Aero Push – If another car follows another too close, the air from the lead car doesn’t flow across the following vehicle the way it should. It will go over the top with a downward force on the front and then narrows. When that happens, the car can’t turn easily in corners resulting in the front of the car pushing up the banking toward the outside wall resulting hints the term aero push.

 

“Would you like two tickets?”

“No. Just one ticket for Charlotte, North Carolina.” I paused trying to relax myself. “The ticket is already purchased by Jameson Riley. I just need to confirm with you, apparently.”

Peering down at the chips in my toenail polish, I touched them up with a black Sharpie I found beside the bed.

“What city?” the woman with Southwest Airlines barked back at me.

She’s friendly.

I gathered she was just as annoyed. After being on the line with her for the last twenty minutes, I hated to tell her she wasn’t exactly my favorite person either.

Glancing out the window as I paced, a slow but constant mist of rain fell. A steady flow of cars came and went through the parking lot of the dorms at Western. Most of the students were heading home for the summer, as was I.

“Like I said the first five times, Charlotte, North Carolina.” I wanted to add some choice words at the end, but I refrained.

I couldn’t be sure what I’d do five minutes from now if I was still on the damn line though. A girl can only take so much this early in the morning without coffee. And personally, I believe in our constitutional right to speak our minds. In fact, I think more people should exercise this right, in my opinion.

“Did he make the flight for today?”

My God.

Before answering, I sighed dramatically attempting to let her know how frustrated I was.

“Yes,” I gritted out, my leg continued to bounce as I sat there waiting. “He said he did.”

Once I finished coloring my toes, I tossed the Sharpie aside.

“Is it first class or coach?”

“He said it’s first class.”

Personally, I blamed Jameson for all of this bullshit I was going through right now. The jerk called me at two in the morning to tell me he clenched the pole for the NASCAR Winston Cup Coca-Cola 600 race tonight and needed his good luck charm there. I hadn’t seen a race in person since Daytona—I figured I owed him that much.

I was also inclined to think I was not fully awake when I agreed to fly across the United States for the weekend.

Who does that kind of thing?

Me. I did that shit.

Why? Because I was an idiot.

Jameson Riley is my best friend who also happened to be a NASCAR Winston Cup race car driver. After taking his precocious racing talent from the bullring dirt tracks of the Pacific Northwest to the elite levels of auto racing, he did it.

From the time I met Jameson when we were eleven, we’ve been inseparable, up until a few years ago when I decided it was time to finish my bachelor’s degree and actually attend classes as opposed to traveling with him and his family. The first year I tried doing both, traveling with them and online classes. Horrible idea. It never worked in my favor so I had to physically attend school if I was going to graduate.

For myself, I needed to go to school. Most of my life I had never really had much direction and at some point, I realized where that was leading for me. Pit lizard for life.

Personally, there was nothing wrong with that if you asked me but I decided that I just needed to do it.

That left me in Bellingham while my friends were traveling all over catching any race Jameson could on the east coast and mid-west.

Finally though, after three years at Western Washington University, I finally graduated last week. I was now a free woman and could do what I wanted. No more late night study sessions cramming for mid-terms. I could finally have a life of my own.

Even if that meant being a pit lizard again.

That was when I knew that life of my own would eventually lead back to Jameson. It always would.

When I first enrolled in college, it took me some time to decide what I wanted to do with my life. I was that girl constantly putting it off while taking classes like pottery or art to avoid having to actually make a decision. But when my dad, Charlie, said he didn’t raise a pit lizard for a daughter, I made the decision to go into Business Management. That sounded sophisticated enough for me.

For me, college ended my “Pit Lizard Phase” of following Jameson around. You know, I wouldn’t even say I followed him around either because I was there for a reason. It may not have always been the right reason but it was a reason.

When I decided to go to school, I felt left behind. In a sad way I thought they would forget about me but no, they didn’t. Especially Jameson and his sister. I still heard from Jameson every few days and weekly calls from Emma checking in on me.

They certainly hadn’t forgotten.

The year I stopped traveling with them and went to college, I honestly think it had more to do with me wanting to get over Jameson.

Unfortunately that didn’t happen. If anything it made my feelings stronger.

Four years after Jameson left Elma, Washington, for his chance at a career in racing, all that dedication to a sport that gave very little in return, had worked out for him. This past winter he signed with his father’s new NASCAR Winston Cup series team Riley Simplex Racing and got a full sponsorship from Simplex Shocks and Springs, a manufacturer of, well, shocks and springs for race cars.

