Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (64 page)

“See what?” I pressed opening the beer and taking a drink.

“I don’t like getting in the middle of this shit.”

He was right, but I would be asking Sway about the touching later. Bile rose inside me thinking of another man touching her. Touching what I wanted badly.

I wasn’t
mad
at Tommy, I was
mad
at myself for not being there for her. She didn’t deserve to be molested by that douche. No, she deserved to have a man around who would take care of her and not let things like this happen. She deserved someone to worship her in all the ways I did inside. I wanted to be that guy.
God
did I want to be him.

“When will you two wake up?”

“Probably never,” I answered without thinking.

“She is so in love with you that it’s revolting to be around.”

I smiled. “Nothing about her could be revolting.”

“Give me that wrench.” Tommy reached for the wrench as I held it above his head.

“Why?”

“So I can smack your pussy whipped ass.”

“I’m almost certain the term “pussy whipped” ensures you are getting pussy. That’s not happening.”

Conversation changed to sprint cars after that which was fine by me. Tommy and I ended up changing the weight around in both cars before loading them onto the hauler so Greg, Justin’s cousin could drive the truck to Grand Rapids.

“Did you get the new sponsor?” Tommy asked handing Greg and Rusty, one of the mechanics for the team, the directions to the track.

“Yeah, got Ayers as primary sponsor for the No. 19 car,”

“The one Tyler is driving?”

“Yeah,”

“Look at you business man,” Tommy teased, the guys laughed. “Raking in the sponsors left and right,”

“They see the name, Tommy. It has nothing to do with me.”

It was true. My name had become somewhat of a household name in just a matter of months. I now had sponsors approaching me.

When Wednesday rolled around, it was time to head for Charlotte for the Winston Open. Usually when I flew out to a track, most of the team was already there. Since this race was only thirty minutes from our shop in Mooresville, we all had an extra day. All but me, I had to be there for hospitality events. Simplex Shocks and
Springs
’ headquarters was located in Charlotte so any time we raced there, I was jammed full of commitments for them. When a primary sponsor shells out close $12 million dollars for an entire season, you don’t ask questions.

If Melissa, the rep for Simplex, told Alley I would be somewhere, I had better be at that somewhere if we wanted to keep our sponsor.

Puppet strings sound familiar?

All that aside, I don’t forget what those strings allow me to accomplish.
Racing.
So many drivers fight their entire careers to make it to where I am and I’m here living the dream. Controlled to the point that my life right now wasn’t even mine, but still, I was able to race.

The Winston (changes names depending on sponsorship) was an All-Star type race prior to the Coco-Cola 600 that consisted of past winners as well as current winners, plus the past five winners of the regular season championship—similar to the Budweiser Shootout before the Daytona 500. Drivers were also eligible if you qualified for it in the 40-lap qualifying run called the Winston Open.

 The Winston, as you can guess was held in the heart of NASCAR, Charlotte North Carolina at Lowes Motor Speedway. With the nature of the race, much like the Shootout, no points were at stake so the drivers made crazy reckless moves that usually resulted in usually only a few cars finishing the race. On top of that, the winner receives a million dollars. If that doesn’t tempt you to lay it all on the line, I don’t know what will.

The race, like the shootout, has a different format and changes every year. This year they had a 90-lap segment with elimination. I think they watch a little too much of
Survivor
and came up with this one. This year they ran only past race winners from the previous year, and all former cup titleholders from the past five years, plus the winner of the qualifying races.

The first segment was forty-laps followed by a mandatory four-tire green flag stop on between laps 10-30. Only the top twenty cars advanced to the next segment. The second segment was thirty-laps, only twelve cars advanced to the final 20-lap shootout to determine the winner. And to make it interesting, they implemented a full-field inversion.

Most of my time there in Charlotte that week was spent with sponsorship obligations.

On Wednesday night, I had a meet and greet at the Ford dealership in downtown Charlotte that Alley attended with me. Being my publicist, we rarely spent much time apart. We both hated this by the way. She couldn’t stand me and I personally thought she was a fucking bitch.

The meet and greet had the usual crowd of garage groupies, the girls who were in their early teens and wore enough make-up to appear almost twenty. Then there were the pit lizards with their tits hanging out of their tops and jeans so tight I was sure the seam popped their cherries and finally there were the older ladies who followed me faithfully to every race and applauded my every move regardless if I called another driver an “asshole” on national television.

Then you had the corporate assholes who hung around for the free tickets to the races and a chance at taking home a pit lizard. They were almost harder to stomach than the actual pit lizards because they thought they were my best friend.

Walking toward the table, the lights seemed brighter than before, the crowd appearing larger. When they introduced me and I stepped forward to sit in front of them, the room erupted in cheers and clapping.

Putting on my game face, I smiled politely for them, taking time to sign everything they pushed toward me, speaking melodiously to the women.

I’ll tell you something about this, not that I agreed with it but flirting with them did wonders for merchandise and product sales.

And who pushed merchandise/product sale? That’s right, sponsors. They paid me to be available to sell their product so this meant selling
myself
. As wrong as it felt, it was another part of the puppet game.

 I knew encouraging them was wrong because I had absolutely no intention of playing along with whatever ideas they had concocted but sometimes it was just easier to go along and smile. If anything, it made the sponsor happy if let’s
say
that one girl who I spent a few minutes talking to, left and bought a few t-shirts and then her boyfriend, pressured by her, bought shocks from Simplex. That’s what Simplex provides the sponsorship for.

