Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (67 page)

Instead, I focused on the fact that I was once again, dealing with a pugnacious asshole on the track. It never ended, every year it was another driver. And though it came with racing, I fucking hated it. When all you want to do is race, this paltriness bullshit was enough to make you second-guess the choice.

“Goddamn it!” I roared slamming my fist into the side of the hauler. The sheet metal flexed but didn’t give the way I’d hoped. “What the fuck is that asshole trying to prove!” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement and as I expected, no one answered. Alley and Kyle just stood there staring at me as though I’d lost it again.

Dad walked inside the hauler, slamming the door behind him. He glared at a few team-members who had just straggled in to which they scurried right back out.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded—his voice sharp as he looked directly at me. “Did you hear me Jameson?”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Holding on to the only self-control I had left, my hands grasped the stainless steel counters.

“Do you have any idea what that’s going to cost us?”

Refusing to look at him, I just nodded.

“I don’t want to be the dad that constantly reminds you of what’s at stake
...
but I think I
need
to remind you at times.”

“I already know.” Though my voice was unsure, I knew. Believe me I fucking knew what was at stake. I was harked to every word spoken by the media, fans, sponsors, drivers and friends at what was peril here. I knew. How could I forget when everyone was so unrelentingly reminding me?

“Do you? Do you
really
understand?”

“I understand!” I yelled and turned to face him. “I understand completely. Do you honestly think anyone is going to let me forget how much is at risk? You won’t, Simplex won’t, NASCAR won’t and Torres sure as shit won’t!” By now, I was yelling just as loud as he had been when Alley came back inside.

Her eyes gaged our tempers flaring.

“There fining both you and Darrin five thousand each.” She told us leaning against the counter beside me.

“Five grand
...
are you fucking serious?” This was unbelievable.

“Yep,”

“For what?”

“Conduct detrimental to stock car racing.”

I wondered if NASCAR found the increased ticket sales from our little brawl detrimental to
them?
Doubt it. They’re probably grinning like son
of a bitches
collecting five thousands from us.

So, I won the Winston and got fined $5000 for brawling on the finish line in front of a frenzied crowd that NASCAR sales benefited from.

Nice huh?

I understood NASCAR’s position on this, I did. But as the sanctioning body for a variety of series, you’d think a little more slack would be given in this area. These temperaments and aggressive driving did wonders for their ratings,
that’s
what I didn’t understand. There had to be a line drawn somewhere with them and their penalties. Was Darrin fined? No.

That right there should have told me something. As a sanctioning body, you’d think there would be a little more fairness.

I was fuming the rest of the night, until Sway sent me a text.
Congrats on the win.

Not wanting to say something negative, I stared at the screen for a good ten minutes before replying with:
Thanks.

I thought briefly about turning my phone off after that, but didn’t.

Don’t pay any mind to Darrin or the media. You raced fair and clean, that’s all that matters. He’s a jackass.

I know.

I hope you do know. And don’t just say you know Jameson. You need to actually know because that’s the difference here. Knowing and doing.

She had a point. Even clouded judgment could see that—the imperviously manic side of me didn’t want reassurance—he wanted to be pissed.

The next morning after I went for a quick run around the track, to calm my impetuosity, I hit the weight room that the track had.

We didn’t talk much—we were in there for a reason.

Eventually, Bobby did say something to me.

“That was one
helluva
show last night.”

I simply grunted in return continuing with my bicep curls until I reached my limit. Setting the weights on the floor, I nodded. “Not exactly the way I wanted to end the night though.”

“Yeah, so you got fined. I got fined for loose lug nuts during the second segment. It happens.”

“He’s an asshole. Always has been.” Tate added as Andy walked through the doors. We all looked up at him as Darrin shuffled in behind him.

I left immediately. There was no way I could keep from throwing a punch or two at that asshole if he said anything toward me. I didn’t plan on starting out my cup career like this, called into the NASCAR hauler every time I turned around but no, Darrin ensured I did.

I made my way back to my motor coach in the driver’s compound after showing my credentials.

I shrugged out of my jacket not bothering to pick it up from the floor when it missed the coat rack as that would require a little more energy than I was willing to put forth at the moment. Tossing my keys on the counter, I walked past Spencer on the couch watching cartoons with Lane eating bowl of cereal. Usually, I was the only one that stayed at the track in the motor coach aside from Cal—he stayed there too. The rest of the team got hotels nearby. Spencer and Lane stayed with me last night though since Alley and Emma drove back to Mooresville.

With the Coca-Cola 600 on Sunday and practice starting on Thursday, I didn’t
need
to go back home. It was only a thirty-minute drive so if I needed too, I could go home.

Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I sat down next to Spencer on the couch, my phone vibrated next to me. Thinking it was Sway, I picked it up to see a text from Spencer.

Wanna go to Williams Grove tonight for the Morgan Cup Challenge?

I don’t know why I texted him back, he was sitting right next to me but it was sometimes easier to play along with Spencer antics then to question them.

Can’t.
Have to be in Concord this afternoon for an appearance.

We’ll come with you. We could eat at Longhorn.