And now here I was flying out to see Jameson’s first Coca-Cola 600 race and wondering where this would leave the relationship we had. The thing was, if he asked me to fly to the North Pole to see Santa Claus with him, I would. Which leads me to today. Flying across the states to see him.

It was crazy to think how quickly Jameson went from being an average Saturday night sprint car racer to racing in NASCAR.

Running roughshod through the Busch Series last year, he won fourteen races so Jimi, his dad and car owner, decided it was time to move up to the cup series.

For his first season, he was doing remarkably well. On his second start in Rockingham, he won his first career cup series win. Alas, I wasn’t there for it.

He did thank his best friend on national television and that was comforting to a certain degree. I still had to watch it on TV instead of being there and experiencing the excitement first-hand. I must have cried for an entire week, but I made my decision to finish college, and I did just that.

For me, the worst part about not being there for the win was him calling me from victory lane because he wanted to hear my voice. Talk about making me feel like an asshole. Those were the times I regretted trying to make something of myself.

When I finally finished getting my ticket, I headed out the door in a mad rush to SeaTac Airport. As I waited for my truck to warm up, I sent Jameson a text to let him know I would be there tonight.

S: Got my ticket, be there at two. Someone had better pick me up!

He responded instantly, which surprised me. Lately it took him hours.

J: Headed to interviews. Can’t wait to see you! Alley will pick you up. :)

Naturally, I smiled like a fool over his texting excitement to see me.

I managed to make my flight on time, despite the Seattle traffic and many instances where I flipped people off. Once inside the airport, I also found the need to stop by Starbucks and pick up an iced white chocolate mocha.

This was probably the best decision of the morning. Who knew what type of shenanigans I could get into at an airport, surround by other people, without caffeine.

For most of the flight, I thought about how I really couldn’t believe that I was doing this, among other things. What kind of idiot dropped everything for a guy that she knew didn’t feel the same way about her?

Me. I do that shit.

To us, the story behind Jameson and me was pretty simple but also complicated. And though it started back when we were kids, the relationship itself, for me, changed the summer we left home in the hunt for the USAC Triple Crown title. The summer of 1998.

When Jameson graduated high school, he finally convinced his sprint car World of Outlaw champion father that he was old enough to pursue his racing dreams. Jameson had been racing since he was four years old, but Jimi made the stipulation that he graduate from high school before he could move to the East Coast.

Graduation day came for Jameson and he headed east with his older brother, Spencer, Spencer’s girlfriend, Alley, and Emma, Jameson and Spencer’s younger sister, who graduated a year early just so she could come along.

Naturally, when he asked me to come along, I did without a second thought. Now, up until that point, Jameson had always been my best friend, never anything more. Sure, we’d done the teenage experimenting with each other, but it had never led to anything. We had remained just friends.

That summer shit changed drastically. Not only did it test our relationship as friends, but it changed it. Surrounded by the lingering sweet sting of methanol, a mystifying greatness emerged from a single dream of one boy. The only boy in my world. Between those dirt tracks, sleeping in the truck along the side of the road and eating a shitload of fast food, I became captivated by Jameson Anthony Riley as he fought to be his own man.

I fell in love with him. There was no way around it.

Looking back on those times, during high school I could feel my feelings for him shifting, but that summer they really took on a life of their own and became something I just couldn’t ignore. Believe me when I say I tried.

Most would wonder by now, what was Jameson like? Who is this guy who holds my heart?

Jameson Riley was an asshole. He was temperamental, childish at times, and could easily put a toddler to shame with the fits he threw. He overreacted, had textbook aggression issues, and was flat out arrogant.

And I loved him regardless because underneath all that was a magic about him that literally captivated you.

Just like any single-minded athlete, he had a burning desire to race, and that was all he did. That overreacting side and that single-minded athlete mentality was who he was and how he got to where he was now. I loved that about him too.

No matter what, I was there for Jameson through it all. Through engine problems or the set-up deficiencies, the runaround he got from track owners, other drivers and sponsors, I was his safety shield in his crazy life as he would say. If he needed anyone, I was there. If he needed to talk in the middle of the night, I put aside everything to be there for him.

Despite being that so called safety shield, I was never his girl. Jameson had one girlfriend in high school, Chelsea Adams, and more nameless one-night-stands than I cared to know about. Believe me, I witnessed it first-hand those summers and it wasn’t pretty.

