“That might be true,” Adam said, blinking against the glare of the overhead lights that arched off the front windshield. It got more and more difficult to see as the race wore on, sludge from the track spotting the windshield.
“They’re actually talking about how you look like you might lead the race.”
“Might? There ain’t no
might
about it.”
Because just like he had a hundred times at his local short track, Adam shot his truck down to the inside, the nose edging up to the back end of the vehicle in front of him. Closer and closer he drew, up to the guy’s quarter panel, then the doorjamb.
“Outside high,” Brian said, indicating the guy was still there.
“Damn it,” Adam muttered.
“What’s the matter?” John asked.
“Can’t get ’em.”
“Well there’re plenty of laps left to do that. Just hang tight, driver.”
Adam did as asked, hoping that an early race caution might help him gain positions. It didn’t. He went back out right where he was before, and after the restart, he realized the other truck had gotten better.
Crap.
He wanted to win so bad—for Lindsey’s sake, and Becca’s—and so with every lap that passed he analyzed the driver in front of him, looking for holes, maybe a weakness. Was he loose off the corner? Tight going in? And if he was, could he capitalize upon the flaw?
“Yellow flag,” his spotter said. “Go low. Low, low, low.”
Smoke billowed up in front of him. Adam resisted the urge to close his eyes as he dove into the bulbous white cloud. To his right he caught a glimpse of something moving fast.
“Shit,” he muttered, ducking the wheel left.
They almost collided. The truck behind him wasn’t so lucky, Adam glancing in his rearview mirror in time to see the impact.
“Watch for debris,” his spotter said.
Boom.
Adam gasped as his truck lurched forward. “What the—”
He checked his rearview mirror. Jason Ingle lifted a hand, perhaps in apology for the hit, although Adam somehow doubted it.
Damn it. “Where’d he come from?”
“He got better after that last caution. Worked his way through the field,” John said.
Great.
Just ignore him.
Boom!
“Son of a—” Okay, that did it. Once could be excused But not now. He cued his mic. “Somebody better tell that jerk to back off,” Adam said.
“Stay calm, driver,” John said. “We saw that. He’s just trying to rattle your cage. Jason’s known for that.”
“He’s gonna get his own cage rattled if he doesn’t watch it.”
Another glimpse out of the rearview mirror showed Jason backing off only to surge forward again.
There was no place for Adam to go, what with the leader still in front of him, so he swerved the truck right. The next “tap” almost pitched him sideways.
“That does it,” Adam muttered, hands clenching around the steering wheel as he prepared to turn it—right into Jason’s side.
“Adam,” Becca said in warning. “Don’t you dare.”
His foot froze above the brake.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“JUST STAY CALM,” Becca said. “I’m about to give him a warning, and in another minute, I bet NASCAR will, as well.”
“Somebody better warn him to back off,” she heard Adam say, and he sounded pissed as hell.
Becca watched him from high atop her race truck’s hauler, her heart pounding as she watched Jason Ingle—her own frickin’ driver—go after Adam.
“Just stay calm,” she said, wincing as Jason raced forward again. He hit Adam with enough force that the truck lurched forward.
“That little—”
Becca echoed her driver’s words, just before she switched frequencies on her radio. “NASCAR, this is Becca Newman. Number twenty-six doesn’t seem to want to stop rear-ending my truck.”
“Roger that,” an official said. “We’re on it.”
“I’m gonna pound the bastard’s face in,” Adam said.
“NASCAR’s on it,” Becca said.
“I mean it, Becca. Someone better tell him to stop or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Pits’re open,” his spotter said.
Thank God. Adam sounded like he was on the verge of losing it. Not that she blamed him. What Jason did was wrong—not that it was unheard of, but NASCAR wouldn’t tolerate it and neither should Adam. But what pissed her off the most was that Jason drove for
her.
Sure, he might be in someone else’s truck tonight, and he might know he was on his way out—after trying to lip-lock her not too long ago he
should
be out—but that didn’t give him the right to beat up her equipment.
Adam tried to lip-lock you, too.
That was different,
she told herself.
Oh, yeah?
“Watch your RPMs,” John said.
Jason backed off, NASCAR’s warning apparently having worked. Or maybe it was just that they were about to pit. Whatever the reason, Becca suddenly began to feel sick. This could get bad. With Jason starting right behind Adam, all it would take was one more tap and Adam would be in the wall.
Stop it.
This was Bristol. And while the wrecks here could be spectacular, they wouldn’t be at the same speeds as, say, Talladega.
You can’t afford to lose such a good truck.
She knew that. Just as she knew it was out of her hands. Still, she closed her eyes. Gripped the edge of the aluminum balcony.
“That’s it,” she heard John say, his voice seeming to come from a distance. “3,500 RPMs. We’re right after the ‘Carpet Direct’ pit stall. That’s the number ten truck. Here you come. Three…two…turn, turn, turn.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump
went her heart.
She couldn’t stand it. She was going to have a heart attack. She needed to get off the roof of the truck and down to pit road where she’d feel better.
“What the—?”
Becca froze.
“I’m going to kill that rat-faced bastard.”
She whipped her gaze around, finding her pit box, but it was empty. She looked toward pit road.
There he was. Sideways, the nose of her truck pushed up against the pit road’s wall. Jason Ingle’s truck sped away.
