On the Move (2 page)

“What was that all about?” Jon, his mechanic, asked, pausing in the middle of the aisle that ran up the length of the hauler. He stopped before a cabinet full of drawers, opened one up and began to fish through it.

“Nothing,” Brandon said, shaking his head.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” Jon might be six foot one, big, burly and covered with tattoos, but he wasn’t dumb. “You bucking the system again?”

“What of it?” Brandon asked, turning his attention to a race card someone had left on the counter. It was a picture of him standing next to his bike. A Hog on steroids, that’s what he called his bike with its two-hundred-horsepower engine, fat tires and spiderlike wheelie bars jutting out from behind. The thing topped out at over one hundred and eighty miles per hour, and the feel of it between his legs gave him a rush unlike any other. Okay, maybe there was one other thing that was better.

“Look,” Jon said, whatever he was looking for apparently forgotten, “I know you’re used to doing as you please. But after everything that’s been going on, are you sure thumbing your nose at your new boss is wise?”

Obviously, Jon was worried about his next paycheck. Brandon didn’t blame him. If Brandon didn’t start making some serious money, then his hobby racing bikes would disappear like tire smoke at a starting line.

“Don’t worry about it, Jon. I’ve got it handled.”

Jon flicked his chin up. “Yeah, sounded like it.”

But Brandon just shrugged. What could he do? He needed to race. He needed to win the damn purse money, but nobody knew how perilous his financial situation had become. And nobody
would
know. Sure, if he raced, his new boss—Mathew Knight—might get torqued, but he’d get over it. Owners always did.

He glanced out the sliding doors, but he couldn’t see Vicky
or
his bike from where he stood.

Gone. Good.

He turned back to his lead mechanic, not because he wanted to talk to him, but because he’d spotted some race fans who looked as if they wanted his autograph. They hung out near the back of his hauler, autograph books plainly in sight, one of them raising a hand to his eyes and leaning forward as if trying to peer through the tinted glass. He wasn’t in the mood to sign anything, although he supposed he should be grateful for the few fans he had left.

Stop it, Brandon. Your career hasn’t sunk that far yet.

Yeah, the latest headlines had made him look bad. But it’d all blown over. And now he’d found a new job—driving stock cars in the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series—and so his name would soon be front-page news again. Money would start rolling in. Things would get back to normal.

He hoped.

“Troy Goodman told me he thought he saw your dad floating around here earlier,” Jon said.

Brandon felt his spine snap erect. “When?”

“About an hour ago.”

He forced his vertebrae to relax. “So? He knows better than to come around here.”

Jon gave him a look. Not surprising. The feud with his father was well-known. Dear old dad had a mouth about as big as his gut. He also had a habit of showing up at the worst possible moment. That’s all Brandon needed right now—someone else chiming in about how he shouldn’t do this or shouldn’t do that.

Damn it.

“You want me to start with the 05-sized jets,” Jon asked in a very obvious attempt to change the subject.

“Use the 05s. Or maybe the 06s,” Brandon said, turning away and leaving the hauler. He needed some fresh air.

“Mr. Burke, can I have your autograph?” one of the waiting fans immediately asked.

“Sure,” Brandon said, forcing a smile. He couldn’t afford to alienate what few fans he had left.

“Thanks,” the guy said. A good-looking woman with blond hair and a lanky frame sidled up to have her book signed next. Brandon felt his mood improve.

“You want to take a picture with me and my bike?” Brandon asked, pointing over his shoulder to where his bike waited.

“Sure,” she said.

“What bike?” the guy, maybe her boyfriend, asked.

“You have a camera?” Brandon asked, ignoring him.

“Yeah,” the blonde said excitedly. “In my purse.”

“What bike?” the guy commented again.

“The one over there,” Brandon said impatiently. No wonder blondie here was making eyes at him. Obviously her boyfriend was a few cans short of a six-pack.

Brandon glanced toward his bike.

