Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (29 page)

Then there’s Sway. Sure
she said she wanted to be with me but if she had told me that she didn’t want
to be with me, do you think I would have taken that well?

Highly
doubtful.

Getting ready to get
inside my car for the race, I had the ring was tucked inside my racing suit
because I couldn’t risk Sway finding it in the motor coach or the Lucifer twins
exposing me.

Sway stood beside me,
enduring the constant repetitive media, all with the same polite smiles. I only
wished I had as much patience as she did for all this.

“You were second
quickest in practice and qualified on the pole for today’s race. What do you
think your chances for a win are?” a reporter I didn’t recognize asked me as I
stood next to the car.

Tate walked past me
with a smile on his face, tipping his head and offering his best. I did the
same and then leaned the direction of the reporter keeping my standard stance
the media liked to refer to as the “Rowdy Way”.

“You know with
Darlington, it’s a battle with drivers and the track. Everybody goes for it
being a night race. There’s a lot of bumpin’ and
bangin
’,
it’s an interesting and exciting race with a track that will add its two
sense
as well.” I replied. “There’s no telling what can
happen. It depends on the other drivers who we’re battling with. If the cards
play out, hopefully we’ll pull through with a victory.”

Just like any interview
with a pressing reporter looking for the next big story, the interview shifted
to my personal life.

“We hear you’re going
to be a daddy soon. Does this effect you’re career now? Will the Rowdy Riley
finally be tamed?” the reporter smirked.

I laughed shaking my
head and deciding on how exactly I would answer.

For a moment, I focused
my attention on the new paint scheme of my car for this weekend. It wasn’t
unheard of for different sponsors to shell out money to change a paint scheme
to promote business sales. This weekend Ayers Manufacturing, who sponsored my
sprint cars, teamed with Simplex Shocks and
Springs
.
So my usual black and red car was now white, with red flames and black numbers.
I kind of liked it. It reminded me of my USAC midget I used to race in ‘98, the
year I won the Triple Crown.

Bobby walked by shaking
my shoulder with a roguish punch offering a friendly, “Good luck bud.”

I smiled returning the
gesture.

“I really don’t think
you can
tame
me on the track.” I said to the
reporter with a laugh. “And yes, we are expecting a child.”

It was surprising to me
just how quickly I found myself being conscious of my decisions and how they
might influence Sway and the baby. What the media wanted to know wasn’t
necessarily what Sway wanted them to know.

“How do you feel about
NASCAR’s decision to increase the penalty issued to Darrin after your
altercation on the track at Pocono?”

I felt my body tense
remembering last night.

Letting out a sarcastic
laugh and resisting the urge to shove the microphone us his ass at the sudden
shift in the questions, I answered. “I personally don’t think the fine was
anywhere near what it should have been.” My tone though sharp, remained
composed for the sake of those around me. They didn’t deserve another outburst
like the one I had last night; specifically Sway. “NASCAR should have suspended
him from racing altogether after what he did. He could have killed me.”

NASCAR had increased
the penalty issued to Darrin to $100,000 and upheld the suspension through the
end of the year. As far as a lawsuit against Darrin, we had nothing. Hell, we
couldn’t even keep him away from us.

Sway must have sensed
my discomfort with the conversation and shifted closer, her arm circled around
my waist to lean into me.

After the national
anthem, a pair of F-16’s flew over and invocation was given. Sway and Emma said
their goodbyes before heading to the pit box.

I glared at Emma but
hugged her anyway when she wished me luck.

I laughed at Sway’s JAR
Racing
sweatshirt she put on to hide her bump and
dragged her into a tight embrace.

Reaching up, she angled
my face toward her to whisper in my ear.

“Prepare yourself.
There’s going to be lots and lots of dirty sex for you tonight.”

“I could go for some
dirty sex.” I shifted back to gaze at her face as her eyes opened and met mine.
Warm emeralds with chocolate flakes.
Moments like this
never failed to stun me; she loved me with such love and devotion with eyes
that matched my own.

Her lips met mine
softly. “Good luck.”

“Thank you honey,” I
muttered clutching her torso to mine. The moment seemed intimate, maybe even
the right moment.

Should I propose now?
No, not in front of the
entire world, she wouldn’t want that. Or would she?

I was moments away from
pulling out the ring and dropping down to one knee when Logan and Lucas
approached with Charlie.

“Dude, just do it
already.” Logan whined shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You’re
being a
pu
—” Charlie slapped the back of his head
before he could say pussy.

“What’s he talking
about?” Sway asked eyeing me with suspicion.

I shrugged finding the
window net interesting. “Who
knows,
”

Charlie helped me out
throwing Logan over his shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut.” He told him as they
walked toward the grandstands.

Sway laughed. “Good
luck,” and then she was gone and I was back to my thoughts. A place I didn’t
care to be in that moment as none of them made any sense to me.

You could ask any race
car driver why they decided to race and they’ll usually all tell you the same
thing. It was for the adrenaline rush and the thrill that came with winning.
Sure there was that but for me it was different. I did it because that’s what
felt natural to me and where I was comfortable. The race track, under the noise
of the engine, that’s where I felt at peace. When I was in that car, I was in
control, for the most part and it was my quiet place.
My
time.

Unfortunately, Aiden
and Kyle rambling in my ear the entire race disrupted the quiet for me. I’d
started on the pole and kept the lead as the laps fell into a rhythm.

Andy Crocket and
me
battled for fifth for a good ten laps when he pushed up
and the Lady in Black bit him bringing out the caution.

