Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (60 page)

Sway giggled again.

“It gets really hard to
discretely adjust yourself when the reason for the hard on, is sitting next to
you or on your lap.”

Another
giggle.

“Okay, stop with the
giggles
...
wounded ego here.”

“Wounded you say?”

“Yes, very much, now
heal me.”

“Healing
...
hmm
...
what
classifies as healing?”

I reached up to touch
her cheek. “You know exactly what kind of ego healing I need.”

“Ego
stroking
I
suspect?” Sway smiled widely as if I just gave her a year’s subscription to
free ice cream.

“Yes, yes, ego stroking
is good.”

Although we’d spent
hours and hours like this over the last day or so, the excitement of her touch
hadn’t waned even remotely for me. It was pretty much all I wanted to do, all
of the time: hold her, kiss her all over, and feel her skin against mine. Given
the sound of her heart rate, she appeared to feel the same.

Our lips moved against
each other for long moments, until I pulled away only far enough to move to
kiss under her ear and down her throat. When I shifted back to gaze at her
face, her eyes opened and met mine, warm emerald green.

“I love you,” she
whispered tracing my jaw. “And this beard,”

“More
than ice cream?”

“I don’t know if that
is something I should answer.” Sway tapped her finger to her nose lightly. “Ask
me again when I’m not pregnant.” She reached up with her hands to pull my face
back toward hers.

“Fair enough,” I
muttered, clutching her torso to mine.

Sway had dosed off
watching television, so I quietly watched her sleep. It felt so good to be home
with her, in my arms where she belonged, where I belonged. I took comfort in
knowing I only had three races remaining and I’d finally get a break. As it was,
I had to leave Wednesday morning and seeing how it was Monday night now, I was
getting anxious about the departure already. At least I had a few days with her
though, enough time to basically recharge myself for the end of the season. I
needed this.

Reaching for the laptop
beside the bed, I checked the NASCAR website and found yet another article
about me and my mission to success. It’s funny how quickly they wrote about the
rise and fall of what they called greatness to now the rise again, as though it
had never happened before in the sport.

October 28, 2003 –
SteelSpeed
News Charlotte NC

The talk of the racing community has been
Jameson Riley, or as some would say, Rowdy Riley. I caught up with him outside
Lernerville on Wednesday night before the Bass Pro Shops MBNA 500.

Jameson’s head was bent forward, his arms
folded over his chest. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this was just
some kid, or just another dirt track racer.

Only the JAR Racing suit and the signature
number nine combined with the familiar rowdy way stand told you otherwise.

The man next to him held clout at this
track couldn’t fly under the radar as well.

Jameson stood, nodding to everything his
legendary father was saying. And once again, some might think, “Here’s a kid that
daddy fed the way, footed the bill.”

The thing was, Jameson worked harder than
anyone to get to where he was now and there was no doubt he would be what he
set out to be.

Jameson drummed his fingers against a stack
of tires during the drivers meeting, uninterested in the conversation around
him and the fans surrounding them. He appreciated the fans but in reality, this
kid didn’t see himself as someone to be worshipped. He just wanted to race. You
see a guy like Jameson Riley wasn’t in it for the fame and never would be. He
was in it for his love for the sport. Although unavoidable at times, he shied
away. Avoiding eye contact with most everyone that night, it wasn’t from
intimidation as one might think. It was from vulnerability and his
indifference. He just wanted to race and that’s what people forgot when tragedy
stuck his family. And that’s how greatness emerged from a melancholy and
fatalistic view.

It always felt strange
to me reading articles about myself.

I checked my messages.
There were about ten from Alley, going over my schedule of appearances for the
next few weeks. A couple from Van letting me know he’d be back Thursday night,
I told him to take a few days off since I’d be with Sway. He needed it after
spending that much time around the girls.

Sway’s Bob Marley tank
top rose slightly when she moved, revealing the bulge of her stomach. I smiled
reaching down to touch it. I was utterly fixated on her baby bump these days,
knowing that was my son growing inside there. Sure enough, he kicked me back. I
knew he liked the sound of my voice so I maneuvered myself so my head was right
at her stomach.

I ran my hand back and
forth, tracing his kicks. The more I touched, the more he kicked me. It was
like a little game between us. I would press my hand to a certain spot and he’d
kick me.

Since I knew he liked
the sound of my voice, and I knew Sway did, I decided to sing to him. I didn’t
really choose any one song, just hummed a few different ones to him. As soon as
he heard the vibrations of my voice, his kicks stopped.

“What are you doing
down there?” Sway mumbled softly and stretched her arms above her head.

“Singing to the spaz,”
We shouldn’t really call our son a spaz, but he was one, an adorable one.

Sway sighed curling
into a ball beside me, bringing her knees up as much as she could with the bump
in the way.

“Are you hungry, do you
want some food?” I asked kissing her forehead, my hands still resting on the
baby.

As soon as I asked
that, her stomach began rumbling. “You shouldn’t have mentioned food.”

“I’ll get you anything
you want,” I kissed her again. “You name it and I’ll go get it.”

“I want those coconut
shrimp we had in Key West.”

“Okay
...
well
that will be a little harder to do.”

“Harder?” her tiny hand
slipped inside my jeans.

“If you distract me
...
I can’t go get you food.” I hinted but
really, I didn’t want her to stop.

I rolled over her so I
was between her legs, ready and willing.