It was gone.

“Trust me, honey,” one of the four men said. He was a tall, lanky guy with a shock of red hair and freckles all over his face. “It’ll fit. You just need to make sure no one’s inside.”

But Vicky
still
wasn’t certain this was a good idea. When she’d spied Brandon’s bike sitting on its rollerized jack stand, unattended, she’d reacted without thought. Only as she’d pushed the thing away had she begun to realize she’d bitten off more than she could chew.

Thank god someone had offered to help. Actually, several someones. Crew members in short-sleeved, dark blue tops with the name of one of the armed services emblazoned across the front had come to her rescue. At first she’d thought they were really from the armed services, but the many multicolored sponsorship patches on their shoulders and shirtsleeves had dispelled that notion. They’d asked what she was doing and Vicky had said without thinking, “Pulling a prank.” They’d bought it, especially after she’d shown them her business card and explained that she worked for Brandon’s agent.

“Let me go see if anyone’s inside,” she said reluctantly. She glanced back in the direction they’d come, but there was no sign of an irate Brandon bearing down on them. Not that she had a clear view. They’d traversed the length of the garage, numerous car trailers, pedestrians and outbuildings blocking Brandon’s rig from her line of sight. But it wouldn’t be hard for him to follow. All he’d have to do was ask which direction a girl and a drag bike had gone.

Maybe you should bring the bike back.

And maybe I shouldn’t,
a little voice answered. The man deserved to be thwarted, she thought, pushing on the heavy door that led into the restroom.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing off the concrete interior. “Anybody here?”

A toilet flushed. A woman wearing a white T-shirt and enough makeup to spackle a Roman colosseum emerged from a stall. “You looking for someone, honey?” she asked, her big hair and equally large breasts causing Vicky to step back.

“Um, no. I was just checking to see if the bathroom was empty.”

The woman nodded, but not before giving her a puzzled stare. Vicky just stood there, half hoping someone else would come in so she could go back outside and tell the guys this wasn’t going to work.

You’re going to get canned,
she thought to herself.

But if she couldn’t get Brandon to pull out of the race, she was done for anyway. Her boss, Scott, was just enough of a tyrant to fire her on the spot. She’d heard the horror stories. She had almost quit at least a dozen times in the past couple of months because of Scott’s pushy, abrasive and jerklike behavior. She had a law degree, for goodness’ sake. Worst case she could find a job in a law firm someplace.

But that was just it.

She didn’t want to work in a boring law firm. She wanted to do something fun and exciting. Working for a sports agency had seemed so different, so cool. When Scott had offered her a job it’d seemed like a dream come true.

The bathroom door closed. Vicky reluctantly headed back outside.

“Look, maybe we should—”

“All clear?” one of the guys asked. The name Rick was emblazoned across his chest.

“Yeah, but I’m thinking maybe this wasn’t such a good—”

“Come on, guys,” Rick said, encouraging the others to push. “This is gonna be a riot. Brandon’s gonna flip.”

“He deserves to flip,” she thought she heard someone mutter.

One of the other guys held open the door. To Vicky’s surprise and, yes, dismay, the bike glided right through.

“There,” a guy named Art said, his smile from ear to ear. “Easy peasy.”

“Ah, yeah,” Vicky said, by now having
serious
second thoughts. “Easy peasy,” she echoed.

“I think maybe you should put an Out of Order sign on the door,” Rick said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Art said.

“And maybe move that garbage can so it blocks the door,” someone named Tony said.

“Perfect,” Rick said.

“Wow,” Art said, glancing around. “Women’s restrooms look really different than ours.”

Rick slapped Art in the head. “You’re such an
idiot.
Go make us an Out of Order sign.”

“No, really,” Vicky said, sweat beginning to bead on her brow. “I can do that.” And maybe push the bike back outside when they were gone. Had anyone noticed it’d disappeared? Maybe she could put it back before that happened.

