“Hey, Lindsey,” John said when he saw her coming at him. The back of the hauler was lowered to the ground, her feet rattling the ramp she stepped so hard.
“Hey, John,” she said. “Becca still inside?”
“She is,” John said, giving her a curious look.
“I need to see her,” she said, stepping into the glow of the hauler, the interior light casting a glow around the back end of the big rig.
“Go on in,” John drawled, sounding more southern than her. “She’s in the lounge.”
“Thanks.”
Inside the hauler a couple more of the guys called out, smiling at her as they stowed transmissions, brake rotors and anything else they might have had out for use that night. Lindsey smiled back, but she kept moving straight ahead. No time for idle chitchat.
She didn’t even knock before opening the lounge’s door.
“Lindsey,” Becca cried.
She’d been crying.
Lindsey fought the urge to roll her eyes. “You. Are an idiot?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Becca looked away, and if Lindsey wasn’t mistaken, tears were building up on her lashes again. “It’s not what you think.”
“You love him, don’t you,” Lindsey said, though it wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Becca lifted her chin, her eyes glittering when she answered, “Yes.”
“Then tell him that,” Lindsey said, stepping farther into the room.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It
is
simple,” Lindsey said, shuffling forward another step. “The two of you are perfect for each other. You both love racing more than life itself. You both have this really annoying habit of telling me what to do. And you both think you’re right all the time when, in fact, you’re usually wrong. Like now.”
But all Becca did was smile a bit, a smile that disappeared as quickly as it’d come.
“I won’t put myself through it again,” she finally said, looking away.
“Through what?”
“Loving someone. Caring for them. Losing myself a little bit at a time.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lindsey cried. “You can’t force yourself out of love simply because it’s the easier choice.”
“Oh, yes, you can.”
“But that makes no sense. That’s like…that’s like…being in a car accident and being afraid to drive again.”
“Nonetheless, there are people who’ve done exactly that—never gotten in a car again.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Lindsey said, crossing her arms. “Name one.”
“Look, Lindsey, I’ve made my choice. I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too young to know what it feels like to be left behind.”
“No, I’m not,” Lindsey said, uncrossing her arms. “You think I didn’t cry over the loss of my mother?”
“That was different.”
“What was different about it? I had a mom. One who supposedly loved me. And then one day, I woke up and she was gone.”
“She chose to leave you.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel
better?
” Lindsey asked, suddenly angry. “You think just because your husband’s life was taken away that it’s different than what happened to me? At least you knew your husband loved you. My mom
chooses
not to love me. She
chooses
not to call me. She
chooses
not to have a darn thing to do with me and if you think I’m supposed to feel better about that because at least she didn’t
die,
you’re wrong.”
“Lindsey—”
“No,” Lindsey said, stomping her foot. “Don’t try and say something stupid like you know better than me about this stuff. Or how hard it is when someone dies. It’s hard on me, too. In fact, it sucks. But you want to know what sucks even more? This whole time I was thinking you were a better person than my mother, but you know what? You’re not. At least my mom had the guts to leave me for someone she thought she loved. Yeah, it hurt that she loved that guy more than she loved me. But I still
get
it. I don’t get how someone could be afraid to love my dad.”
“I never said that. And that’s not what this is about.”
“Yes, it is. And you don’t have to say you’re afraid. I
know
that’s what you are. But you know what? My daddy is the best man on earth, and if you’re too afraid to love him then forget it. You don’t deserve him.”
Turn Out the Lights…
By Rick Stevenson, Sports Editor
I know I’m not the only one out there saddened by the demise of single car race teams. I’ve heard from enough of you to know that, like you, I miss the days of one car teams doing their best to win the year-end championship, but then, I’ve never made a secret of my old-fashioned sentiments.
I am sad, however, to see Newman Motorsports swallowed up by BI Motorsports.
I truly thought that Becca Newman, as owner of one of the few remaining single car teams, was uniquely poised to survive the multicar conglomerates. I should have known better.
Turns out Becca Newman’s struggles have been far greater than anyone thought. Will Black, President and CEO of the often cursed Black, Inc. Motorsports, offered to merge with Newman Motorsports to “help them along,” or so we’re told. I hear differently.
I’m hearing rumors that BIM actually plans to oust Ms. Newman at its first opportunity, which is possible due to the unique nature of the merge. It’s not a partnership, folks. It’s an investment of capital funds, and that investment comes with the understanding that BIM will manage the funds—and the business.
One hopes this isn’t true, but since I’m not privy to the “legalities” of the deal, I have no way of knowing for sure. But one thing I do know: often what starts as a rumor turns out to be truth—at least in this industry.
PART FOUR
To err is human. But to err against another
human is just plain wrong.
—Anonymous
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’m fired?” Becca heard herself say, the words seeming to come from the other side of the room.
Will Black, the man who’d styled himself as merely “an investor,” gave her a look of false pity, one that completely missed the mark thanks to his beady black eyes. “We’re letting you go,” he said softly.
“But…you can’t do that.”
“Actually, he can,” Will’s attorney said, a thin, balding man with John Lennon glasses and a forehead that would make Frankenstein proud.
