Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (67 page)

A few minutes later,
I’m sure you know who to thank for this but we were all in the back of the
patrol car as the cops did backgrounds checks or whatever it was that they do.

Next to us sat a kid, I
assumed, who could pass for Eminem’s brother.

Just so you know,
because it’s not at all comfortable, if you crammed four male adults into the
back of a squad car, you are practically sitting on each other’s laps.

“Where
you
headin
’ Slim Shady?”
Spencer asked him
eventually when it was obvious we were going to be back here for a little
while.

“Spencer,” I said
pleadingly looking over at the kid between us. “I’m sorry. He was dropped on
his head as a child. He’s mentally retarded.”

I frequently found
myself having to make excuses for Spencer’s behavior. And I wasn’t surprised at
all this was the second time, tonight, that I’d told someone he was mentally
retarded.

Tommy started laughing on
the other side of Spencer to the point where I actually thought he was crying.
Complete one-eighty from his previous lazy ass. Being arrested does things to
people though.

“Oh come on, I wouldn’t
say that,” Spencer jumped in glaring at Tommy and then focused on me again.

“I would.”

“Well, being classified
as retarded, no, I don’t think so. That is a very serious mental disorder. It’s
not something to just throw out there. You shouldn’t make fun of people with
that disorder. They had no control over it.
Like crabs.
There’s no controlling that shit.”

“What?”

“Retardation, Jameson.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please try to follow the conversation for once. You get
distracted way too easily and I’m left trying to explain things to you.”

Ignoring him, I focused
on the kid again. I wasn’t entirely serious when I asked my next question, but
I asked anyways.

“What are you back here
for?” I asked nonchalantly, trying to hide my fear of my dad murdering me for
being arrested again by picking at the hole in my jeans.

“Murder I suppose. I
killed my brother,” He said, looking directly at me and then to Spencer as a
sly grin tugged at his chapped lips.

It was right about then
I notice blood on his army green jacket.

“Nice. I was
contemplating killing mine,” I told him as coolly as I could, still picking my
jeans.
“Any pointers?”

I could see Spencer
slowly shimmying away from the kid out of the corner of my eye. This amused me.

Tommy, well, he looked
like his face was brighter than his hair.

The kid glanced at
Spencer and then me. “Yeah, don’t get caught.”

“Anything
else?”
I don’t know why I was instigating this conversation further but the look of
pure shook on Spencer’s face had something to do with it.

“Nope.
Just don’t get
caught,” he said still gauging my reaction.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded
praying he was full of shit and judging by the blood on his jacket, knowing he
wasn’t. I didn’t know if I really wanted to know anymore but again, the look on
Spencer’s face drove me. “So, how’d you kill your brother?” I asked looking
past him and toward Spencer with a scowl. “I really do need pointers.”

“With a crowbar,” he
replied undeterred by Spencer’s sudden onset of screaming.

I was not prepared for
that
response. Neither was Spencer.

What kind of sick
bastard beats their brother to death with a goddamn crowbar?

What happened next was
worth being back there with that crazy bastard though.

“Get us the fuck out of
here!” Spencer wailed climbing on Tommy’s lap and pounding his fists against
the door. It was almost like the transformation of the Incredible Hulk or some
other super hero transformation. “Let us out!”

Though I was still
shocked they would put us in the backseat of a patrol car with a murderer, I
was entertained by Spencer’s reaction.

Another ten minutes of
this, the cops finally returned and removed us from the backseat leaving Slim
Shady alone.

“I see you all have
fairly
clean records,” cop one said looking between the two of us. “So you’re free to
go
...
but would it be
possible to get an autograph and a picture with you, Jameson?”

Spencer snorted. “Fuck
you!” he turned toward me. “After that bullshit, I don’t fucking think so. Come
on Jameson.”

I laughed at him and
signed the back of the cops ticket book, posing for a picture while Spencer
stood alongside the curb, fuming. I think Tommy was a little frazzled to speak.
He just kind of dazed out.

Once back inside the
car, Spencer was still ranting about how fucked up that was. “Can you believe
that shit?” he asked looking over at me.

“It was entirely your
fault.” I proclaimed pulling into traffic once again. “Next time, shut the fuck
up when I tell you to.”

I refused to speak to
Spencer the rest of the way back to Elma and once we got back to
Sway’s
house, I locked him and Tommy out.

“So,” Sway asked when I
was crawling into bed with her. “How did it go?”

“I don’t want to talk
about the rather mortifying experience of the downtown Tacoma strip club
Spencer dragged us to and then almost getting arrested.
Yep
, just
telling that small portion of it has me angry already so we will be avoiding
the whole topic from this moment forward.”

“Got it,” she giggled
snuggling into my arms.

“Nope, you don’t get to
giggle in this matter.” I told her, rolling over, I pinned her to the mattress.
“It was horrible. No laughing or giggling
...
or
snorting
...
no sounds.” I growled
against her neck.

She giggled a couple
more times but eventually stopped when her eyes locked on mine, all teasing was
now gone. We stared at each other for what seemed forever when her hand rose
tracing the curve of my lips and then along my jaw.

“Are we really getting
married in two days?” she asked softly, her eyes searching mine for
confirmation.

