“Not. One. More. Word,” he warned. “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us and I want peace and quiet the whole way.”
THEY MADE IT back to Kentucky in one piece, but Lindsey’s boring life in Louisville seemed to be even grimmer after the excitement of her trip to North Carolina. Not even telling her best friend Brandy all about her trip to Newman Motorsports—and watching her eyes bug out when she told her she’d gotten to meet Becca Newman—had helped ease her disappointment.
When she heard her dad answer the phone nearly two weeks later she’d been thinking about calling Becca Newman herself. She had her phone number. And Becca had said she could call anytime. Maybe if her dad talked to her—
“Ms. Newman, really, thanks again for everything…”
Ms. Newman?
“…but I really can’t.”
“Can’t?” Lindsey cried. “Can’t what? Is it really her?” she asked, hand outstretched toward the phone. “Can I talk to her?”
He frowned, shook his head, waved her away and said, “I appreciate the offer, however.”
Lindsey gasped. Becca Newman was trying to get him to North Carolina again. She was sure of it.
“I can stay with Brandy,” she hissed, bouncing up and down again. Her friend’s mom would only be too happy to do her dad a favor.
He shushed her with his hand again, shaking his head.
“I can’t, Ms. Newman. I really can’t,” he said. “But, again, I really thank you for the offer.”
Yes, he could. All he had to do was say yes. “Let me talk to her,” Lindsey said.
He shook his head again, but not at her, at something Becca must have said. “I’m sure Lindsey understands that sometimes adults have to put other priorities first.”
“No, I don’t,” Lindsey said, bouncing so hard on the linoleum floor that her father moved with her.
“Lindsey,” he hissed after covering the phone, giving her a stern look.
“But I
don’t
understand, Dad,” she said. “I don’t understand why you’re saying no to an opportunity that might end up changing our lives.” She grabbed his free hand, squeezing tight. “That might have a huge impact on our future. On
my
future. How can you turn your back on that? How can you just walk away from something that might end up allowing me to go to college?”
His eyebrow changed from slashes to straight lines. He looked like he might say something, but then he said, “What?”
Becca must have repeated what she said.
“That’s absurd.” And then, “
A thousand dollars?
Just to go down there?”
What was this? Lindsey thought. Was Becca Newman offering to pay her dad? Oooh, smart move on Ms. Newman’s part. Lindsey
knew
she liked that woman.
“Look, I appreciate the offer—”
Lindsey dove for the pile of bills her dad stashed near the phone. It didn’t take her but two seconds to find the one she was looking for, waving the Final Notice bill from ConEdison in front of her dad’s face.
“A thousand dollars,” she hissed.
Her dad closed his eyes. “The most I can do is promise to think about it.”
Holy crawdad! Promising to think about it was almost like saying yes, at least in her dad’s world. They couldn’t afford to say no, and her dad knew it.
Maybe her life wasn’t over after all.
CHAPTER THREE
TWO WEEKS LATER Adam found himself parked outside the Concord, North Carolina, racetrack, the Speedway’s grandstands stretching above him, intimidating even when viewed from the outside, their jagged edges framed by a partly cloudy sky.
Adam rested his hands against his truck’s steering wheel and stared up at those grandstands as if they might collapse should he be so bold as to approach.
He didn’t move.
From the other side of the twelve-story structure came the sound of a race truck roaring around the track. They’d already started.
He’d known they would have. Hell, the other drivers had all been bused here earlier in the day. Adam hadn’t wanted to leave Lindsey alone for any longer than necessary, so Becca had excused him from the pretest tour of the race shops and the briefings—those he’d received via mail. Frankly, she’d probably excused him because she really didn’t want him to show up. And why would she? They had plenty of qualified drivers to see that day. Rebecca Newman probably hadn’t even noticed his absence.
You’re a fool for wondering if she thought of you at all.
But he couldn’t deny the fact that she was part of the reason why he was here.
Face it, Adam—you’re plumb terrified.
His cell phone rang, causing him to jump. He glanced down at the caller ID, recognizing Lindsey’s best friend’s cell phone. He didn’t know why she’d asked for a cell phone when she always used her friend’s. But Lindsey was the other reason why he was here and so he answered.
Silence greeted his
hello
and then, “You don’t sound like you’re at the track.”
That little observation was undoubtedly the result of too many Saturdays spent out at the local speedway. “Actually, I’m sitting outside of the track,” Adam admitted. He felt like a kid caught sneaking out of school.
“Da-ad. It’s eleven o’clock. You should have been there three hours ago!”
“And you should be at school.”
“I’m at lunch.”
“And talking on the cell phone at school isn’t allowed.”
“I’m in the bathroom. Nobody can see me.”
“You still shouldn’t be—”
“Da-ad. Don’t change the subject. Why aren’t you at the track?”
“I got lost.”
“Sure you did,” she said, and in the background he heard the sound of a toilet flush.
“You really are in a bathroom.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“I got lost,” he repeated, suddenly feeling like the child in the relationship. The truth was he
had
gotten lost, but not enough to make him three hours late. He’d been driving around—thinking.
“You should have brought me along,” Lindsey said. “I’d have made sure you got there on time.”
“Lindsey, don’t start,” he said, his hand clutching the black steering wheel, the thing warming beneath the hot North Carolina sun. “I told you there was no way you were missing another day of school, not after your last trip down here. Consider this part of your punishment.”
“You just don’t want me there,” she said.
He didn’t. He couldn’t stand the thought of his little girl, the one who stared at him with hero worship in her eyes—most of the time, anyway—watching her dear old dad fall flat on his face.
“It’s better this way.”
