Blain would understand.
William Black had stolen Becca’s team. Oh, sure, she still owned forty percent of it—in theory. But everyone in racing knew Mr. Black planned to wrest that away from her, too. He’d already started dropping hints about “consolidating” his two teams. Oh, no. Payback was a bitch and this bitch was about to slap Will Black in the face.
“Start ’em up.”
He didn’t plan to throw the race, he thought as he started his engine, the sound of the crowd audible even over the sudden roar of the motor. Oh, no. He’d just make damn sure Terry finished no better than sixteenth.
“They’re rolling off,” his spotter said.
Adam tightened his hand around the wheel. Terry’s yellow-and-white car sat three rows ahead of him. Son of a bitch had outqualified him. That had pissed him off so bad he’d almost lost his cool yesterday.
He’d calmed down now.
“Go, Dad!”
Lindsey’s voice. Adam queued the mic. “This one’s for you, buttercup.”
“Buttercup?” she said back, sounding like the teenager she would one day be. “Ugh. Don’t call me
buttercup.
”
“What would you like me to call you?”
“Princess of the Garage will do nicely.”
He bit back a laugh. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, turning his head to the side a bit when he passed his pit box. And there she was, Lindsey’s red hair visible even from beneath her ball cap.
“I’m proud of you, Dad,” she said as he drove by.
“Thanks, Princess of the Garage.”
He caught the tail end of her laughter. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ah, yes. There it was again: proof that his daughter was way too smart for her own good.
“Roger that,” he said, his car picking up speed as he shifted through the gears. But he wasn’t going to do anything illegal, per se. All he’d do was rattle Terry’s chain. Get his goat a bit—if he was given the chance. The rest was in God’s hands.
And Adam firmly believed God was on his side.
“Ready to go green,” his spotter said a few minutes later.
In the stands, sixty-five thousand people got to their feet and in the infield, people did the same. Adam could see the multicolored masses wave their hands, flags and anything else they happened to have, the effect as colorful as the Las Vegas marquee outside.
“Green flag. Go, go, go.”
Adam went, and there was no rush of adrenaline, no burst of sudden fear—just a calm sense of determination.
“Clear high,” the spotter said.
Adam hadn’t even realized he’d passed somebody. He had his eyes firmly planted on the back end of thirty-three, the yellow-and-white body flashing in and out of traffic. He didn’t hear the sound of the wind against the frame of his car. He didn’t feel the back end sliding out from under him, his car far looser than he’d like. He didn’t notice any of it. All he wanted to do was get to Terry’s car. Then they’d see what happened.
It took him less than twenty laps to do it.
His foot lifted off the gas, working the clutch and brake as they went into turns one and two. Should he take him out? Nah. He couldn’t do that. Terry Russell might be an arrogant prick who thought he was God’s gift to team owners, but Adam didn’t want to risk his life. No. What was needed was a good old-fashioned bumping and nudging. The kind that would piss him off and maybe destroy his concentration. Adam hoped.
So he closed in on his opponent, bringing his nose right up against his back end.
It was at that point that Adam realized he had a pretty good car.
“Damn,” he found himself saying to whomever was listening. “This is kind of fun.”
“You’re hotter than oil on a Victoria’s Secret model,” his crew chief said.
“Well, someone better tell this boy to get out of the way.”
He took his car closer to Terry’s back end, drafting him for a bit and then drifting to the right so the guy could see him.
“Hi,” Adam said, lifting his hand, but he didn’t open his mic. “Do you know me? I’m the guy who used to date the woman your boss screwed over. I know that’s not your fault, but I’m still pissed as hell and so I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”
Adam swung back up the track as they entered a turn, his head feeling as if it weighed a couple hundred pounds as he fought the Gs. His tires wanted to move right, and Adam had to jerk the wheel repeatedly to keep it behind the thirty-three.
Okay, so maybe he was a little tight. He could deal with that.
They shot out of the turn. Adam waited until they were just about through it before tapping Terry’s bumper.
Terry’s ass end broke loose.
Adam grinned. But the boy held on to it. That was okay because Adam was certain he’d caught his attention, and that he was pissed off real good. And Will Black. He hoped Black was up in his suite jumping around like Yosemite Sam.
He let his car get closer once again, drifting up the track to the right and taking the air of the thirty-three’s spoiler.
Terry almost lost control again.
Cool, Adam thought. This might be easier than he thought. And actually, Terry was playing right into his hands. He didn’t want to get out of the way and so Adam was perfectly within his rights to do whatever he could to get him to move. But the truth was he had a better car than Terry’s and if he had truly wanted to pass, he could have.
But he kept seeing the look on Becca’s face as she sat beneath that maple tree.
He backed off once again, but not before seeing the middle finger Terry waved at him. Oh, yeah, Adam could just hear it now.
That damn rookie came up behind me and drove me straight into the wall. I’m a championship contender. What the hell is he thinking?
I’m thinking of Becca Newman.
He drifted even farther back. But only for half a lap. He waited for the perfect moment before making a run on him—right as they entered turn three. They were the only two cars around, the front runners having long since pulled away, the nearest pack of cars ten car-lengths back. Perfect.
“Howdy,” Adam said as he ducked down low, alongside the white-and-yellow car in less than two seconds. Two more seconds and he was nearly in front of him. Five seconds later and he heard the word
Clear.
Time to move in front of him.
