevitable. The cancer had spread.

Eventually I did sleep and when I woke up, I was alone in bed.

It wasn’t long before I found myself back at the track, only this time as an owner, not a driver.

“Hey, you’re Jameson Riley.”

I turned around to see who it was. I didn’t recognize him.

“Yeah, so...” I turned back to Aiden. It may have been rude, but I was also working.

I didn’t have time for this today. My whole fucking morning had been this way. First, it started by waking up alone. Sway had gotten up early to get to the track so I’d yet to see her. When Aiden and I arrived at the track, I was bombarded with fans waiting for me to arrive. Word got out I was the new the owner, which meant a constant stream of fanfare. Good for business, bad for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate everyone who comes out to watch me race, but there were times when it was overwhelming. Everyone wants a few seconds with you, but then so does the next guy. Before you knew it, you’d been standing there an hour signing autographs. That was what wore on you over time.

The kid, who apparently knew me, followed us to the concession stands of Grays Harbor on our way to get coffee.

“I’m Dylan Grady. We went to high school together.”

Dylan... I don’t know a Dylan... wait a second.

“Oh, yeah.” I turned toward him. “I remember you. You also knew Sway, right?”

He laughed arrogantly. “Not really, at least not standing up.” Dylan hinted with a smug smile.

I shook my head, laughing; one hard warning laugh. Before he could even comprehend what happened, I drew my fist back and punched him square in the jaw, and then I followed up with an elbow to his nose—we both heard the gruesome snap. Considering what he did to Sway, I didn’t stop. Instead, I brought my knee up hard to his stomach to get my greeting across.

He gasped loudly, crying out in pain. Yanking his limp body up, I slammed him against the wall of the ticket booth. His eyes went wide with panic, mirroring Aiden’s.

“That’s for what you did to Sway.” I smiled maniacally back at him, letting him go. Sliding down the wall, his hands instantly went to his bleeding nose. He said nothing, just whimpered.

“Nice seeing you again... Devin.” I began to walk away as though nothing happened.

Aiden, as shocked as Dylan, stared at me.

“What did he do to Sway?” Aiden asked as his head turned to look at him and then back to me.

“Took her virginity and never called again.”

Have you ever heard that saying, Don’t mess with the South? Yeah, well, Aiden is a good example of that. He stomped back over to Dylan, punched in his broken nose and was back to walking beside me.

He fits in the family perfectly.

“What the fuck!” Dylan cried out as he grabbed a handful of napkins from the concession stand.

 

“What’s he doing out there?” Jameson sipped his mocha beside me, his shoulder bumping mine.

I’d gotten up early this morning so this was the first time I’d seen him. The World of Outlaws race was tonight, which meant we had a very busy day here. Though on the outside I appeared calm, internally I was excited. Everyone was here together for the first time in years. Charlie, however, wasn’t making today easy.

“Watering the track,” I answered Jameson, giving him a quick kiss and then sipping my hot chocolate he’d brought me. “At least I think that’s what he’s doing.”

It sure didn’t look like he was watering the track the way he was hauling ass. He needed to be going a lot slower than he was for it to work.

“Why is he watering the track?” Jameson looked alarmed. “Jesus, that doesn’t seem like a good idea!”

It wasn’t a good idea.

Charlie had recently begun experiencing memory loss that the doctors had warned me about, so he would frequently forget what he was doing, while he was doing it. Which was why he no longer had a driver’s license. I was also aware of the fact that he reeked like whiskey, and so did Jameson.

I laughed because, at that point, it was all I could do to keep from crying.

“He’s watering the track because he fired Hank this morning, something about not enough water. It looks like he’s trying to create a mud pit.”

“Who’s Hank?” Jameson looked confused. “We have someone to water the track?”

“Correction, we had someone to water the track. You have to hire someone else.”

“Well, shit,” was his only answer as we stared at Charlie creating the next Girls Gone Wild. I briefly wondered how the trophy girls felt about mud wrestling.

“Sway,” Charlie yelled for me through his megaphone some dumb shit gave him earlier today. I had a distinct feeling that dumb shit was Tommy Davis, our high school buddy and mechanic for Jameson’s sprint car team. “Go get me my tools. This piece of shit isn’t putting out enough water. I’m gonna fix this once and for all.”

Logan, Andrea’s son, walked up beside us and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He chuckled. “Yesterday, he tried to fix the dishwasher, and now every time you turn on the kitchen light the dishwasher sprays water all over the kitchen and sparks.”

Jameson and I gawked in disbelief. It was going to be long day. Not only was Charlie now firing people left and right, he’d gone completely crazy. I was now positive he was five cans short of a six-pack.

Logan walked away toward Lucas, his twin brother, who was picking up money that’d fallen out of people’s pockets under the grandstands. These two were little shits, and I was positive their father was the devil. Andrea, my dad’s live-in girlfriend, was sweet, and I had no idea how in the hell she gave birth to those monsters let alone not kill them.