And by the look of pure
sexual frustration on Sway’s face, she did too.

“Food?”
I suggested when her
stomach growled again.

“Yes,
food.”
She agreed and sat up when I felt the baby kicking against my stomach. “See, he
wants food too.”

“He’s not even here yet
and he’s already running our lives.” I teased rolling off the bed. “I shall
return with food, and then you have some ego stroking to do once again.”

“Yes,” Sway smiled.
“Ego stroking,”

The following day,
after food was delivered and egos were stroked, we once again had to take Sway
to the doctor. She went every few days now to check the baby’s progress and to
be sure she wasn’t dilating any further.

There we sat in the
waiting room of the doctor’s office. I had to fly out to Texas tomorrow so I
was spending as much time with Sway as possible even if it meant we were at the
doctor’s office.

Sway glanced through a
magazine I couldn’t see the cover to and I tried to figure out the woman next
to me. It was public office, about ten other patients waiting to be seen and
she is breastfeeding, I assume. If not, what the fuck? I don’t have anything against
breastfeeding and agree with it being best for the child but isn’t there an age
limit?

The child, definitely
not a baby, eventually pulled away and wiped his fucking chin. I’m not shitting
you either.

“Hi,” the child said to
me. “What’s your name?”

Don’t think I wasn’t
tempted to lie, ‘
cause
I was.

Sway nudged my ribs so
I felt the need to tell the truth.

“Jameson,” I said
politely.

His mother looked at
me, comprehension flashed. “Like as in Jameson Riley the race car driver?”

“Yes ma’am,”

“Wow,” she gasped
scrambling for words. “I’m Emily,” she pointed toward the boy. “That’s my son,
Ben.”

Trying to change the
subject away from me, I asked her, “How old is he?”

“Oh, he’s thirty-seven
months.” She informed me.

While I sat baffled
trying to figure out what thirty-seven months added up to, I decided to focus
on the bigger issue at hand and not my poor math skills. Why the fuck was she
still breastfeeding? Do women breastfeed that long? Alley didn’t. Would
Sway
breastfeed that long?

Thankfully, Dr. Sears
called Sway back so I politely excused myself. The ultrasound was entertaining.
Our flailing spaz didn’t disappoint. He was getting much bigger, and was
practicing his breathing, which Dr. Sears told us was a good sign. Sway was
measuring at twenty-four weeks, another eight weeks of bed rest.

Sway voiced her anger
rather loudly about being on bed rest which had Dr. Sears laughing, or feeling
sorry for me. I’m not really sure by his harried expression.

As we were exiting the
room, Emily was being escorted back to a room, carrying her thirty-seven month
old kid-baby on her hip.

“Bye Jameson, it was
nice to meet you,” she told me. “Can you say bye to Jameson?” she asked in baby
talk to this Ben kid-baby, who she held like a baby kangaroo and took the
pacifier out of his thirty-seven-month old mouth.

“Bye,” he said shyly,
and then nuzzled his head into Emily’s shoulder.

“What the hell was that
all about?” Sway asked as we got inside the car. “How old was that kid? He
looked eight-years old.”

“How long do women
usually breast feed for?”

Sway shrugged. “Fuck if
I know. I’m hungry.”

While we were making
our way home from the ultrasound, Sway was exceptionally horny. It took some herculean
self-restraint not to find a bathroom with her when her hand was running up and
down my thigh as we waited for Dr. Sears, we couldn’t keep our hands to
ourselves lately, probably because of the three week separation we just endured
and the fact that I was once again, leaving tomorrow for another three weeks.

Once we were on the
road, Sway unbuckled her seat belt to unzip my pants.

She moaned, fucking
moaned, when the unbuckled my belt. “I love the sound of your belt clanking.”
She looked up at me. “It reminds me of that first night in Charlotte.”

I smiled but was too
focused on what she was about to do to answer.

Reclining the seat back
slightly, I gave her more room to do her thing. I was all for a little micro
polishing. I do have to admit that it was rather difficult to concentrate on
driving with her mouth wrapped around me.

Although
that didn’t stop my
conscience from telling me this was a very bad idea. Because it was indeed a
very
bad idea to be doing this, but there I was with my pants unzipped and my
pregnant fiancée stretched across the center console of the car with her head
in my lap.

I cradled the back of
her head in my hand as she slid her mouth up and down. It wasn’t until I was
groaning and begging her to continue that I realized we were approaching town
with a restricted school zone.

“Not again,” I groaned
as I slowly brought the car to a stop. Sway chuckled softly at my sudden road
rage.

In the tiny of Elma,
population 3,049, you wouldn’t think it was possible to have a traffic jam,
every day, in the exact same spot, no matter what time of the day it was.

But alas, there I was
once again, a mere mile from the Elma Post Office and sitting in the bottleneck
thinking of how good this felt and how embarrassing it would be if we were
caught. Just as I was thinking I should have her stop, since we are in the
middle of town, she doubled her efforts causing me to throw my head against the
headrest and moan.

“Jesus
...
Sway
...
”
I groaned tangling my hands in her hair.

She laughed.

Traffic started moving
again so I decided to pull off W. Main Street and take E.
Waltrip
Road to avoid being caught by Sheriff Taylor. At least I thought I did.

As I started to get the
tightening in my stomach and any will I had to have her stop was now gone, I
noticed the buildings going by at an alarming rate. I was doing nearly ninety
miles an hour and
now
see flashing lights behind me.