“Too fast entering,
come back in bud.” Kyle announced when I left pit road after.

“Oh
my god!”
I slammed my fist down on the wheel. “You have to be fucking kidding me? I lost
ground to the twenty. How the fuck does that happen?”

“I don’t know,” he was
just as annoyed. “Just come back in.”

Fucking bullshit!

I knew damn well I
wasn’t speeding.

Kyle sighed. “Flipping
a NASCAR official off is not helping us out here, Jameson.”

“Helping us out would
have been never getting the fucking penalty in the first place.” I snapped
waiting out our bullshit penalty on pit road, consequently putting us a lap
down.

Times like this, I
could see my dream for the championship slipping away. I know you’re thinking,
“Christ kid,
it’s
one race.”

See, that’s where
you’re wrong. One race can make or break these championships. There’s no room
for error on my part or anyone else’s. Wedge adjustment, air pressure, camber,
springs, fuel millage, control, crew chiefs, car chiefs, crew members,
officials, drivers, and all played parts that decided an outcome of one team on
race day.
Defined one team.
Sometimes, it can be one
thing that breaks that glimmer of hope in a hungry team’s eye. So yeah, it
could be just one race.

“Just be optimistic.”
Kyle urged when I pulled back on the track in
forty-third
position.
“It’s still early. We can do this.”

My response was just a
grunt. I was glad he was
so
positive as I lacked that
trait right then.

Nothing in racing goes
the way you want. A drive train breaks, an engine lets go. That temperature you
kept an eye on all race overheats, the tires you felt vibrating wear down to
cords. The gasket your team was sure was sealed, breaks. A lug nut that was
thought to be tight shakes loose. The loose handling gets the best of your
ability and you slap the wall.
Wrong place, wrong position, a
lap, a flag, all within five hundred miles.
You turn thousands of times
and break just as much. Check gauges, get fuel, argue, apologize, it’s all
about going in circles. It’s about commitment, and want, and desire, and
sacrifice.
Most of all, how bad you want it.

“Come on, bud. You need
to focus!” Kyle yelled back at me when I continued to rant about NASCAR’s latest
call. “It’s not personal.”

Not personal?

It
was
personal
and I knew Gordon, the Director of Competition, and Darrin’s uncle, had
something to do with this. So far this year, I’d been penalized for speeding on
pit road eight times. With everything that could happen in a race, we didn’t
need outside forces aiding in that.

Let me tell you
something here, pit road speed for Darlington was 30 mph. This meant if my
RPM’s
were
on 5600
...
I
was going roughly 30 mph, give or take. We didn’t have speedometers so my
theory wasn’t exact science but everything was based off your RPM’s. NASCAR
allowed a 5 mph leeway, which meant I would be within that.

It
was
personal.

“Oh, well hell
...
that’s a relief, Kyle!” I shouted back
at him because this was complete bullshit, and he knew it. “Not personal? It’s
fucking personal to me damn it!”

Like I said, it wasn’t
just one thing that decided the outcome of a race. What they didn’t understand
was how much want I had for this. I was not a man that just settled for a
taste. I wanted more. I wouldn’t settle for less. Even if it meant I wrecked
trying, that’s just the type of racer I was. NASCAR wasn’t going to take this
from me with some bullshit penalty. I wanted this too badly. With everything I
sacrificed, I needed this to prove to myself that I wasn’t giving those things
up for just nothing.

Ever since I was
little, my answer to my dad’s questions of, “Do you want this?” has always been
yes. I did want this.

Around lap two hundred,
I got my lap back with the help of the “lucky dog” rule (being the first car a
lap down) and was running thirty second. My mood hadn’t improved as I fought my
way back through the traffic.

“Your lap times are—”
Kyle began but I cut him off.

“Don’t tell me lap
times unless I ask.”

“Outside one
...
outside
...
at your rear
...
clear.”
Aiden announced as I moved up to thirtieth position.

“I’m just trying to
help—”

“You know what would be
really fucking helpful Kyle?” I growled nudging the back of Mike Tanner’s car
who failed to yield to the blue flag.

“What?” he asked just
as annoyed with me as I was with
him.

“Just stop talking and
let me drive!”

That shut him up. I
knew I was being rude, but Kyle understood. He knew too what it took for us to
get here. It wasn’t right nor was it respectful for me to treat him that way
but if you understood the pressures put upon us each week to win, you’d
understand then how heated it gets.

By lap two sixty-seven,
I was twentieth and gaining quickly on Tate. I passed him but then when I got
up to ninth, he caught me again and was looking for redemption.

“His brakes are really
hot. He’s not going to make it riding your ass like that.” Kyle chuckled when
Tate bumped me from behind once again.

“I know.”

“You’re holding him on
purpose, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I could pull
away anytime I want. If I keep him here
...
he
runs his tires and brakes up. Good for me, bad for him.”

As race car drivers, we
lived our lives on the racetrack. We lived for each turn, each front stretch,
and each back stretch. After a while, our ways of racing became our ways of
life. Other drivers understood because, given the chance, they acted in the
same manner. We pushed our luck just to gamble for the win. We played with fire
until we got burned, and then, the following Sunday, went back to playing with
that very same fire. Everything, and I mean
everything,
was a
competition. The jackass that said winning wasn’t everything had obviously
never raced in the cup series.

For a moment, I felt
bad racing Tate like that but I also knew, given the chance, he’d do the same
thing. It was all or nothing.