“I swear to God, Jameson.” I remembered my morning with Charlie. “If he tells me one more time his eggs taste like shit... I’m turning him into eggs... or shit.”

Jameson laughed, pressing me to his side. Softly, he kissed my forehead.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his breath strong of whiskey and chocolate.

“I see you and Charlie finished off the bottle of whiskey last night.”

“Sorry... it was his fault.” His sheepish grin was adorable.

“Blame the man with brain cancer... that’s low, Jameson.”

He chuckled again, tightening his grip. “It was his fault. He forced me to drink.”

“Yeah,” I began. A little boy tugged on Jameson’s sweatshirt and I was cut off.

“Excuse me, sir... can I get an autograph?” the little blonde haired boy asked. He was cute, couldn’t have been any older that five. Immediately I wanted to lean down and pinch his adorable puffy cheeks.

“Oh sure, buddy.” Though he hated being interrupted when working, he loved the pint-sized fans. “What’s your name?” he asked, kneeling beside him to reach for the picture he handed him.

“My name is Zack,” the little boy chimed.

Jameson wrote a little note to him before handing the photograph back. “There you go, buddy.”

Zack’s eyes lit up with excitement when he glanced at the note. “Thank you!”

“Thanks man, you made his day.” His dad, I assumed, shook Jameson’s hand and they walked away.

Humbly, Jameson smiled, seeming uncomfortable with the praise.

I was in love. I had the sweetest dirty heathen around. But just as I was going to suggest we go up to his office, another fan approached us.

After the fourth one, I began to realize the entire day was going down like this. Jameson didn’t make it two feet and he was bombarded with a horde of fans all waiting for their chance to meet a hometown legend in the making.

Since Jameson took over ownership, my duties around the track were to keep smoke from turning into forest fires. This wasn’t easy these days but made the race night go by quickly.

Before the feature events began, I noticed I hadn’t seen Jameson in a few hours. Fearing for his safety with all these obsessed garage groupies hounding him, I went looking for his body, hoping he still had his arms and legs.

I spotted Alley and Lane at the merchandise booths.

“Hey, have you seen—” My phone beeped distracting me. It was Jameson. “Oh, never mind.”

His text said to meet him in his office. I climbed the stairs, passed through the announcer booth, and made my way into the back office where I knew he’d be.

When I walked inside, there was no one there, but the bathroom light was on so I assumed he was in there. The day hadn’t given me much quiet time, so it felt good to get away from Mallory, our office manager, and her crazy antics. I loved the girl, but on race days, she acted as our scorer and she made me crazy.

Taking a seat in his large black leather chair, I noticed his laptop was on a slide show of pictures from our childhood and different races.

I watched the display, smiling at the ones from our summer together, when I heard the bathroom door open. My eyes flickered away from the screen for a second and shot back instantly when I saw Jameson leaning against the doorframe, shirtless. His jeans hung low, revealing the sharp defined ridges of his hips, and his tattoos.

“Mmmm ...” was all I could articulate in that moment.

Jameson smirked, walking toward me, and then leaned back against the desk in front of me. I reached out to run my fingers along his waistband only to have him grasp it firmly before I could do so. An evil smile materialized as he gently tipped his head to the right. “Ah-uh.”

“Why not?”

“Tsk, tsk, Sway,” he whispered. “You’ve been a bad girl.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, you’ve been very naughty.”

“Have not.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Have not.” I crossed my arms over my chest, glowering at him. Not an easy task with the glorified funbags in the way.

“Are you going to argue with me?” His expression hardened. “I don’t suggest it.”

“Why not?”

“It will only make your punishment more severe.”

I blanched. “W-w-what punishment?”

“Sway.” He shook his head, menacing eyes narrowed and raked down my body. “I warned you... I don’t like being teased, honey.”

By now, I was well aware of what he was referring to.

My phone call yesterday.

Playing along, I ran my foot up his long leg.

“So, what’s my punishment?”

Jameson moved to stand in front of me, nudging my knees apart with his legs. Distracting me with wet seductive kisses, he bent forward, grasping both my wrists, and placing them on the arms of the chair. I kept them there, not paying any mind to the ministrations his hands were doing because, holy hell, the kissing was amazing. His tongue was soft and passionate, his lips warm and tender as they always were.

Before I could stop myself from turning into goo for this man, he handcuffed me to the motherfucking chair.

“That’s not fair!”

He tricked me, but mother of pearl this was hot!

“I’ll tell you what’s not fair.” He paused, long fingers curled around my chin so I was looking him directly in the eyes. “What’s not fair is having my girlfriend deburring while on the phone with me.” His brow arched in challenge when I opened my mouth to speak, “... while my brother was sitting across from me. That’s not fair.”

“It was funny.”