And then there was me. His friend sitting in the wooden bleachers with rusty nails, wishing he would see me for who I was—absolutely perfect for him—but to this day he remained oblivious to how I really felt for him.

No one knew my obsession about Jameson aside from Emma, Alley, and probably his mother. Being women it wasn’t hard to catch on with my pathetic attempts at flirting those summers we traveled. And believe me when I say there were many times that I wanted to slap myself.

Finally, the captain came over the intercom to announce our final descent into the Charlotte area.

Scrambling around, I hurried up and put my iPod and laptop away. I was finishing last quarter’s books for my dad.

Once graduation day came for me, Charlie, my dad, wasted no time throwing me into the family business of managing the track. I knew his intention was to have me take over when he retired. I think the jerk has been grooming me for this since I was a kid, but if you’d asked him, he would just smile.

It has been just Charlie and me since I was six. My mother, Rachel, died of breast cancer when she was twenty-five. After her death, we moved from Aberdeen to Elma, Washington, and that was when racing caught my attention.

Soon after the move, Charlie purchased Grays Harbor Raceway, a 3/8 oval clay racetrack off Highway 8. I was literally around racing every weekend, and it was eventually how I met the Riley family.

The first time that I saw Jameson Riley, it was Memorial Day weekend, the summer of ‘92. I was eleven years old.

Now that I think about it, it was eleven years ago this weekend. Crazy to think it was the same weekend.

The night we met, I was at the track one Saturday evening for the weekly races. I remember that day distinctly because it was one of the hottest days in Washington’s history. It was something like a hundred and two degrees that day. When your average summer temperature reached maybe eighty... that was hot.

Jameson liked to joke that this had something to do with him and his good looks.

There I sat with a red rope licorice in hand, when a black sprint car caught my attention. With their thunderous rumbling and slide jobs, sprint cars were always my favorite cars to watch. Sprint cars are small open-wheel, high power-to-weight ratio beasts that can reach one hundred forty miles per hour on some tracks.

I chose a seat close to the fence to feel the dirt and wind of the cars hit me when they would broad-slide into turn one. Some call me crazy, but I loved to get right in the middle of the action, despite the lack of visibility. I also enjoyed the burn in my eyes from the methanol and that growling pop they made when they lifted in the turns.

The black speed demon went from sixth to first in two laps straight. I’d never seen the car race here before, let alone seen someone race the way he did. His agile movements on the track were so smooth and so precise balancing right on the edge of control. Once he chose a line, he was set and determined—he’d easily slide past two or three cars in each corner.

I continued to watch him the remainder of the night. He not only won the heat race I watched first, but the trophy dash, the B-Feature, and the A-Feature—he was the talk of the night.

Listening closely, I tried to pay attention to the announcer to catch his name, but you couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the cars and cheering fans.

When it came time for the trophies at the end, I made my way to the pits to find my dad. It was usually the only time I saw him throughout the night.

I glanced at the flag stand when I got past the entry gate. From the distance, I could see a boy emerge from the car appearing to be the same age as me.

I thought for sure he would be a full-grown adult with those racing chops. Not to mention the legal age to be in a sprint car was sixteen. Charlie frequently bent the rules back then on age limits, though, so that was no surprise.

There the boy stood with the biggest grin on his face having smoked men three times his own age in an 800-horsepower sprint car weighing 1,400 pounds. Nowadays you can’t do that. There’s regulations but back then, he did it and it was amazing.

The fact that he could even drive that machine in a straight line was impressive enough for me. I doubt I could even push-start the damn thing, let alone make it through turn one.

After the race I managed to make it down to the pits to find my dad. Not exactly the easiest task when you’re a little over four feet tall. I spotted Charlie standing outside the CST Engines car hauler talking to Jimi Riley, so I walked over to them.

Jimi was racing in The World of Outlaw Series—it was rare to see him here on a Saturday night unless the series was in town. The Riley family lived here in Elma, but we rarely saw them around since they traveled so often. With an eight-five race schedule each year, it was grueling and allowed little time to be spent on the West Coast.

“Hey, kiddo how you been?” Jimi asked me as I stood beside my dad.

“Good sir, how are you?”

“It’s Jimi, honey, not sir. I’m good.” He smiled and his stance shifted gesturing to the hauler behind him. “Have you met my kids before?”

