Indianapolis Motor Speedway…
The first exciting moment when Johnny climbs out of his racecar is perfection.
Damn! He sure looks sexy winning.
He’s almost too handsome to be believed when he pulls off his helmet and runs a tired hand through his black hair.
Every woman in the crowd of adoring fans is thinking the same thing I am.
Johnny “Boy” Jones is sizzling hot sex on the track.
I take another sip of my bottled water. Now is not the time to be thinking those kind of thoughts.
It never is.
The important thing is that Johnny is finally wearing our logo prominently displayed on his safe, specially-made flame-retardant racing suit.
Numerous television cameras are rolling, fixed on the handsome winner of the race, who is now waving to the cheering crowds high above him.
I can’t completely fight the smile crossing my face. Each time I attend a car race, I enjoy it more. Johnny was right. There is a car racing fan deep down inside me somewhere.
Knowing that Johnny is driving one of those speeding cars flying around the track gets my heart shaking with excitement every single time.
And fear.
What would happen if he crashed?
A few days ago, late at night after too much wine, I’d looked up “stock car racing crashes” online. The results weren’t pretty.
Sometimes the crashes only involved cars banging harmlessly into the wall and spinning out. The cars were usually damaged, but the drivers were mostly fine due to the strong reinforcements built into the cars to protect them.
Other car crashes, though, caused fires and sometimes even explosions. The image of one horrific fiery crash involving Shane Davis, the driver friend he’d mentioned, had kept me up half the night and then gave me nightmares when I finally fell asleep.
Now I say a silent prayer every time Johnny climbs behind the wheel of his car.
Please God, keep him safe.
God must be hearing my prayers because today there were no fiery car crashes and Johnny stayed safe.
Once again, he’d won easily, passing all the other cars one after the other until he was so far ahead no one else had a chance of beating him.
And now, there he is, doing his own special thing.
He’s wandering through the crowd of fans in the infield, pausing to give everyone who reaches out a high-five.
At the end of the line, he stops to autograph a girl’s forehead, and a young man’s t-shirt. When he’s unexpectedly handed a baby, he not only signs its blank bib, he carefully lifts it up high, so the press photographers can snap away wildly. The mother is practically screaming in excitement and I almost feel bad for the baby, though he doesn’t seem to mind.
I linger a little bit back away from the commotion, unsure of where I belong. Technically I’m his boss, which means I have a right and necessity to be here close to him.
Right now, though, I feel like an interloper, someone who is physically here, but isn’t really an integral part of what is going on.
To be perfectly honest, I’m a bit afraid of how Johnny will react when he sees me.
The last time I saw him had been a week ago in the middle of the night in my darkened hotel room. I’d gotten up to get a glass of water before crawling back under the covers with him for a couple more hours of sleep.
The light from the fancy hotel directly across the street shown through the window blinds. Enough where I could see his muscular form clearly.
He was completely naked after our wild night and sprawled across the bed, one tattooed arm still slung over onto my side where I’d been only a few minutes before.
For a moment, I’d stood there, just looking at him. Wondering how it would feel to wake up to the sight of him every morning in my bed. With messy hair and day-old stubble on his face.
To see his sleepy smile and the crinkle around the corner of his eyes. To hear the deep rumble of his voice say, “Good morning, baby.”
I’d known then without a doubt that I was completely hooked.
I wanted him.
Johnny “Boy” Jones.
Desperately.
All to myself.
Not wanting to wake him, I’d quietly crawled back into bed and snuggled up under his arm. He’d instinctively drawn me tighter to him. Not wanting to miss a moment, I’d listened to his steady heartbeat against my ear until eventually I couldn’t stay awake any longer and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
Hours later, I awoke in my hotel room and nearly had a mini heart attack when I discovered he’d already gone without a word.
The only sign that he’d even been there was a casual note scrawled on a notepad left by the bed.
“See you in a week at the Indianapolis race, Summer!”
That was it.
Knowing I’d slept with Johnny once again and that he’d bolted out like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough wasn’t my proudest moment.
I was mortified and confused. Rushing into the shower, I’d stepped under the hot water and scrubbed away every last trace of him, while swearing never to do that again.
No matter how much I might want to. The whole situation between us is hopeless.
As Johnny saunters back to celebrate with the rest of the pit crew, he passes by me. Our eyes lock. He stops and starts to reach out for my hand before dropping his.
Or maybe I’m imagining things.
“Hurry up, man! It’s time for the champagne,” Steele says throwing his arm around Johnny. “Then on to dinner. We’ve got to go.”
His face strained, Johnny allows himself to be led away. I watch him go with a hammering raging heart.
I guess I have my answer now of how it’s going to be. And to think there was a time when Johnny had invited me himself to join them for the after-race meal. Maybe that had been the offer of a lifetime.
How quickly things can change.
After watching him give numerous interviews from the sidelines while standing on the winner’s podium with two big-boobed blondes in bathing suits, I’d had enough.
I knew the girls were models and part of the racing scene. The fact didn’t make me feel any better. Especially after watching how they leaned their breasts against him and snuggled close under his arms.
He didn’t seem to mind the extra attention either. If anything, he was thoroughly enjoying it.
I decide I’ve seen enough and head back to my car. As I walk through the massive parking lot, I feel awkward and ridiculous.
Ridiculous that I’d carefully chosen the blue and white gingham top with the matching tie-up white shorts to fit in more with the racing crowd.
Even more ridiculous that I’d thought Johnny might actually give a damn how I looked.
Hadn’t my dad told me himself what Johnny was?
A playboy, plain and simple.
Now that he’s had his fun with me, he’s done with me.
Back in my car, my phone rings. I answer without checking.
“Hello?”
“Hey sis,” Helen says. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about our dinner date.”
I suppress the urge to groan. Why had I had the pathetic idea that it was Johnny calling me?
And why had I agreed to dinner with my sister immediately following the race?
“Can you be at the restaurant in an hour?” she asks. “I can’t wait to see you! It seems like forever since we’ve had a chance to catch up with each other. You should come to Indianapolis more often. Now that you’re coming to the races maybe we’ll see more of you.”
I resist the urge to make up a lie why I can’t meet her. She’s my sister and she’d see straight through me.
“I’m on my way as soon as I can leave the race track,” I say. “Traffic is terrible trying to exit the parking lot. I might be a few minutes late.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a nice glass of Chardonnay while I wait. It will give me a chance to sit by myself and rest. With three kids it doesn’t happen often, so I’ll take advantage of it. Take your time.”
After she’s hung up, I sigh.
Really, I should’ve known that since my sister lives in Indianapolis, there would be no avoiding meeting her. Still, even the thought has my stomach knotted up with nervousness.
I wonder if Dad has filled her in about my relationship with Johnny? The invitation to dinner might be their way of filling me out to see where things stand. The two of them were always thick as thieves even though I’m the one who works with him.
To be fair, I was Mom’s favorite. Until she tragically developed early onset Alzheimer’s in her fifties and Dad divorced her. Now she sometimes doesn’t remember me at all.
My phone starts to ring as I’m turning it off. I don’t check to see who’s calling.
I could use a few minutes of peace myself.
If it’s Johnny, avoiding him seems like my best bet right now. And if it’s Helen again, I need a little more time to compose myself before we meet. It’s too bad I can’t avoid her too.
Still, she is my sister, and a good one at that. Something about this dinner date feels off to me. I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve always been able to tell when Helen is up to something from the time we were little kids.
She doesn’t just want to see me to catch up and tell me about her kids.
She’s clearly up to something.