Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (56 page)

I felt the blood drain from my face as my heart pounded desperately, pumping the blood toward my heart.

He wasn’t serious, was he?

After a moment of nerve-wracking silence and hyperventilation, I choked out, “Cancer
...
”

My mind raced to process everything he just said. I thought of Sway’s mom and the way it affected her and now this? How could one person be subjected to so much and how much more would she be asked to endure?

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He said and added one request that was deeply important to him. “Don’t tell Sway.”

“When are you going to tell her?”

“I’m not
...
” he sighed and hung his head. “She doesn’t need this
...
”

“She needs to know!” I demanded jumping to my feet. For the first time in my life, I wanted to punch him. For a minute, I hated him with everything I had.

Then the blinding anger subsided and I thought about what he meant to me, and the fact that he was dying. His affliction was evident in his shattered features. I could tell it wasn’t that he didn’t
want
to tell her and for a minute, I understood him completely because by not telling her, he was doing unerringly what I was doing.

Here was a man standing before me who had aided in my career. If he hadn’t allowed me to race sprints before I was sixteen, I would have never gotten the experience I did. How could I hate him for one, helping me so much and two, protecting her in the same ways I was? Though we were both fighting two entirely different battles, I think we understood each other more that day than ever before.

“I know you love her in your own way.” He was standing by the door as I was leaving. “Just don’t hurt her, please.”

I didn’t answer, not because I didn’t want to but it didn’t strike me as a question, it was more of a demand.

Charlie said he would wait until he found out more from the doctors before transferring the title but the outlook was not promising. I left there with only one thing on my mind, Sway.

I had to see her. I had to.

I looked down at my phone, my fingers traced over the numbers. What would I even say to her? I couldn’t tell her, not when he specifically asked me not to.

I had to see her though; there was no other option.

Unsure as to whether or not my schedule would allow me to, I called Alley. “When do I have to be in Talladega?”

“Tomorrow afternoon by four,” she told me sounding annoyed. “You don’t have time to go off and play, Jameson.”

“Goddamn it Alley, I didn’t ask for your fucking advice!” I shouted. “I asked you what time I needed to be there.” I was tired of everyone acting like they knew what was best or that they felt the need to control me. “I’ll be there by four.”

“If you’re not, I’m not making excuses for you this time.”

“I never asked you to.” I hung up after that and called Wes.

He answered after a few rings. “Hey kid, where are you?”

“Well I’m in Olympia now. Can you take me to Bellingham tonight?”

“I thought I was taking you to
Dega
?”

“You are but I need to make a stop for the night.”

“No problem.” He replied without hesitation. “I’ll see you in two hours.”

I thought a lot waiting for Wes.

What would I say to her? I couldn’t tell her about Charlie and telling her how I felt seemed just as hard. It goes back to that thing I couldn’t get over, with so much weighing on my words, how do you know what to say and how to say it?

Tear-offs – Sway

It was Tuesday night and I was doing what I usually did, studying for my Wednesday marketing class. I had a final next week that I wasn’t prepared for. I couldn’t wait for graduation, for one. I hated being by myself and I hated school but mostly, I was all alone and that’s what was depressing.

I thought of Jameson a lot. I watched every race faithfully and cried like a goddamn fool when he won and I wasn’t there. Every interview was taped and every newspaper article was clipped and stored in a box under my bed. I was damn near a stalker and it was disturbing even to me. But I loved him. It took me a while to understand
why
I loved him; it was gradual but surging.

I loved him more than I ever thought possible and with it came a world of passion, confusion, intensity, desire, jealousy, heartache and comfort. I wanted to tell him how I felt, make him see that we would could be great together but he didn’t need that right now. He needed to focus on his career and I’d just be another distraction he didn’t need.

“Ugh,” I groaned and once again opened my internet browser to read the latest news on him. NASCAR’s website had a picture of him holding Darrin by his racing suit, both still clad in their helmets in what appeared to be a heated conversation. I hadn’t read this article so I opened it.

Tempers flared in Texas

Around lap 72 of the Samsung Mobile 500 race, Jameson Riley, driver of the No. 9 Ford Simplex and Darrin Torres, driver of the No. 14 Wyle Products Chevy got into each other setting off a chain reaction followed by a red flag. That wasn’t the only red on the track as these two got out of their cars and were involved in a major shoving match that resulted in Riley nearing taking a swing until NASCAR got involved.

When asked by a television broadcaster what was said Riley replied with. “I wanted to see what his problem was. He seems to have a problem with me
every
week. I’m sick of it.”

Torres later said that if the incident was his fault he would take responsibility and apologize but he felt it wasn’t. “It wasn’t my fault.” Torres told ESPN after the altercation, “I have little respect for that kid. He comes in here and acts like his daddy is going to bail him out of everything. He’s got talent sure but his aggressive disregard out there gets him nowhere.”

Both team owners said the incident was unfortunate but refused to discuss it any further as they have appealed the fines handed down from NASCAR.

Engrossed in my own personal Jameson daze, I nearly pissed myself when my phone began vibrating on my desk beside me. I noticed Jameson’s picture pop up on the screen so, of course, I nearly broke my neck trying to get to it in time. The line was static and muffled with a loud humming.