“No si—Jimi.” Even though I supposedly went to school with them, I never recalled actually meeting them.

“Let’s introduce you then.” He glanced around for a moment. “If I can find the little shits.”

There were so many people standing around waiting to get a glimpse of Jimi you couldn’t decipher who was who, let alone find anyone shorter than five feet tall.

“Jameson... Spencer... get over here!” Jimi hollered over his shoulder reaching out to sign a few autographs for a couple kids who made their way past the adults.

“Coming,” the boys yelled barreling out of the back of the car hauler.

Jimi smiled reaching for the younger one by his race suit.

It was the speed demon.

“Sway, this is my son, Jameson. I think you two are the same age.” Jimi shook Jameson’s shoulders. “And this is my other son, Spencer.” He ruffled Spencer’s hair. “I’ve got a daughter, Emma, but who knows where she disappeared to.”

“She’s selling T-shirts,” Spencer said.

With his black wavy hair, Spencer Riley looked very different from Jameson. They both had the same intensity in their eyes, but Spencer’s were bright blue and Jameson’s were green. I saw the similarities in the crooked grin, too, the one that had me blushing.

“It’s nice to meet you both.” I shook both their hands.

They both smirked when I did that, which made me want to punch them in the face, especially when Jameson winked at me.

He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen with bright, grass green eyes that complemented the rust color of his wavy hair, which curled out into loops at the ends.

I wasn’t really into boys at eleven years old, but he was one pretty boy. I’d met Nancy, Jimi’s wife, once before so I recognized that Jameson resembled his mother rather than the Riley side with black hair and blue eyes.

“You did great out there tonight,” I said to the pretty boy knowing my face was a pretty cherry red color, much like my red rope.

“Looks like you follow in Jimi’s footsteps,” my dad added putting his arm around my shoulder. I looked down, embarrassed, but quickly looked up when I heard Jameson chuckle.

He smiled widely at us. “Yes, but I’m better.” He nodded his head arrogantly while my dad and Jimi both start laughing at the suave confidence of the cocky little eleven year old.

By the end of the night, I was running around Grays Harbor Raceway with the Riley family.

I think the bigger picture here was what happened that night where the clay met the rubber, as Jimi would say. A racer was born in the sense that his dream came alive that night while racing on the edge.

Making my way from the plane, I was able to make it through baggage claim without bitch-slapping anyone. Balancing my purse on top of my suitcase, I made my way down the escalator into the Charlotte Airport.

I heard Alley and Spencer before I saw them, bickering as usual. Those two fought all the time. It was actually rare that they got along.

Only a few seconds before I made my way off the escalator Spencer, Jameson’s older brother, had his arms locked around me in a steel trap as he hugged me.

“Whew,” his arms wrapped tighter. “I’ve missed you, Sway!”

“Hands off, shit head,” I muttered trying to pull away from him. “I can’t breathe with you crowding me.”

I liked a certain amount of personal space that Spencer never could provide. He knew nothing about personal boundaries.

Spencer was the type of guy you always had to keep your guard up around. With his unpredictable offensive behavior—you never knew when he’d strike, and you’d be the brunt of one of his stupid pranks. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I was one of his favorite targets and always had been. After spending more than a few minutes around Spencer, you’d understand why zookeepers give most animals toys.

If you kept them distracted, they’re less likely to attack. I honestly believed this theory worked on children, as well.

Why do you think their toys are shiny? Distractions, it’s all about distractions.

Always keeping Spencer occupied was my number one rule. If he was allowed time to think of any predatory attack, you would undoubtingly regret it. I loved Spencer like a brother, but the fact that he had to repeat the third grade twice should give you an inclination as to the type of behavior he exhibited.

Honestly though, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was raised by a pack of wild animals.

I stopped trusting Spencer years ago—around the time when he allowed me, while camping in the woods, to wipe my ass with poison ivy knowing damn well it was poison ivy.

To this day I still haven’t forgiven him.

“Spencer, for Christ’s sake you’re going to squish her,” Alley grumbled beside us. “Put her down.”

“Jameson is so excited to see you.” Spencer finally let go to set me securely on the ground. “He actually cracked a smile this morning.”

I stumbled for a second, finding my footing while tugging my underwear out of my ass. “How is he?” I was trying to hide my excitement that he implied Jameson was excited, but my voice had a certain beseechingly dismay to it.

Why wouldn’t it?

