Slow Ride (30 page)
She just shrugged. “Aren’t you going to look at it?”
“I’ll look at it later.” He really didn’t want to see it, read it, in his driveway in front of her. It was going to make him uncomfortable.
“I worked hard on this. It was hard for me to finish my dad’s last article.” An edge crept into her voice.
“I know that,” he said in exasperation. “I’m sure you did a fine job. But it’s hard for me, too. I don’t like people poking into my business.”
“I’m not just ‘people.’”
“No, you’re not. But everyone reading it is.” How could she not understand that he wanted his life to remain private? It was the one good thing to come out of his accident. The media left him the hell alone.
“Argh, you’re so frustrating sometimes. You don’t tell me anything, so how am I supposed to know what’s going on in your head?”
“If anything is important I’ll say it. Don’t get all worked up.” He wasn’t sure how they’d gone from embarrassing eyegazing to sniping at each other, but he didn’t care to continue.
Her forehead went up at his words. It was so pronounced her eyebrows lifted above her sunglasses. “Okay, I think I’ll leave now. I have some errands to run before dinner tonight, and after this conversation one of those errands might be picking up a jug of wine.”
Unfortunately, she probably wasn’t kidding. “Oh, come on, you don’t need a drink. It’s two in the afternoon and we’re just having a discussion. You go run your errands. I’m going to finish up with the car here and then I’ll go in the house and read your article.”
She reached up and gripped his chin. Scratching his beard and sighing, she told him, “You’re stinking cute, you know that?”
Apparently they weren’t going to argue. That worked for him.
He kissed her. “Hell, yeah, I knew that. But you’re foxy.”
“Foxy?” She laughed. “Alright, I’ll see you tonight.” She backed up and blew him a kiss. Then she waved to his uncle. “Bye, Johnny.”
His uncle strolled back over to him and Diesel watched Tuesday get in her car and pull away. “I was thinking maybe I’d ask Tuesday to move in with me. What do you think?” The idea had been kicking around in his head for a while, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Having her with him, every day, sharing a bedroom, sharing meals together, it was really appealing.
“As long as she’s not the type of woman to be insulted by that. Some girls still like a ring first.”
“I don’t think she’s that type.”
“Then go for it. But expect your aunt to have a word or two to say.”
He imagined Aunt Beth would lecture him, but it seemed a natural step to him. They weren’t ready to get married, but living together would make what they were doing even better. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“But just so you know, I’m happy for you. She seems like a fine woman and she’s put a grin on your face, which is all that matters to me. Now let me have a look at that article.” His uncle held his hand out.
Diesel could have said no, but chances were his family was mentioned. Because Diesel and Pete were cousins and had both had a similar accident, Pete’s resulting in his tragic death, they were forever be linked together in racing stories. Since Pete had been Johnny’s only child, he deserved to see anything that might involve his son.
In Diesel’s opinion, Johnny had always done a fine job of keeping his son’s memory alive without being obsessive about it. He had faced adversity and loss with strength.
Diesel wasn’t sure he’d done as well, but he’d managed. He gave his uncle the envelope and went over to discuss the final details with the hauler, who looked about finished loading the car. It was going over to the practice track for a few days to be on display, then a big-box retail store, and finally to the hotel where the benefit was taking place.
He was damn proud of this car. It was his idea of art, a finely tuned machine that was fifty years old and could still go around that speedway track at one-thirty.
“Did you see the picture of the car?” his uncle asked him.
“No.” Curious, Diesel leaned over to see the magazine spread. “I wish she would have told me what she was doing. I would have pulled the car out of the garage.”
The photo looked cluttered to him, like the focus wasn’t really on the car but on his mess surrounding it. “I’d have washed it, too. It’s all dusty.”
“Did you see this picture?”
Following his uncle’s finger, he saw the last car he’d driven, mangled after the wreck. Nice. “She didn’t tell me she was printing that either.” Maybe because everytime she’d brought up the article, he’d shut her down. He didn’t like seeing his failure in glossy color, and now he was regretting brushing her off. “Do you mind if I have a look at that?”
He suddenly had a bad feeling . . . like he wasn’t going to be thrilled about any of what was printed on that page.
“Knock yourself out.”
Five minutes later, he definitely wasn’t happy. The tone of the article was verging on critical of him. At least that’s how he took it. And last time he’d checked, it was his girlfriend who had written it.
In the two years since his accident, Lange has neither pursued the possibility of returning to the track, nor has he become an advocate for stricter safety measures, two traditional routes we’ve seen injured drivers take over the years. He lives instead in relative obscurity on a large property with no wife or kids, or any evidence of his stellar but short-lived career inside his spacious home. The garage is the only room that indicates any connection to racing, and after viewing the litany of car parts scattered around, most people would assume he had been a chief mechanic, not a driver.
What exactly was she suggesting? So he didn’t have a bunch of pictures of himself on the walls or awards displayed. It didn’t match the décor. Plus he didn’t need a constant reminder of what he’d had and lost by losing control out on the track.
“Johnny.” He called to his uncle, who had stepped away to let him read the article and was tossing the tennis ball to Wilma.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should have become an advocate for stricter safety measures after Pete’s crash and mine?”
His uncle’s eyebrow went up, like he was wondering where the hell that question had come from. But he didn’t ask, he just shook his head. “No, of course not. Nothing could have been done to change the outcome of what happened to both of you. It’s a risk you take, plain and simple. We can’t bubble-wrap the sport any more or it won’t be racing.”
That would be his opinion as well. His accident had been a combination of unexpected circumstances and human error. “This article is kind of pissing me off.”