She sighed. One of those you’re-so-wrong-even-if-you-don’t-know-it sighs. Adam realized he’d better stop her before this conversation spiraled into a complete role reversal.
“Lindsey, I’ve got to go. Obviously, I’m late.”
“Then why are you sitting outside the track?”
Because I’ve got stage fright.
“I’m waiting to go through security.” And now he was lying to his little girl.
“Oh,” she said. And when she spoke again Adam could hear the longing in her voice. “Good luck, Dad,” she said.
“Thanks, Lin.”
He started his truck again, his foot hovering over the accelerator. But in the end he realized he had no choice. He had to go through with it. As humiliating as it would be, if he didn’t try taking a lap or two Lindsey would be devastated. Plus, what kind of an example would it set if he chickened out? This was the opportunity of a lifetime—as she’d so aptly reminded him—and the fact that Lindsey had somehow managed to orchestrate it only made it all the more important.
He had to do it.
Dammit.
“WHERE IS HE?”
“Where’s who?” Cece Sanders asked, tipping her head back to peer up at Rebecca.
They sat on top of pit road wall, a clipboard with two built-in stopwatches across the top resting in Cece’s lap, a pen in her right hand. Becca thought Cece looked like part of the race team with her Sanders’ Racing baseball cap and white shirt, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Out on the track, last year’s runner up for the ARCA title did his best to impress Blain Sanders, Cece’s husband. And, of course, Becca herself, but much to Rebecca’s chagrin, she hardly paid attention.
“You’re waiting for
him,
aren’t you?”
Becca shrugged, wishing she had a clipboard and stopwatch so she could pretend interest in something else. Alas, she’d decided to let Cece keep the records that day.
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Rebecca admitted with a sigh.
Becca saw Cece bite back a smile before she turned away, her eyes kept in shadow thanks to the bill of her cap. A second later a blurry streak of red, white and blue crossed the start/finish line—a race truck Sanders’ Racing had built just for this tryout roaring around the track. She should be listening to the conversation between driver and crew: seeing how well the kid who drove articulated his truck’s performance, or if he sounded flustered or laid-back. Heck, seeing if he could talk and drive at all. Some drivers couldn’t, or just didn’t, and that was okay—but only to a point, because in the end it was a team effort that won you races, and you couldn’t have a team if there was no communication. So at the very least she should have a receiver plugged into one ear like Cece did. She
should,
but she didn’t. Instead she glanced toward the infield, scanning the cars that were parked between the garage and a nearby out-building, all the while wondering for the umpteenth time where he was.
“That was a good lap,” Cece said as the truck raced toward turn one. “Good enough to qualify fifth or so at last year’s Craftsman Truck race. Not that you care.” When Cece looked back the teasing smile was still in place.
Rebecca looked away, her gaze lighting on the crew members who stood a little farther down the wall. A square, green canopy over the tops of their head cast a Martian-like glow over their faces. Behind them, a bit farther down pit road, a tent had been erected, the ten or so drivers left to go stand around pretending to ignore the others. A few of them had family members with them, but for the most part it was a solemn group.
Becca’s gaze moved back to the pit crew. Blain Sanders pressed down on his headset, his lips moving as he spoke into the mic.
“What’s Blain saying?” Rebecca asked, trying to change the subject.
Cece huffed, the sound part snort, part chuckle. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Cece—”
“Admit it. You have the hots for that little girl’s daddy.”
“I do not,” Rebecca said. “Now stop. You’re stressing me out.”
“Well here’s something to add to that stress then. I just saw a truck exit the infield tunnel—”
“What? Where?” she asked, turning and peering through the twelve-foot-high, black, wrought iron fence that Becca always thought looked a bit out of place at a racetrack.
“Right there,” Cece said, pointing.
Becca turned. Sure enough, a truck headed toward the garage, the familiar white pickup looking as beaten and battered as the first day she’d seen it sitting in front of her house.
Adam.
Tingles spread through her body causing the ends of her fingers to vibrate.
He was here.
“You want to go greet him?” Cece asked with a teasing grin.
“No,”
Rebecca said, looking away.
“Fine. I will.”
“Cece—”
“Here,” Cece said, shoving the clipboard and pen in her direction, the cord that dangled from her ear swinging around. “I’m dying to meet the man, anyway.”
“But, Cece—”
“See you in a few.” And then her smile turned positively wicked. “With your boyfriend in tow.”
“He’s not—”
But Cece was already gone, trotting off with a quick wave and a smile. Rebecca flatly refused to watch her walk away.
“Drat that woman.” She should have never told her about her encounter with Adam Drake and his daughter. She should have told her friend that she’d heard about his driving through the grapevine. She should have just added his name to her list without any fanfare. But, no, she’d shot off her mouth and—
The race truck roared around turn three.
“Crap,” Rebecca said, fumbling with the clipboard in time to record the elapsed seconds on one digital clock and then immediately starting up the second. They had electronic timers on all the cars, but Cece liked to do it the old-fashioned way, too, just in case.
Concentrate, Rebecca. Don’t glance behind you. Don’t. Just focus on what you’re here to do.
So when she was done recording the lap time she forced herself to study the pages beneath the top score card. Of the drivers set to drive today, eight had already gone, leaving twelve to go, one of them Adam Drake. Four of the drivers had been pretty dismal, at least judging by their lap times and Cece’s scrawled notes. Three had been average. Only one looked good and that was the driver currently out on the track, one Sam Kennison, Rebecca saw, flipping back to the top page and studying the kid’s stats. Twenty. Blond hair and blue eyes. Cute, judging by the photos they’d taken earlier. And personable, judging by the Q& A they’d had him fill out. Gone were the days when all that mattered was a driver’s ability. Now you had to consider marketability and sex appeal, too.