Before Spencer could answer my question, Alley grabbed my suitcase and began lugging it with her. “We have to be back at the track in an hour. Get your ass moving.” She turned to wink at me once. “We’ve got a busy night and no time for bullshit.”

Alley, Spencer’s wife now, was the team manager for Riley Simplex Racing and Jameson’s publicist for good reason. She didn’t put up with bullshit from anyone, including Jimi. She loved her job, even though it meant keeping Jameson and his team out of trouble and constantly defending Jameson’s actions to NASCAR. She had a way with words, that one did.

I finally caught up with Alley and her long ass legs when we made our way into the parking garage. “Do you have to walk so fast?”

“It’s good to see you again,” Alley teased throwing one long scrawny arm around me. “You ready for this?”

“Uh, what does that mean?” My eyes shifted anywhere they could to avoid her questioning steel blue eyes. “Is there something I should know? Last time you asked me if I was ready for something I ended the night with six stitches in my ass.”

Alley laughed it off but suddenly I was worried.

What if he had a girlfriend he didn’t tell me about?

I then began thinking of all the ways I could kill her off if that were the case. I couldn’t have another woman in the way, I just couldn’t. High school and Chelsea were enough for my sanity. If he had a girlfriend now, I’d probably be sent over the edge and commit murder.

Alley sighed throwing my bag into a black SUV, her eyes holding concern. “Okay, I’m gonna say it. You need to hear it, clearly. I want to be sure you don’t get hurt.” She took a deep breath. “There, I said it.”

“Is he with someone now?” My voice betrayed me and cracked a little. My heart was trying to qualify for a race at the way it was beating rapidly, waiting for her to answer.

Alley shook her head. “No, not that I’m aware of. But I also don’t ask.” She smiled. “I just want you to be careful. You know him.”

I knew Jameson had one-night-stands—it was obvious. But since Chelsea, I hadn’t seen him in a “relationship” with anyone. And I wasn’t sure you could even call his time with Chelsea a relationship. It was more of a convenience for him.

Alley, and even Emma, his younger sister, thought Jameson used me to his own advantage. Which I guess maybe he did from time to time, but I didn’t care. I should have... but didn’t.

Alley seemed to be waiting for an answer so I said, “I will.”

Spencer got in the back of the SUV, his attention on his cell phone mostly but smiled when I said that I would be careful. He knew too.

Clearly I was lying. I was never careful and hardly ever rational when it came to Jameson. Now wouldn’t be any different.

“Where’s Lane?” I looked around to see if he was hiding from me inside the SUV. Right about then I realized they wouldn’t have left a child in the car while inside the airport, or at least I would hope they wouldn’t be that careless.

“He’s with Jameson at the track.” Alley frowned, her lips pursed. “The kid loves his uncle more than his own mother.”

I laughed because it was probably true. Alley and Spencer’s three-year-old son, Lane, thought Jameson was the world.

Me and this kid—we had a lot in common.

“It’s been an interesting morning so far,” Alley said conversationally merging with traffic.

“Why?”

“Well... the team was fined fifty thousand for a fuel additive of methanol and ethanol.” I gasped mainly at the fine, not the reasoning. “Gordon thinks the crew added it after qualifying.”

“They wouldn’t do that, would they?” My eyes darted to Spencer.

“Hey... have some faith,” Spencer defended. “I just found out. We’d never cheat like that. You know as well as I do NASCAR is very specific on rules—especially fuel and tires.”

I knew that. As with any racing division, they monitored both carefully as that was where most teams cheated. But not Jameson; he never needed to. Every team pushed boundaries as a child did. They tested the authorities to see how much they gave and took, but there were still some things you just didn’t mess with.

“So in other words, Jameson’s in a shitty mood?”

“Not since he heard you were coming,” Spencer said relaxing into the seat, his weight shifted so he could see out the windshield. “Stupid fuck has been antsy all morning.”

Well then. He’s is excited to see me. Hot damn.

The traffic on I-85 toward Concord was light as we made our way to Lowes Motor Speedway. I really wanted to see Jameson before the drivers’ meeting knowing once the meeting was finished he had interviews, driver’s introductions, and then the race. I remembered in Daytona it was hard to get a moment alone with him on race day with all the hospitality visits he had. After hearing about the fines, I wanted to be sure he was all right. For someone who put so much of himself into his racing, he always took this sort of thing hard.

