Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (16 page)

“Sway,” I warned. “I
don’t have time to take care of the problem you just 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, 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 of
this when Spencer barged in.

Feeling like a teenager
who just 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 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 was 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 just 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
...
with 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 body guard 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 just 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, the car chief,
and Kyle, my crew chief, 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 Strips
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 my shoes and made my way to the car. It took a 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 a 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 driver’s 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, just like any
other race. I’ve raced in probably a thousand races but never after such a
horrific accident.

Driving hundreds of
miles for hours at a time, at speeds between 160 and 200 mph would be hard
enough for most. Now imagine doing it with forty-two other drivers who would
like nothing more than to leave you choking on their exhaust. The romanticism
of racing is easy to imagine. The reality is that it imposes great physical and
mental strains on our bodies. You need incredible stamina and upper-body
strength to wrestle the steering wheel for hours on end. You can forget about
air-conditioning, even with the fresh air ventilation tube that blows cool air,
the temperature inside can easily reach 120°. So imagine all this, and the
feeling you get when you wreck, not to mention the possibility of it happening
at any moment.

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’s for
sure.

Simplex was partnering
with
RedBull
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. Mike
was about to.

“Okay Jameson,” Aiden
said. “You got two laps and then the green flag. 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 have the
misconception that NASCAR racing doesn’t require a lot of skill because we simply
go in a circle and turn left. In reality, a typical race required a great deal
of strategy and an enormous amount of driver skill. Much of the strategy
depends on the uniqueness of the track. All tracks have grooves, the part of
the track where your car’s tires get the best grip. Some tracks have one
groove; others have two grooves, a low and high. On one groove tracks, it’s
much more difficult to pass because you must leave the groove and drive on a
part of the track that makes the car harder to handle. On two groove tracks,
such as Atlanta, it’s much easier to pass because there’s a sweet spot on the
track. Either way you look at it though, passing in the most challenging move.
Good drivers know how to block or move their cars from side to side to prevent
another car from passing but it takes time to learn those techniques. I still
hadn’t learned everything but I
was
leaning.

“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
RedBulls
.

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
RedBull
, 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
rising 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.

“Cautions 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 on. “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
...
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.