“What’s that noise? Where are you?” I yelled attempting to talk over the noise.

“In an airplane,” Jameson yelled back over the humming. “
will
you pick me up at the airport?”

“What airport?”

“The one in Bellingham,”

“There’s an airport in
...
Bellingham?”

“There better be. That’s where the plane is heading.” He laughed. “I can only stay for one night.”

I was silent. Was he serious? Why would he fly all the way here for one night?

“Are you going to come get me or shall I call a cab?” he pressed impatiently.

“Yeah
...
” I cleared my throat. “I’ll come get you.”

We hung up and I panicked. I had no idea where the airport was and why in the world he was flying here for one night? Google had quickly become my guide for navigating but I was left with my paranoid thoughts and Google had nothing to offer me on that one.

I printed out directions from the internet and then headed out except there was one problem with
this,
or two really. First, I am navigationally challenged beyond-belief. I once got lost going to Jameson’s house when we were kids. I might add that he lived down the street.

So then you add the weather, yeah, I was having a hard time. I shouldn’t have been surprised living in Washington, guess what the weather was doing this fine spring evening?

Raining.

And not just any kind of rain, it was the kind that you couldn’t see a foot in front of your car, or in my case, the red dragon. Also, I didn’t have windshield wipers.

So there the red dragon and
me
were, trying to find the Bellingham International airport that wasn’t much bigger than a landing strip you’d see in Playboy. Oh and it was pouring. I might have said this already but this just added to the confusion because I was almost certain I was night blind. I needed all the assistance I could get at night.

It didn’t help that my mind was more focused on what Jameson wanted flying all the way out here for one night. Was something wrong with him or someone in his family? Something had to be wrong. He wouldn’t just come out here for no reason, would he?

I tried calling him a few times to tell him I was lost but as luck would have it, I had no cell reception. Staring at the screen it flashed, “No Service,” and I snapped.

“You stupid piece of shit with no service!”

It then sprung up with the message, “Call Failed” again.

Tossing the phone in the seat, I continued to navigate. I think most of my frustration was fear of why was he was coming here?

I could understand maybe if it had been a while since we’d seen each other but as it was, I just saw him not more than a month ago.

When I finally found the airport, much later than I should have, Jameson was lying on a bench outside of the said closed airport, asleep.

He looked adorable.

I felt like an asshole having got lost so many times. I’m sure it didn’t help that I was speeding to try and get here and I missed a few turns due to poor handling and visibility as a result.

When Jameson awoke, no longer adorable, he was not amused with my tardiness and replied with, “Nice of you to hurry.”

I also wasn’t amused because in order to navigate accurately the last leg of my adventure, I ended up sticking my head out the window. I now looked similar to a drowned rat or cat.

“Get up lazy ass.” I kicked him.

“Get up? I just spent the last two hours waiting for
your ass
.” He finally looked at my hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“I don’t have windshield wipers. I got lost and I had no cell reception.” I shrugged swiping a few wet strands out of my face while one stuck to my cheek. “It’s your fault. Now let’s go get some ice cream.”

He smirked. “I could use some ice cream right about now.”

So we ate ice cream at Dairy Queen and then headed back to my apartment I was renting off campus this year.

When we walked in, Jameson looked around before slumping on the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table, well not really. My coffee table was two sprint car tires holding up a piece of sheet metal.

“This place is a shit hole, Sway.” His eyes focused on the table. “Nice table by the way.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Well
...
not everyone makes millions.”

“Neither do
I
,” he replied defensively.

“Fairly damn close and I know you’re lying when you add on what you make with the sprint car team and all those foam fingers.”

He shook his head drinking his chocolate milkshake. “I haven’t made shit off that sprint car team. All the profit goes back into the team right now. Although, those foam fingers may be my retirement someday,”

I was about to ask him how his sprint car team was going until my perverted neighbors began making noise.

Those assholes made me so jealous lately that I had to invest in a vibrator. I’m no audiologist or anything like that, but a quick assessment told me those were sex noises—sex noises that were not coming from me.

With the way our apartments were laid out—you could see into their dining room from my bedroom. Not once had they been in the dining room but there was always a first in the heat of the moment I guess.

So there Jameson and I were, lying on my bed watching Sports Center when I sat up to grab the remote, catching a glimpse of my porn star neighbors. “Holy shit, they’re doing it on the table.”

Jameson sat up.

“Who is?” his eyes frantically searched for what I was pointing at.

He hadn’t shown that much enthusiasm since the time, when we were fourteen, and had found a porno in the VCR of his parent’s living room, compliments of Spencer.

“My neighbors,” I giggled with a snort. “Right there pile driving her on the table.”

He burst out laughing and moved by my window for a better view. To be fair, we
both
watched.

“This feels wrong.” I said watching closely.

When he pulled back and lowered his head, I cringed. I didn’t want to watch this just out of plain jealousy.

“He’s doing it all wrong.” Jameson sighed rolling his eyes. “Jesus man, save some of your fucking dignity.”

I wanted to ask him how often he’d done that to know that this guy was doing it all wrong but I didn’t. I felt my entire body burst into flames when my perverted brain imagined Jameson doing
that
, to me.