That got my attention. Anytime we were in Concord, we ate at the Longhorn Steak House. If there was ever a time where I had to choose my last meal, it would be at the Longhorn.

Ok.

Let’s go now.

“I’m sitting right here asshole. Stop texting me.”

“It’s more dramatic this way.”

“How so?”

“I’m not really sure
...
but it is.” He smiled.

I took his cell phone from his hand and tossed it behind me. “You’re an idiot.”

Lane glanced up from his cartoons and grinned, milk dripped down his chin. “Who an in
...
it
?”

“I said idiot, Lane.” I corrected him. “And I was referring to your dad.”

“Oh,” he said meekly and returned to his cartoons.

Spencer glared. “Why do you think I text everyone when he’s here? He’s like a goddamn sponge.”

Lane turned around again and opened his mouth before Spencer stopped him. “Don’t even think about it little man,” he warned in his fatherly tone he had on rare occasions.

Lane, Spencer and Aiden ended up coming with me to Concord that day where we ended with Longhorn. Lane destroyed a plate of cheese fries, we had no idea his tiny three-year old body could hold that much food. Remaining relatively quiet most of the dinner, I had a lot to muse over.

Penalties, sprint car teams, sponsors,
Sway
...
and it was just like me to
over
analyze it all.

The more I contemplated the twist our relationship was taking, the more I wanted it to take that twist. It was more than evident she was physically attracted to me. Her body responded to me.

I caught her watching me on more than one occasion, the long lingering glances, and the quick peeks out of the corner of her eye when my shirt was off. And then there were the more discernable responses when we were together intimately. The way her touch set my body on fire, the silent way her eyes pleaded for me to continue
...
even with all this evidence I had, my mind was telling me not to take things further with her.

Then I had NASCAR on my mind. Rookies were supposed to stay out of trouble, respect veteran drivers, and simply gain experience. Though I was gaining the experience and respect of the veteran drivers like Doug Dunham and Steve Vander, I wasn’t staying out of trouble. I had Darrin to thank for that.

All this trouble with NASCAR wasn’t helping my focus on my sprint car team as well. Our team remained fairly small at the moment so Justin and now Tyler needed me as the owner to be there for them. In sprint car racing, it’s a smaller operation than these cup teams. Where Riley Simplex Racing has grown to around a hundred employees now, I had five with JAR Racing. They needed me.

It may not have been the best time to start a sprint car team in the World of Outlaws—a series that had the most grueling schedule in auto racing—but it’s where I came from. How could I possibly let that go? I couldn’t give that up any more than I could give Sway up.

So there I sat leading up to the Coca-Cola 600, wondering what the fuck went wrong. I was peddled by NASCAR as the next champion in the series but at the same time found
myself
in “Big Red” each week. A sprint car team with two of the best drivers on dirt but lacking the guidance of their owner and madly in love with my best friend who had power she didn’t even know she had. She could take me down harder and faster than anyone I’d ever known. She had
that
power over me, a power I’d never let anyone have before in fear they’d use it against me. But just like sprint car racing, I couldn’t let her go.

It wasn’t an option.

The next few days before practice started for the Coca-Cola 600 were spent relaxing and fulfilling several sponsorship obligations.

I devoted some time with my crewmembers and other drivers in the compound. My motor coach was parked right next to Bobby’s as it was every week and another rookie in the series, Paul Leighty. Paul was a good guy—seemed level headed enough and also disliked Darrin. I guess he and Paul ran USAC together back in ‘98.

Paul, Bobby, Spencer and
me
were hanging around outside Tate’s motor coach with him Wednesday night when Spencer decided to embarrass me. His poison for this
...
Sway.

I don’t know why this happened so often but everyone was curious about us. To me, it was none of their business and I didn’t take lightly to discussing it.

Paul, not knowing me well, asked, “What’s with you and that small town beauty that comes to see you on occasion?”

I took a big chug of coffee, trying to give myself a minute to think.

But the coffee was fucking hot, it scalded my throat going down, making me take in a gulp of air, which of course made me inhale the coffee. I’ve learned over the years that inhaling is the distinctly suboptimal method of ingestion when hot.

As I tried to reign in my choking gagging and other nasty sounds I seemed to be making, Spencer leaned back in his chair, laughing at me.

Another half a minute of me spluttering like an engine out of gas, he laughed out. “I’m embarrassed for you.”

I figured out gasping for life-sustaining oxygen, that I was fucked. Finally I answered with, “She’s my friend.”

“You are such a fucking liar.” Spencer grunted sitting down beside me again and then felt the need to continue. “Those two have been messing around with each other since they were what,” he turned to me looking for an answer. I simply glared. This did nothing to addle him. “I think since they were
...
fourteen,” he laughed. “Caught them dry humping in the movie room one night. She’s been on his dick ever since.” I was displeased to discover that the quality of his voice increased exponentially in relation to its volume.

“Shut the fuck up Spencer!” I snapped punching his shoulder as hard as I could in a sedentary position.

“Friends with benefits
...
huh,” Paul said. “I’ve got one of those. Works out nicely when I can’t commit to anything.”

“I’ve been telling him that for years.” Spencer added before I punched him again.

“Do you understand what shut the fuck up means?”

“Yes,” he laughed.