Entering the pit entrance was much like my experience at Daytona earlier in the year. I’ve been around racing almost my entire life and have watched more races than I could ever remember, but to attend my first NASCAR Coca-Cola 600 race where my best friend was starting on the pole, was a feeling I couldn’t describe. There was so much excitement swirling around me between the fans sporting his number proudly, to the news reporters, other drivers, and the officials.

To truly understand the exhilaration surrounding a race like this, you had to actually attend it. I can’t explain it any other way. That was the only way to truly experience it. The lights, the sounds, the smells, can’t be captured any other way than feeling it first-hand.

This wasn’t some small town bullring dirt track where the pits consisted of an open field, and the grandstands were wooden bleachers with missing rusty nails. This was Lowes Motor Speedway where the best racers in NASCAR battled it out.

As soon as Alley stopped the car next to Jameson’s motor coach, my door flew open, but before I could escape, she grabbed my shirt tossing me back in the leather seat.

“Sway, you can’t go running around looking for him. You need a hot pass.” She handed me a pass. “Besides, you’re small enough someone might mistake you for a lost child.”

“I thought I got a pass in the garage?”

“You already have one—Jameson got it for you.”

I knew enough from my experience with the pit lizards at Daytona to know the difference between plastic and paper. I also knew that a “plastic pass” ran around twenty five hundred dollars and was not transferable. The fact that Jameson purchased a “plastic pass” for me had me thinking, but should I put any weight to the significance?

Glancing down at the hard pass they had made, I noticed one addition I was sure NASCAR did not add.

Under Sway Reins was “Jameson’s Pit Lizard” written in black sharpie. I turned sharply to glare at Alley when she shifted her eyes to the back seat at Spencer and then back to me.

Without letting on, I placed the pass around my neck and grabbed the first thing that I could think of to throw at Spencer’s head, which happened to be a front spring we had picked up for Jameson’s car from the shop on the way here.

“What the fuck was that?” Spencer wailed clutching his face. “I think... I’m... bleeding. I am bleeding!”

Sure enough, he was bleeding, profusely, from right above his left eyebrow.

“Suck it up, asshole. You deserved that, and you know it.” Stomping toward the garage, my pit lizard pass flailed behind me in the breeze.

“Babe, I think I need stitches.” Alley examined his face closely before reaching in her purse to stick a Spiderman bandage on his forehead.

“There.” She kissed his forehead right above his eye.

“You’re fine!” I yelled over my shoulder as they trucked along behind me.

For only being five foot two and barely a hundred and five pounds, I could throw a mean front spring when needed. I grew up at a racetrack... I could protect myself. Sure, there were times I may need to make use of car parts to assist me in protecting myself, but I could do it.

Since I’d been around racing most of my life, I could also smell my way to the garage off the fumes alone. I didn’t need a damn escort. I had pit lizard instincts. I was sure I could smell a race car idling a mile away.

As I rounded the corner to the garage area, cars were scattered along the bays, revving engines and preparing for race day activities.

Just like my pit lizard instincts for racing, I had an instinct for Jameson and could pick his raspy velvet voice out like a needle in a haystack.

He was yelling over the revving, gesturing at the rear of the car. There he stood next to his race car talking with his crew chief, Kyle Wade.

I let out a truly pitiable sigh and trailed Alley and Spencer toward Jameson’s bay.

There were drivers, media, crew members, and cars scattered throughout as they prepared for the night race.

I looked around, but like the pathetic pit lizard I was, my eyes immediately found Jameson, and it was as if everything else disappeared as though the world stopped.

So corny.

With his hand resting on the hood, his eyes were closed listening to the car as he made an adjustment under the hood.

I heard him holler over the rumble of the engine. “I was tight coming out of turn three yesterday during...” was all I could make out before another engine in the distance revved drowning him out.

Sighing again, I looked around at the paddock. Only problem, I couldn’t focus, not with the dirty thoughts in my mind listening to Jameson talk car.

No standard dirty talking for me; I like a man who talks car. The first time I heard Jameson say camshaft, I wanted to rip my clothes off and ride his camshaft reverse cowgirl style.

My eyes shifted back to him, wanting another look. Just one.

Squinting into the sun, I took in the rest of his appearance. Dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans that were met with his usual worn black Pumas. His rusty hair that seemed darker than usual was all over the place, nothing new, but it had always suited him the way it looped out at the ends. I sighed and shook my head when I noticed the shadow along his sharp jaw, loving the scruff he was sporting. He was hot, like greasy mechanic hot. I had a thing for a man who knew his way around an engine.