So even though I had no intentions with them, it was just business.

Even with all these women throwing themselves at me, I had no desire to leave with them.

It had been since last April that I’d been with a woman physically and though the need was there, the desire simply wasn’t. I didn’t find them interesting any more. Some peeked my interest yes, because these pit lizards ran around the track dressed in barely anything, but that was as far as it went. Why did I feel this way? I can only assume because Sway is what I wanted. When I looked at other women, I pictured what Sway looked like.

Even with all those frivolous one-night stands, I can’t remember one of them.

I remember every touch and every kiss with Sway. For a long time I felt like a line had been drawn in the sand between us, telling myself: “No way you’re crossing that.”

But as determined as I was to keep from crossing it, the destructive combers curtly toppling over my line, swallowing my will from beneath me.

I was left with my tenacious side just as equally determined to say: “What line?”

I was up earlier than I needed to be, a consequence of both traveling and nervous excitement of the Winston Open. I loved races like this when I could just let loose and race.

Normally on a race weekend, you wouldn’t find me in the garage area any other time apart from qualifying and practice runs. Usually I had too many other engagements. Not today, it was Friday, the day before the Winston and I had nothing for the morning or afternoon. Wanting to burn some energy, I went for a run around the track and then headed to the garage.

A few teams were in there but it was mostly calm. Nowhere near what it was like during practice sessions.

Sitting down on a pair of scuffs, I examined the new springs we were testing out. I have no idea how long I stared at those springs, clearly I was thinking about the spring rates or weight distribution, as I should be. My mind was a maelstrom of questions, thoughts and observations. Eventually, my attention was grabbed by my mom opening the door to the garage.

I don’t know if my mom is similar to everyone else’s but she had this way of always knowing if something was wrong with me, like right now.

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe she feels the same way?”

“She doesn’t.” I was only lying to myself. I knew she felt that way.

“Have you ever asked her?”

“No.”

“Well than you don’t
know
.”

She was right. I didn’t know for sure that she did or didn’t feel that way. But now, with Charlie being sick, that changed everything. It didn’t matter any longer. All that mattered was
...
well, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. That’s what had me so confused.

“You can’t change your situation Jameson, or hers. But you
can
change how each of you are dealing with it. That’s within your power and always has been.”

We eventually started walking back to my motor coach when I caved. “I can’t breathe.” I told her falling against the couch. My hands in my hair, my eyes falling closed at the admission. 

“I know. I’ve seen this coming for years.” She said amiably rubbing my back with slow strokes just as she did when I was younger to calm me. “You need to tell her how you feel.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“For a boy who was tenaciously forthright as a child, it’s hard to imagine you
can’t
tell her.”

She had a point but with Sway, everything was different. “I don’t
...
what if she doesn’t you know
...
feel the same way?”

“She does. You know she feels the same way but you’re scared she’ll break your heart.”

No matter how many people told me that, I never believed them. Why didn’t I? That’s simple, I
refused
to believe it. I knew she loved me, I saw, clear as day.

But I couldn’t, for the fucking sake of my sanity, say it out loud.

Why this was so goddamn hard was what I wanted to know. When would the timing be right to tell her? Or would it ever?

Do you wonder how important timing is?

In racing, it’s everything as well as life. People think you’re lucky when you win or you were just in the right place at the right time. At least that’s what I’ve come to believe. You never know when your time is right or when lady luck will shine down on you.

I remember when my eyes first met Sway’s that summer night at Grays Harbor, that’s timing. You could call it fate or destiny but really, it was timing. That night we were meant to cross paths and we did. Now here we were, eleven years later, still hanging on so perilously to each other refusing to admit where all that timing had led us.

My mom sat there as I poured my heart out to her. I told her how I felt and that I was scared. But the thing was, even if she told me Sway felt the same way, it didn’t changed anything. Even if Sway told me, it didn’t change anything.

Knowing myself, I knew it would take more than words to prove this to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe it either, like I said, I knew she felt that way, but I was scared. Scared of hurting her and scared of her hurting me. For someone who has never been in love with anyone or anything besides racing, you can sense my hesitation here.

“Why do you love her?” she asked finally. I thought she knew but I don’t know if I’d told anyone. Up until that point, I had yet to say the words out-loud.

“I love her
...
” My voice failed for a moment. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “I love her because when she looks at me she doesn’t see a famous race car driver or the son of Jimi Riley
...
she has always just seen
me
. She sees the stalwartly but jaded side that can only think of racing yet she is still there for me whenever I need her.”

Mom offered the only advice she had, which seemed easy but wasn’t.

“Follow your heart honey. Fate has a funny way of sorting itself out.”

When the door to my motor coach closed behind her, I fell back against the couch again, left alone with my thoughts.

If only I could escape them too.

I was beginning to hate myself for the simple fact that this moody over-analytical asshole wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

I didn’t pay a lot of attention in school because it didn’t hold my interest. No car, I paid no mind. I did however enjoy mythology and remember the story of Fortuna, the goddess of fortune and personification of luck in Roman religion and the goddess of fate. Presently life’s capriciousness, she would be represented as either veiled or blind as in the modern depictions of Justice. Representing good or evil, fortune or misfortune,
basically
, fucked, or not.