“That’s okay,” Art said, already on his way out. “I’ve got it.”

He returned a few minutes later with the sign and a lock, too. The guys chuckled as they wrapped a chain around the door and then secured the padlock in place. Vicky had a mental image of a hole being dug, one that continued to get deeper and deeper, her body pushed into it by a man who looked suspiciously like Brandon.

“I wish we didn’t have to go qualify,” Art said, handing her the key to the padlock. “I’d love to see the look on Brandon’s face when he finds out his bike is missing.”

“You have to tell us what he does,” Tony said.

“Sure. Um. You’ve got it,” Vicky said.

Now, please, leave.

Because once they did that, she’d be able to unlock the door, pull the bike out and push it back to its original spot, hopefully without Brandon being the wiser.

“Crap, crap, crap,” she muttered, watching as her coconspirators walked away, Rick slapping Art’s arm again.

You dug the grave, Vicky. Time to lie in it.

Still, she turned back to the door, wondering if she should maybe go find Brandon, confess all, then slink back to New York with her tail tucked between her legs.

“What the
hell
have you done?”

Okay. So maybe a confession was out.

“Where’s my bike?” Brandon all but snarled.

“What bike?” she asked, hoping to brazen it out.

He closed the distance between them. Vicky gulped. His irises changed color when he was angry. She knew this because she had a close-up view of the spectacularly blue orbs, only now those irises were tinged with green.

“You, Vicky VanCleef, are in deep, deep trouble,” he said softly. “You better come clean before I have you arrested.”

She really
was
in deep trouble, and not because of what she’d done. Oh, no, she was in trouble because even as Brandon stood there, smoke just about steaming out of his ears, even as horrified as
she
was by what
she’d
done, Vicky wondered what it’d be like to kiss a man like him. Someone with such oozing, potent male sexuality that she was certain locking lips with him would be an experience a girl would never forget.

“Arrest me, please,” she muttered. “I think I need to be locked away.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, taking a step toward her. “Watch me.”

He turned away, fully intent on finding a security guard.

“No, wait, don’t,” she said, her hand resting on his arm.

“Look, Brandon. I know you’re furious, and I don’t blame you,” she added quickly when he was about to tell her just exactly how furious he was. He could feel his cheek twitch, something that usually only happened when he was around his father.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” she said. “Right now the last thing you need is more bad publicity.”

“Excuse me,” he said, crossing his arms. It’d grown quiet. Well, as quiet as a racetrack ever got. Spectators still strolled by, a few of them gave them curious looks, but out on the drag strip the steady roar of engines was gone.

Drag-bike qualifying would start soon.

“What if I…ah…What if the person who arrests me goes to the press with this story?”

“Are you kidding?
You’re
the only one who’s going to get bad press, because as soon as this meet is over, I’m calling your boss.”

“That’s not a good idea,” she said quickly.

“Where’s my bike?”

“If you call my boss, you’ll have to explain that you want your bike back so you can race it. Scott knows that’s in violation of your contract. He’ll read you the riot act. You don’t want that. Trust me. I’m an official riot-act recipient.”

“He wouldn’t dare thwart me,” he said, leaning down and going nose to nose with her. There were freckles on that nose, he noticed. Lots and lots of them. How could such hell on heels have
freckles?

“B-but he would. That’s why he sent me down here. To, ah, thwart you.”

“The bike, please,” he said, trying hard not to lose control of his quickly rising temper. Bad things occurred when that happened.

Such as fistfights with his dad. Or his car owner. Or his teammates.

Little cute babies. That’s what his anger management counselor had told him to think of whenever he felt his temper slipping out of control. The thing was, he hated kids.

“I can’t let you have your bike,” she said quickly, as if she had to get the words out fast in order to ensure they were said. Her cheeks reddened. He saw her blink a few times, but she held his gaze.

“Where is it?” he said again. Damn it. He didn’t have time for this.