I pulled her against my
chest. “Yes.” I whispered against her forehead.

“It’s about fucking
time.”

“I couldn’t have said
it better myself, honey.”

Over the past six
months, there were times I thought we would never make it to this point, but
against all odds, we were here.

When Sway flew out to
see me in Charlotte, I had no idea it would lead to her marrying me at the end
of the season
but
here we were. I honestly never thought she would
consider friends with benefits let alone wanting more from me but she did.

I squeezed her tightly,
whispering once again that I loved her.

From the moment I
decided that I wanted to be a race car driver, I never thought I could have it
all. I thought it was racing
or
everything else, not the two together.
But over time, I realized that wasn’t the case. I realized that with balance, I
could have both. I
wanted
both.

“Did you finish your
vows?” Sway asked suddenly propping herself up on her elbows.

“Uh
...
maybe,” I hadn’t finished them but I
would.

“
Ohhh
...
Emma is gonna kill you.”

“Did you finish yours?”
I challenged.

She shrugged without
answering and
laid
down beside me again.

“Did you ever think
when you flew out to see me
...
it’d
lead to this?” I kissed her ring.

“No
...
I blame
Purple Rain
. It messed
with my rationalization skills. Now look at me
...
I’m carrying around a flailing spaz and getting ready to
marry his dirty heathen father.”

“I knew you’d give into
me eventually.” I added.

“And
once again, so modest.”

22.
                    
Flywheel
– Sway

Flywheel – A heavy
metal rotating wheel that is part of the race car’s clutch system, used to keep
elements such as the camshaft turning steadily.

The day before the
wedding was a little crazy. It seemed my waiting to the last minute for
everything back fired on me.

First Jameson and I
moved into our new house on Summit Lake, and second I had a doctor’s
appointment where I basically told my doctor I was having sex on my wedding
night.

I waited until after
the ultrasound where he told me the reason for my heartburn might be because my
kid was sporting an insane amount of hair, just like his father. But once he
was done with that, I pitched my speech.

It was only mildly
humiliating to be arguing with my doctor while his head was between my legs but
I was determined.

“Sway,” I could tell by
his tone he was preparing me for the let down. “I just—”

“
Please
Dr.
Sears
...
it’s my wedding night.”
I jumped in before he could say no. “It’s tradition that my husband would want
to deflower me.” I told him with an expression that I had perfected over the
years for persuading people, particularly men. It worked on Charlie and
Jameson, why not my doctor?

“Deflower?” he snorted.
“You’re kidding, right?” he laughed making some notes on my chart. “You do
realize you’re eight months pregnant. I’m pretty sure the “deflower” took place
a while ago.”

“Not really the point
here.” I argued propping myself up on my elbows. I had to do something to
convince him this was in fact a
good
idea—so I did what any sane woman
does to get her way.

I cried.

I was desperate and I
needed a good romp.

“I can only handle so
much porting of the heads?”

Dr. Sears looked over
at me with a curious expression. “Porting of the heads?”

“It’s a process of
bringing the engine to the highest level of efficiency to produce optimal power
output. This reciprocating motion is
killing
me!”

“Reciprocating motion
...
?”

“It’s like length
stroking and—”

“That’s okay,” He
quickly said. “I get it.”

After a good ten
minutes of excruciating silence, he finally said, “Okay,” and then sighed.
“Just be
careful
, nothing crazy.”

I had to giggle. “I’m
not looking to do any press forging. I just want some romp time with my
heathen.”

Dr. Sears ignored me
altogether. “You still have two more weeks until this baby is safe to be born.
I would really like to see you make it to thirty six weeks but I doubt that’s
going to happen.” He gave me the same look Charlie gave me when I was sent home
from school early in the seventh grade because I called my teacher a “cunt” for
not letting me sit next to Jameson during an assembly.

“Between you—and this
baby wanting out of you—it’d be a miracle if you make it to the end of
January.”

I wanted my little
adorable flailing spaz to be healthy,
but
I also wanted him out of my
body. Thank baby Jesus I wasn’t an elephant. Those poor creatures were pregnant
for almost two years.

“Now what about dancing?”
I asked as though I was preparing for a presidential debate. I’m surprised I
didn’t have note cards in front of me.

He laughed as I
suspected he would. “You can dance but again, nothing crazy.”

After that, I felt good
about that appointment.

When I got back to
Charlie’s house to finish packing clothes for our drive to Vegas after the
wedding, Emma was waiting for me.

“I have a great idea,”
she chimed as I walked back into my bedroom.

“Really?
Let me guess
...
you’ve decided to join the circus?”

She completely ignored
me. “I think we should get
vajazzled
again before the
wedding.”

Now as much as I
enjoyed the
blinged
out girly pad, I did not enjoy
getting my beaver pelt ripped out by that tiny Asian woman who laughed every
time I screamed out in pain.

But against all
good,
and reasonable judgment, I let Emma convince me to get
vajazzled
again.

Who doesn’t want their
crankcase to sparkle?
Especially when she was on the pole for
the next race.

I decided I wouldn’t
reveal my newfound freedom with the dirty heathen until our wedding night,
along with my
blinged
out girly pad. Just saying the
words
wedding night
had me squealing like a four-year old at her first
slumber party.