He let his car drift up the track, smoothly positioning himself in front of the thirty-three’s nose. But once there, he checked up a bit, not much, but enough that Terry would have to slow down, too.
“Get a good look,” he told him. “This is the last time you’ll see my ass end.”
Because he was done messing with the guy. His anger had faded. The rush of racing had soothed his inner demons. He was still pissed as hell at Mr. William Black, but he wouldn’t take it out on his driver anymore.
He put his foot into it.
Terry Russell stayed with him.
That was interesting. Maybe he’d lit a fire under the guy’s butt.
It became obvious that’s exactly what he’d done because as they approached turn one, Terry came right back at him, Adam’s spotter calmly reporting he was still there, Terry thrusting his nose into Adam’s rear bumper right as they entered the turn.
Adam felt his car begin to turn.
“Oh, you—” He fought it. Hand clenched, heart pounding, he fought for control, his backside fishtailing wildly, Terry blowing on by the right as they left turn two.
Tit for tat.
Score one off the little guy.
Mashing down the accelerator, Adam aimed for the thirty-three’s back bumper. But he didn’t have a good run on him thanks to nearly spinning out.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Adam clipped out. “But that guy’s going down.” Because even though Adam had started it, he didn’t like being passed. Not now. Not ever.
“We’ve received a warning from NASCAR to take it easy. That’s Terry Russell you’re battling with and he’s poised to win the championship.”
“I know exactly who he is,” Adam said, his eyes narrowed as he fought to catch up. “
And
who his owner is,” he emphasized. “If that’s not reason enough
not
to take it easy on him, I don’t know what is.”
“Adam,” his crew chief said gravely, “don’t do anything stupid.”
He pressed the mic button on the steering wheel and said, “I’m just gonna race him, Rob. That’s all.”
“I know. I know. But keep your nose clean.”
Five laps ago he might have said, “Roger,” to that comment, but that was before Russell tried to put him into the wall again, and the way he did it—not just checking up slightly as Adam had done earlier, but majorly stomping on the brake. Adam had nearly gone into the wall to avoid hitting him.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the yellow-and-white car. He willed himself to get closer, battling a car that was turning awful tight as the laps wore on.
“The twenty-one’s coming,” his spotter said.
Lance Cooper. In the back of his mind, Adam registered his teammate’s presence, but at the moment he was too intent on catching the thirty-three to worry about it.
Another lap passed. Then another. Until finally,
finally
he caught Terry at the exact spot he’d almost gone into the wall, and this time Adam didn’t check up as he entered the turn. This time he let his nose smash into Terry’s bumper.
Terry almost lost it.
“Payback’s a bitch,” Adam said as this time, he took the inside line.
But the guy managed to hold on to it.
Impressive,
Adam thought as they were suddenly side by side, the Plexiglas duct on Adam’s left side whistling angrily as air from Terry’s car hit the edges of it.
“Outside,” his spotter said calmly.
He fought to stay ahead.
“Still outside.”
Terry ducked his car down low. Adam heard metal grind against metal. He cursed, tried to duck right. Too tight. They collided again.
“Still outside.”
I know that!
Adam wanted to yell, but he was too damn busy trying to keep his car on the track. He moved down lower. The sound of screeching metal stopped just as they entered turn three.
And then Terry was gone.
“What happened?” But he hadn’t queued his mic and so it was a rhetorical question. He looked in his mirror just in time to see Terry hit the wall, Lance Cooper’s front end right about where Terry’s back end used to be.
“Did I do that?” Adam asked.
A second later his spotter said, “Yellow flag.”
“Did I do that?” Adam asked again.
“Negative,” his crew chief said. “Lance Cooper sent him into the wall.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THEY’D TAKEN TERRY OUT.
Becca stared at the TV screen, watching the replay of the wreck over and over again.
“That’s a real pity,” the announcers were saying. “Terry Russell needed to finish fifteenth or better in order to clinch the championship. Now he’ll be lucky to finish at all.”
They’d taken Terry out.
Or had they? Adam had been racing Terry Russell pretty hard, but he hadn’t done anything wrong until Russell had tried to send him into the wall. And Lance might have just gotten a good run on Terry, hit him in the back bumper by accident.
Yeah, right.
Damn it. She wished she were at the track. Wished she were listening in. She’d know for sure then if what she’d just seen was payback.
“Let’s watch it again,” one of the announcers said.
Becca leaned closer to the TV, the sole piece of furniture left in the nearly vacant house. There was Adam, ducking down low. And here came Lance.
Boom.
“That looked intentional,” one of the commentators said.
“Yeah, and we’re getting word now of some radio chatter that might confirm this was more than hard racing. Have we got that audio?”
“We’ve received a warning from NASCAR to take it easy. That’s Terry Russell you’re battling with and he’s poised to win the championship.”
“I know exactly who he is.
And
who his owner is. If that’s not reason enough
not
to take it easy on him, I don’t know what is.”
She clapped her hands to her face.
“My word,” the announcer said. “That makes it sound as if Adam Drake was on a mission.”
“Maybe he was,” said another announcer. “For those of you in the audience that don’t know, Adam Drake used to work for Becca Newman, owner of Newman Motorsports. Newman Motorsports was just taken over by BI Motorsports in what industry insiders call NASCAR’s first hostile takeover of another race team. It would appear Adam Drake took that takeover personally. Maybe even went after Terry Russell in retribution.”