“I can’t let you have it.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell you where it is,” she said, “you’ll race it. And I can’t let you do that. You’d be in direct violation of your contract.”

“I violate contracts all the time.”

“Well, not this time. If you do, SSI will have no choice but to fire you as a client.”

“Excuse me?”

“SSI will not tolerate your flagrant disregard of the contract you signed with KEM. If you won’t listen to us, we’ll have to, um…We’ll have to let you go.”

“Really?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Yes, really,” she said, although she appeared to doubt that was true. Suddenly the fight seemed to drain out of her. She ran her hands through her wispy brown hair, then looked around for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was a new look in her eyes, one that almost seemed full of concern. “Mr. Burke, can we talk candidly?”

“I thought we already were,” he replied equally softly.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” she said. “Look, I’ve read your file, and I have to be honest, I don’t think it’s in your best interest to do something that would cause SSI to terminate your contract.”

“And why’s that?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” she said, eyes wide. “Do you really have to ask after all the trouble you’ve been in in recent months? Walking out on that open-wheel guy, Bob Manly—the man that owned the Indy 500 car you used to race. Aren’t you still in legal trouble with him? Then there’s the bad press. You didn’t exactly make a good impression at your first NASCAR Sprint Cup Series race last year, did you? You’re not king of the racing hill anymore and so I’m thinking you’ll have a heck of time finding another agent. I mean, the racing industry will only give you so many chances, right? Surely your time is drawing to an end.”

“You think so?”

“I do,” she said with a firm nod.

“Shows you how little you know about the racing industry. I can find a new agent like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “And a new ride, too.”

“Oh, really?” she said. “Because I have to wonder, where are all those offers now? Your file isn’t exactly brimming with prime opportunities. We had to practically beg Outlaw Bail Bonds to sponsor you, and in the end they only agreed because your bad-boy reputation fits their corporate image perfectly. Trust me when I say our phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook when Scott was trying to find you a car to drive.”

“Things will turn around,” Brandon said, holding on to his patience by the thinnest of threads.

“Oh, yeah? How? You may not be driving a race car for the next several months. Did you skip over the clause in your contract that says if you breach your agreement with KEM, then you can’t go drive elsewhere?”

“Where’s my bike?” he asked again, his cheek beginning to twitch.

“Let’s say you do happen to find another job. What will you do when KEM files a lawsuit against you? Because you know they will. Can you afford to fend off another legal dispute?”

“You don’t know anything about racing,” he said. “And I’m tired of standing here. Either tell me where my bike is, or I call your boss.”

“All right, fine,” she said. “You’re right. I don’t know a whole lot about racing, but I do know the law. You’ll be in deep trouble if you ignore KEM Motorsports’ dictums. But here,” she said, tossing him something. It was a key. “I’m tired of dealing with men who think they rule the world. Go ahead. Take your bike. Have fun riding it. It’ll be the last time you drive something fast for a while.”

She turned away.

“Wait,” he yelled. “Where is it?”

“In the bathroom,” she called.

The bathroom? He eyed the Out of Order sign, then the lock on the door. What the—

Why that clever little…

His gaze shifted back to her. Did she have a law degree? he wondered, unlocking the door. His hands shook. He clenched them, glancing back at her. He’d have to admit, she looked like an attorney in her tailored pants and no-nonsense blouse.

When he pushed against the bathroom door, he stopped.

Have fun…it’ll be the last time you drive something fast for a while.

Yeah, right. KEM would look the other way when he raced his bike. Team owners always did.

Can you
afford
another legal dispute?

So what if he couldn’t. He’d be making money hand over fist soon enough.

Not if you’re not driving for KEM,
he thought.

“Son of a—”

He pushed on the door with more force than necessary. The wood connected with the wall with a loud boom. He’d be speaking with her boss, just as soon as he finished racing today, because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Vicky VanCleef had crossed a line.

She’d
be the one getting fired.