I focused for a moment thinking about Jameson getting to know his way around my internal combustion engine and, more importantly, my crankcase. And if you didn’t know what a crankcase was, it is a metal casing in the engine that houses the camshaft, crankshaft, and a few other parts in reciprocating engine. This was why I called my vagina a crankcase.

It made perfect sense to me.

After all, I wouldn’t mind housing Jameson’s camshaft. And the camshaft, well, it was a long shaft inserted into the crankcase that rotated. Naturally, I would refer to this as a penis.

“Sway?” Someone yelled for me in the distance but it wasn’t Jameson. “Is that you?”

He had stopped his adjustment under the hood but hadn’t looked up yet. His head remained bent forward peering down at the car, one hand rested on the hood over his head.

Fuck he looks so good. Sexy and delicious.

My eyes searched for who called my name. It was his spotter, also Emma’s eye candy, Aiden Gomez, who had called my name and was jogging toward us.

Trying to hide behind Spencer didn’t do any good. I was heaved into a hug from Aiden as he swung me around.

Aiden Gomez was a tall, lanky guy with blonde curly hair that stuck out from under his hat. He was a cowboy straight up from the deep south of Pickard, Alabama. I’ll spare you my stereotypical thoughts of folks who come from Alabama because let’s face it, in NASCAR, I was surrounded by the mullet madness from the southern states.

Aiden was cool, though, for a spotter. I had my own feelings on spotters. They were good people—but crazy if you ask me. Anyone who could stand hundreds of feet up in the air and hang over a railing was certifiably insane in my book.

Jameson met Aiden last year while he was racing in the Busch Series, and when Jameson got the opportunity to race in the Winston Cup Series, he asked Aiden to come with him as his spotter. Emma was the most excited because it meant that she got to be around him more. They had a secret love for each other that hadn’t been revealed to the big brothers, if you know what I mean.

“Don’t tease her, Aiden. She’s feisty today,” Spencer advised rubbing his forehead. “Nearly took my head off.”

“It grazed your eye.” Aiden finally set me down. “Where’s Emma?”

“Uh...” Aiden gave me a tentative smile, his eyebrows scrunched. “She said something about getting you something to wear for tonight and left for the mall. She took Lane with her.” I was just about to protest when he held up his hands. “Don’t hate me.”

Emma... oh Emma... she took every opportunity she could to make me her dress up Sway-doll. The last time I let her dress me in Daytona, I looked like the Fourth of July exploded on me.

I loved Emma like a sister, but sometimes I wanted to kill her.

Actually, most of the time I wanted to kill her. She had this ridiculous obsessive-compulsive disorder, much like her brothers; that seemed to be heightened by her need to control other people and lather herself with lotion.

I wished she’d leave me alone and go back to counting, applying ungodly amounts of lotion, and sanitizing everything she saw, but no, what would be the fun in that for a deeply troubled sadistic shopaholic like her?

The answer: nothing. Just like her brothers, they lived to annoy me in ways I found loving. They were my family.

“Well... she’s wasting her time,” I huffed. “I’m not wearing anything she picks for me.” I crossed my arms like a spoiled child.

I wasn’t lying either—I refused to play dress up tonight.

I had other plans. My exact plan was convincing Jameson that he loved me, too, and letting his camshaft meet my crankcase and test out my bearing alignment (a process to make sure all bearings are aligned so when the camshaft is run through, no binding occurs). Or, maybe we could do some thrust bearing (a type of bearing that’s designed to support high axial load while rotating). Or if things really go my way, I could do some micro polishing (a procedure that cleans the camshaft with high speed polishing belts)... I could go on for days like this. I had a name for anything sexual, and it wasn’t what it was commonly referred to.

To me, the inner workings of an engine bore little resemblance to the actual function and instead bore a strong resemblance to something of a sexual nature.

When you think about it, really think about the way an engine operates, you’d be absolutely amazed at how closely it resembles sex. I’m not very mature as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now.

Spencer and Aiden were grumbling about the fine issued by NASCAR when they stopped and smiled over my shoulder.

I turned sharply to see what they were smiling at only to see Jameson making his way over to us with a huge grin.

God I love that grin!

I ran at full speed toward him jumping in his arms, and yes, I wrapped my legs around his waist. It was everything I had hoped for, and then some.