“As you know, Mr. Black owns controlling interest in the team. Technically, he can do whatever he wants, including firing you for gross negligence.”
“Gross negligence,” Becca asked, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”
“You released Adam Drake,” Cross answered. “A driver who had enormous potential and whom Mr. Black had high hopes of grooming to be his team’s next star.”
“
His
team,” Becca said, still looking at Will. “This isn’t
his
team,” Becca said, standing. Her black, knee-length skirt rode up her thighs, but she didn’t care. “This was
my
team. You’re lending me money as a partner. As a friend. Not as my boss.”
“Becca,” Will said softly, “you must admit your decision was a poor one.”
She could tell he was trying hard to pretend he felt bad about all this. But she knew better. She saw the spark in his eyes, one that he couldn’t quite hide. Self-satisfaction. Greed. It hung on his face like the Grim Reaper’s grimace.
“Perhaps, but it’s my decision.”
“Actually, we feel differently,” Cross said.
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“Ms. Newman, we don’t want this to get ugly, but we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to enforce our position.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“By having you forcibly removed, if need be,” Mr. Cross said. “And then using the courts to enforce our position.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Actually, we can,” Cross said. “But feel free to fight us…in a court of law.”
“You know I can’t afford that.”
Mr. Cross shrugged. Will Black looked anywhere but at her.
And the truth hit Becca like a slap in the face.
“You meant to do this from the very beginning, didn’t you?” Becca asked. “When you came to me all those weeks ago, this is what you were planning.”
“Of course not,” he said, sitting up straighter at the same time he tugged his jacket over his stomach. “You know how much I care for you.”
“Don’t hand me that bull. You don’t care about anybody but yourself. The Chase for the year-end championship is almost over. You’ve got only four races left to get your driver to the top and you’ll do it by whatever means possible.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me you don’t plan on immediately removing and replacing my new Cup driver, and that you didn’t plan this all along as a way of giving yourself an edge over the competition once The Chase started.”
“Well, that’s a given,” William said. “I have to do what’s best for BI Motorsports.”
“And what about what’s best for
me?
” she asked.
“This is business, Becca. Nothing more,” Will said.
“Oh, yeah? So now that I’ve been fired, how will I pay you back? That seems like a poor business move.”
And then a sudden thought hit her, one that had her reeling. “Wait a second. You’re going to start dismantling
all
my teams, aren’t you?” She leaned against her desk, voice lowered. “I’ll make no money that way. No winners’ purses. No souvenir sales. That’s what you planned all along, isn’t it? Get her to sign over controlling interest of the team and then shut her down.”
“Becca—”
“And as an added bonus you’d then have another driver out there to help you win The Chase. Someone who’ll run interference if your Cup driver gets in a tight spot. Someone to draft with. Someone to scuff tires. You’re all set. You’ve got the cars already built and the driver set to go, now all you need is to get me out of the way.”
“That’s not how it is,” Mr. Cross said.
“Yes, it is,” she said, leaning back and shaking her head, her dark gray suit coat pulling against her shoulders. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that’s
exactly
how it is. I’m just disgusted with myself that I didn’t see it coming. ‘I want to help you,’” she mimicked Will Black. “‘We’ll be a team.’” She curled her lip. “I should have known better. Immoral assholes like you are rampant in the industry.”
“Ms. Newman,” Mr. Cross said. “There’s no reason to start calling anyone names. You have no evidence my client has plans to dismantle your teams—”
“
Names?
If I were calling him
names,
I’d tell him he’s the biggest rat-faced liar that ever walked the earth.”
“Becca,” Will said, sounding aghast. But she didn’t buy it. He wasn’t surprised. He’d done exactly as she accused. And he was a
bad
actor.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen,” she said softly, the word “gentlemen” drawled out for effect. “I won’t cause a scene. I’ll leave quickly and quietly, just like you want, but this isn’t over.”
“We don’t expect you to go,” the attorney said. “We’re prepared to offer you a job on the administrative side of things.”
“Doing what? Typing payroll checks? I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Will said again, but he sounded like a teenager trying to convince a parent not to leave him alone for the night.
She leaned across her desk again. “Yes, I do, and you know it. Just like you and I both know the truth about what went down here.”
“You can still be involved with the team,” Will said. “You’re still a part of Newman Motorsports.”
“Right,” she said, straightening her own suit before taking out her keys. “My lawyers will be in touch.”
She slammed the door, getting down the hall on pure anger, anger and the sickening lump in her stomach that made her want to puke.
But one look at Sylvia’s face and all her bravado faded.
“Ms. Newman,” she said, tears in her eyes.
“You know?”
“It was in Rick Stevenson’s column this morning,” she explained, her eyes growing red around the edges as she fought back tears. “I didn’t think it was true, but then they showed up and I heard you yelling and—”
“It turned out to be true,” Becca finished for her.
Sylvia nodded, then got up from her desk saying, “Ms. Newman—”
“No, don’t,” Becca said, holding out a hand. “There’s no need to cry. I’ll be back.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so,” Becca said.
Only she didn’t.
She didn’t know that at all, she thought, trying to stifle a quick burst of panic.