“Honey,” he drawled. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Jameson knows me. He knows I’m not a morning person. He knows I have a chemical addiction to coffee, particularly white chocolate mochas. He knows that I hate to wear socks and would rather wear Old Navy flip-flops every day of the year. He also knows exactly how to make my body respond to his and could have me screaming in minutes. He knew me.

I also wasn’t surprised at all when he knew exactly what to do to drive me to the point of sexual insanity. He began to touch himself.

He kept his right hand around my neck, his thumb swept over my lower lip. His other hand traced the outline of my funbags, ran down my stomach, along my inner thigh, circled toward my crankcase, and then pulled away.

My eyes searched his. He winked with a smirk, biting down on his lower lip. His eyes fell closed and his forehead fell against mine. When he let out a soft groan, I dropped my eyes to his motions below to find that his hand was dipped inside his jeans, rubbing along his hard camshaft.

Hot fucking damn!

My only answer was to rub my thighs together searching for any type of friction. Jameson shook his head, pushing forward, spreading my legs as he continued to stroke himself inside his jeans.

“What you did... driving me to the point of utter fixation... was cruel.” He breathed against my cheek, the words vibrated throughout.

“So is this,” I pointed out. “This is cruel.”

Let me explain, my hands were handcuffed to the chair. Jameson had my legs spread, panties were soaked with so much assembly lube I could bottle the shit, and he was touching himself—inches from me. And I couldn’t do a goddamn thing.

This is punishment in the cruelest form.

Jameson chuckled, amused with himself, yanked away, unbuttoned his jeans, flipped my dress up to my waist and dropped to his knees.

Both of his strong hands slowly traveled from my ankles, up my thighs and around my ass where he pulled me to the edge. “I should make you beg me right now... but I need you so bad... that it’s going to happen like this.” He pulled my panties down to my lower thighs and ripped them off with his teeth.

Fucker... now I wouldn’t have underwear the rest of the night. Not cool.

“You’re going to stay tied up, while I drive you to complete insanity.”

“You already have.”

“Ah, honey,” he drew out lazily. “I haven’t even begun to drive you insane.”

We didn’t have a lot of time. Racing would be starting in less than twenty minutes, but Jameson was talented at what he did and he knew his way around an engine.

His fingers were quick, his hands were strong, his tongue was fervent, and his mouth was scorching.

The problem I had was that Jameson would get me right to the point of my release and then pull away with a chuckle. He did this probably five times before I screamed, “Fuck me, Jameson!” at the top of my lungs.

What was even more embarrassing were the chuckles from the announcer’s booth next to Jameson’s office.

Yep, ten grown men, most of which I grew up with, just heard me tell my boyfriend to fuck me.

Was I embarrassed? Yes, immensely so.

Did I care? Not one fucking bit. What I cared about was Jameson finishing what he started.

“I swear to God, Jameson!” I whisper-shouted, “If you don’t fuck me right now... I will never have sex with you again.”

He chuckled, looking up through his dark lashes. “Don’t threaten me.” His eyes grew solemn. “You and I both know that wouldn’t happen.”

“Don’t test me.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re in the position to be threatening me.” His eyes shifted to my hands. “You are, in fact, handcuffed to a chair, and I have the only key.”

Why you dirty fucking heathen!

I knew what to do to get him. After all, I am a woman. Naturally, we had a built in defense mechanism for when a situation wasn’t going our way.

We cried.

So I cried. Big crocodile tears with my puppy dog eyes. “Please, Jameson...” The clanking of the handcuffs as I pleaded caught his stare and he weakened, like I knew he would. To seal the deal, I raced to add, “I need you!”

He ripped the handcuffs off the next second, dropped his pants, and had me bent over his desk instantly.

In forty six seconds exactly, I was clenching, screaming, and quivering against his dark cherry wood desk.

With the funbags dangling over his laptop, his hands grasped firmly around my hips as he let out a groan and a few words I couldn’t distinguish.

He fell forward against my back. “I’m weak.”

“Yes, you are. I won again.”

“Only because you used tears.”

“I have to use any advantage I can when Jameson Riley is my boyfriend.”

He chuckled against, his lips dancing along my shoulder blades. The rhythm of our hearts slowed into relaxation.

“You say my name like I’m some kind of god.”

“You are.”

“That’s right, remember that.”

And he’s back.

“Remember, I won. Sway two. Jameson zero.”

Jameson stood and pulled his pants up. I watched as he slowly buttoned them with that damn smirk, his belt clanking.

God, that sound!

“I don’t think so. You still have to walk through the announcer’s booth after what you said. Jameson one.” He waggled his eyebrows at me and headed for the door after pulling his t-shirt back on.

I searched the floor of his office for my panties, but when Jameson got to the door, he looked over his shoulder. His hand came up, his thumb running back and forth across his lower lip as though he was hiding a secret. That was when I noticed him holding my panties up.

“We’re tied, honey.”