“I’ve missed you Sway, so much!” he breathed into my neck.

If I wasn’t already in love with him, I fell in love, and so did my crankcase with my legs still tightly wrapped around his waist. I wanted him to confess right then that he loved me too but maybe that was wishing too much of him.

Right about then, I realized my crankcase was making all kinds of justifications that my mind would have no patience for, if it were still in charge. Warmth spread over me when I could feel his strong arms flex as he held me against his body. His breath blew over my neck, shivers ignited down my body firing nerve endings into race mode. I hoped like hell he didn’t feel me trembling in his arms.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I said softly breathing in the smell of his sun-kissed skin. He smelled of racing and summer, two things my senses had memory for.

At my words, Jameson turned his head kissing my cheek, his lips lingering. Pathetically, I found myself leaning into his touch.

“Oh Jesus,” It must have looked inappropriate because Alley cleared her throat beside us. “Do you two need a room?”

I looked over at her pursed lips in a hard line while she glared at me.

Jameson laughed setting me on my feet beside him, his arm wrapped around my waist pressing me securely to him.

“I can’t believe all this. It gets crazier every time I see you!” I mocked punching at his shoulder. “Will you sign my arm? Or my ass?”

Or my chest.

His eyes narrowed at the willing appendage, my arm, and before I could retract it in time, his tongue darted out licking me. Seductively I might add.

“There’s your autograph. Want me to sign your ass too?” He rolled his eyes, looking to Alley. “What’s the plan for tonight and after the race?”

I looked down at my arm, coated with Jameson drool. “I’ll never wash my arm again.”

He laughed beside me, leaning into my shoulder.

Do I wipe it off? No, not me, I left it there. I wasn’t lying. I might not ever wash it again.

“You have the drivers’ meeting in an hour,” Alley reminded him, but kept tending to Spencer’s eye. I felt bad, but only for a second, a brief second.

Jameson chuckled, eyeing Spencer. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Your best friend there decided to try and take my head off with a spring.” You could literally hear the resentment in Spencer’s voice.

“That’s my girl.” Jameson nodded in approval. A shy grin appeared as though he was hiding a secret. Knowing him, he probably was and that made me fall a little deeper.

“Listen.” Alley smacked his shoulder grabbing his attention. “You have the drivers’ meeting and then introductions start at four. After the race you have to make an appearance at Howl at the Moon in downtown Charlotte.”

Jameson turned to me, a sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“So what... did you get a hotel room, or do you want to stay in my motor coach?”

“Alley got me my own room,” I told him, hoping he didn’t catch the fact that I was giving him ogle eyes, also instinct for a pit lizard.

“Damn.” He smirked. “Well, I guess that means I have to return you to your room tonight. Or you could stay in my motor coach.”

When I came for Daytona I had stayed in his motor coach so I had an idea of where that could go. Let me tell you, I was willing to let it go there.

Alley smacked at his shoulder. “You’re staying at a hotel tonight dipshit. You leave town tomorrow morning after an interview. Which you better not be late to.”

Jameson nodded and then looked at me again and then back to Alley. “Am I staying at the same hotel as her?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, a brief moment, I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes.

With the way he looked down into my eyes, the rest of my internal components lined up on the same side as my heart and crankcase. We were all ready and willing to do whatever Jameson Riley wanted.

Suddenly I had an idea of what he wanted. He liked to party. And by party I mean get drunk and make bad decisions. We both did.

“I’m not getting drunk tonight, Jameson,” I warned as he lugged me toward the garage.

The last time I got drunk with Jameson on my twenty-first birthday, I ended up with a tattoo on my ass of God knows what, but it strangely resembled his lips. He had a matching tattoo that also strangely resembled my lips.

Actually, that wasn’t the last time we got drunk together. There was the time after the tattoos that we ended up doing body shots with Jameson puking in the parking lot for an hour afterward.

Moral of this outcome, we shouldn’t get drunk together.

It never ended well.

“So you say.” Jameson pulled me by the hand. “I bet I can convince you otherwise.” He paused, the smirk still present. “Besides, I have another ass cheek that needs branding and so do you, honey,” he teased with a slap to my ass.

If there was one quality about Jameson that most failed to recognize, it was that he had the negotiation and debating skills of a seasoned politician. No lie. If he wanted me to do something, he could convince me in a matter of seconds.

I knew one thing—this pit lizard was going to have a good time tonight.