“What happened?” she asked, her hand shaking as she clutched one side of her headphones.
“That son of a bitch ran into me, that’s what happened!”
“Are you okay?” John asked.
“No. I’m not okay. I’m pissed as hell.”
“Are you injured?” John clarified.
“My truck’s injured, but I’m okay.”
Becca felt her body relax, but only for a second. Her heart began to pound again.
Not the truck. Not her
best damn truck.
She’d kill Jason Ingle herself.
He’d ruined her equipment. Not to mention, the lowlife could have
hurt
Adam.
“Do you need to come into the garage?” John asked.
“I don’t think so.” She heard the sound of the engine firing for a split second. A puff of smoke came out of the back.
“Front end’s messed up,” he said, backing up.
“How’re your gauges?”
“All fine,” Adam said.
“Water pressure?”
“Radiator’s fine. Front end feels toed out,” Adam said, Becca hearing him shift through the gears as he exited pit road. Beams of light from the overhead fixtures reflected on and then off his rooftop, making the sheet metal glisten.
“You think it’ll drive?”
“Oh, it’ll drive, but I’m gonna drop back faster than an elephant in a horse race.”
“Ten-four,” John said. “Just do your best.”
Becca darted off the balcony, taking the steps three at a time. She arrived inside her hauler just in time to see the replay.
“I can’t believe it,” David, a shock specialist, said, one ear covered by his radio, the other exposed so he could listen to the TV announcer. “He ran right into him,” he said, bunching his fist at the TV screen as if he could reach inside and hit Jason in the face.
“It was Jason’s fault?” Becca asked, pulling the left earphone away to listen to David’s words. The network went back to a live shot of the race. John had the crew working on Adam’s truck, trying to get it back out there.
“Yeah, it was Jason’s fault,” he said. “Adam was clear of him by a mile. Jason sped up and ran right into him.”
“Crap,” Becca said, dropping the earpiece back in place.
It seemed like it took forever to get the truck ready to race again, Becca watching the repairs from pit road. Her crew ran around, trying their best to pull out the twisted sheet metal, angry faces echoing how she felt.
“Go, go, go,” John said a good five minutes later.
She queued her mic. “Adam, you better behave out there. I know Jason deserves to be punted, but let NASCAR take care of that.”
“I won’t give him anything he doesn’t deserve,” Adam said ominously.
“Adam—” she warned, her anxiety suddenly returning tenfold.
She moved to the toolbox that sat in front of the pit wall. On the TV monitor that was set into the box, Adam brought the truck up to speed, his smashed front end looking like a tin can that’d been kicked one too many times. Fortunately this was Bristol, one of the few places where aerodynamics didn’t really matter. But Jason’s truck had hardly a scratch on it, and that just wasn’t right.
Jerk.
Becca wiped a stray lock of hair away from her face, her hands still shaking so badly she hoped David didn’t notice.
“You should fire his sorry ass,” David said, dipping toward her so he could be heard. “He’s been a pain in the ass for months now. Really, Ms. Newman, nobody would blame you. We’re all tired of him bad-mouthing us. He seems to think his inability to drive a Cup car is everyone’s fault but his own.”
And she was tired of being the employer of one of racing’s worst bad boys.
Out on the track, Adam’s truck picked up speed. So did Becca’s heart. Becca wondered if maybe she should start on over to the NASCAR trailer. Might as well give herself a head start, since she was almost certain she’d be summoned there soon.
“You’re ten laps down,” John reported.
Damn it. Ten laps. Impossible to win a race from that many down, especially when it became patently obvious Adam wouldn’t be as fast as the other trucks. She watched as he dropped to the inside, swerving low as the front runners came up on him—including Jason.
She tensed. Adam dropped even lower. Jason came up on him. Adam let him pass.
Or so she thought.
A split second before Jason cleared Adam’s truck, Adam swerved, cleanly and skillfully nosing Jason in the rear quarter panel.
“Yee-hah,” David screamed as Jason’s truck collided with the safety wall, the back end collapsing like an accordion. Other cars whipped by, but everyone managed to avoid Jason and Adam.
“Way to go,” David added.
Adam’s truck had spun out, too, Becca gasping as, on TV, her race truck stalled in the middle of turn three. Another truck hurtled right by it.
Becca couldn’t look away. She was breathing so heavily now she’d begun to feel light-headed.
“Oooh,” David said. “That was close.”
“My apologies to the twenty-six truck,” she heard Adam say as the other cars drove by. “Something must be broken in my front end for it to lurch to the right like that.”
David snorted, then said, “You know, I think I like this new driver.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Becca muttered.
David turned toward her. “You okay, Ms. Newman?”
No, she was very definitely
not
okay.
“Tell Adam to come see me after the race.” She turned away.
“Ms. Newman?” David called after her.
But Becca was gone and sprinting toward the bathroom, because she really
was
going to be sick.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.”
Becca looked up at him like he’d just told her going to the moon had been an accident, too.
They stood at the end of the long aisle that ran up the middle of the big rig, fluorescent fixtures casting white light over them. Outside the stands slowly emptied of fans, although a few diehards stuck around—some to watch the infield empty, many waiting for pit road to open so they could go down and get autographs.
“Somehow,” Becca said, her voice sounding tired, “I doubt NASCAR will see it that way.”