“Business and pleasure don’t mix, son. They never have.”
He definitely wasn’t feeling any pleasure toward this business.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN
DIESEL
put the chicken skewers on the grill and tried not to worry. A storm was brewing and he didn’t mean over Lake Norman. Tuesday was clearly pissed at him and he had to admit he wasn’t feeling so pleased with her himself.
put the chicken skewers on the grill and tried not to worry. A storm was brewing and he didn’t mean over Lake Norman. Tuesday was clearly pissed at him and he had to admit he wasn’t feeling so pleased with her himself.
“Okay, I’ve been here an hour now and I think I’ve been patient enough.”
Yep. Storm coming. Diesel took the grilling tongs in his hand and messed with the skewers, adding more spacing between them. “Patient enough about what?”
“You haven’t said one word about my article.”
She could sense she was leaving the chair she’d been sitting in, but he still didn’t turn around. He wasn’t prepared to have this conversation. “I told you it was a nice article.” Which he had.
“That’s lame and you know it.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Something that says you care about me and know it was hard for me to write the thing.”
He turned, feeling his anger spark a little. “I do care about you. I do know it was hard for you. It was hard for me to read it.”
“Why?” she asked him baldly, standing a foot in front of him, her hands on her hips. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and the gesture had her shirt riding up, exposing her stomach.
“Because it was.” Diesel knew that was a frustrating answer but he couldn’t make himself say anything else. He couldn’t tell her how sometimes he felt like a total loser. That he had let down his uncle and his team owner and sponsor and himself.
That he had never come close to achieving the success he had worked hard for in his twenties.
“Are you kidding me? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What am I supposed to say?” He couldn’t take the way she was staring at him, irritated, her eyes pleading with him. He couldn’t stand the thought that he was inadequate to Tuesday.
“You’re supposed to tell me how you feel.”
“I feel fine.” Diesel went back to the grill, turning the skewers.
Her arms wrapped around him from behind, snaking around his waist. He closed his eyes as she laid her cheek on his back. Maybe he should tell her he was angry about the article. Maybe he should tell her that he didn’t like the way she’d portrayed him, as a racing hermit locked in his house.
“You can tell me anything, you know. I care about you.”
“Yeah, I know.” He did know and he was very grateful for her in his life. “I care about you, too.”
He loved her.
Yet he didn’t want to fight and he didn’t want her to regret she’d chosen him.
So he still said nothing.
“ARE
you okay?” Kendall asked her. “You look a little stressed.”
you okay?” Kendall asked her. “You look a little stressed.”
Tuesday was more than a little stressed. She was supernova mega-stressed and she was alternating between wanting to throw up and cry hysterically.
So she’d taken what she thought was a smarter route and was drinking a glass of wine. “I’m totally stressed. What if this benefit is a massive failure?”
Kendall rubbed her arm in a gesture of comfort but Tuesday hardly noticed. She was glancing around the room, looking for anything that could be improved at the last minute, making sure everything was in place and the serving staff was poised for the crowd who was about to enter.
“Hey, it’s not going to be a failure. You’ve done a fantastic job. The room looks amazing, there are a ton of donations to be auctioned off, and there are a crapload of people attending. Relax.”
Relaxing was not going to happen. Not until it was eleven o’clock, the last guest had left, and she had some indicator of success. “Thanks, but I’m just going to worry. It’s the way it is.”
“I get that. Where’s Diesel?”
“I don’t know. He’s around here somewhere.”
They had hardly seen each other all week and they’d driven to the benefit separately. Tuesday had been so busy with final details that she’d barely had time to text him, let alone hang out or spend the night with him. Not that he seemed to care. If she weren’t so insanely worried about tonight, she would have been worried about the fact that he seemed remote, like something was bothering him. She would worry about Diesel tomorrow. Tonight she had to pray that she actually raised money and didn’t let cancer patients and survivors, and all the friends and sponsors who had so generously donated to the auction, massively down.
It didn’t exactly surprise her that the man would retreat right when she needed him the most. Diesel wasn’t big on emotional vulnerability.
She took another big swallow of her wine.
“Are you sure you should be drinking?” Kendall asked her.
“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate. She wasn’t going to survive this without her old friend Merlot. For the first time she paused and actually looked at her best friend. “I can’t believe you’re wearing heels.”
“I think this exceeds my limit for the year,” Kendall said. “They hurt like hell.”
“Well, thanks for wearing them. You look fantastic.” Kendall was in a red cocktail dress and nude pumps. It was a good look on her. Tuesday fiddled with her necklace. She was wearing black, which initially had just seemed easy and smart. Half her wardrobe was black and it was spillproof. Now its mourning hue seemed appropriate. This event was going to kill her. Or it was going to die, a horrible unsuccessful failure of a fund-raiser.
“So do you.”
“I have sweaty armpits.” Which made no sense because her dress was sleeveless. She drained her wineglass. “Okay, I need to find a waiter to get another drink, then we can open the doors and let in what are hopefully the masses.”
She headed for any man wearing a black uniform who could supply her liquid courage.
KENDALL
went in search of her husband, hoping she might spot Diesel along the way. She wanted to warn him that Tuesday needed to be monitored. She would never forgive herself if she got drunk at this event, and Kendall knew all too well Tuesday could lose count when she’d skipped dinner and was tipping the glass back out of nerves.
went in search of her husband, hoping she might spot Diesel along the way. She wanted to warn him that Tuesday needed to be monitored. She would never forgive herself if she got drunk at this event, and Kendall knew all too well Tuesday could lose count when she’d skipped dinner and was tipping the glass back out of nerves.
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