Avoidable Contact (4 page)

Chapter Six

2:50 P.M. | 23:20 HOURS REMAINING

We wandered back down the pit walkway under a spattering of raindrops toward Sandham Swift, peeking into other team setups where we could, and keeping out of the way of crew members on the run. One driver nearly ran us over from behind. He was tall and graying-blond, a fifty-something businessman convinced of his own self-importance based on the way he paid no attention to anyone around him. He brushed roughly between us, charging down the walkway from garage to pits—sporting an Arena Motorsports firesuit.

I spoke close to Holly's ear. “Are they all complete jerks under that team tent?”

“So far, yes.”

Without planning, as we passed Arena's pits we slowed our pace, watching, but trying to not look like we were staring. From their enormous chunk of pit lane, Arena fielded two GTLM Porsches with all-pro driver lineups and five GTD Porsches piloted by a mix of pros and amateurs—emphasis on the gentlemen drivers who'd paid to race.

A team effort that large seemed excessive—like flaunting one's wealth. Particularly when there were teams, or so the rumor mill ran, that couldn't secure sponsors, a competitive car, or an entry to the race. On the other hand, I had to admire the business savvy that could make a success of racing on that scale. The logistics alone were staggering, considering each car required four to five drivers and eight to ten crew members, not to mention car chiefs, engineers, and hospitality workers for the team as a whole. Arena had more drivers than many one- and two-car teams had on their entire staff.

It wasn't the size and scope of the Arena empire that made the rest of us in the paddock wary. No, that resulted from the personality of the team: closed off, uncommunicative, and downright unfriendly. Not to mention more than your run-of-the-mill racing arrogance unleavened by humor or kind words for anyone else.

But they took care of their own. The whole team had the very best and newest equipment, all painted silvery gray with purple accents. Multiple pit carts, two full sets of monitors displaying every track camera feed, and team-logoed cloth director's chairs. Everything clean and unblemished. Sparkling. They also used every inch of possible space—even filling the pit walkway with carts and spreading tables and equipment out under the stands behind the tent.

“Are they using space belonging to the team next door?” I gestured to the area under the VIP stands.

Holly shrugged. “Typical.”

“Isn't that inappropriate?”

“Everyone who's ever next to them complains about how the Arena team encroaches on their space. Greg measured their tent one time, and it was six inches wider than the regulation. That's why everyone next to them always feels squeezed.”

“Why bother for that little space?”

“If what's important is being bigger, newer, and flashier, no effort is too great.”

I frowned. “Doesn't anyone complain?”

“Plenty have tried. Never goes anywhere. In fact, it's likely to boomerang on you—like when Greg was next to them at the Mid-Ohio race last year,” she explained in a low voice. “They'd pushed the trash cans over in front of Greg's team, like usual, and Greg had no space to pull a golf cart in front of his tent without blocking the exit for his cars. So he centered the trash cans on the line dividing his space from Arena's. To do that, he moved two of Arena's folding chairs out of the way about a foot.”

“Seems reasonable.”

She laughed. “You'd think. A woman on the team named Monica—who, now I think about it, must be your Miss Precious over there—threw a hissy fit, calling the Series in, pointing to a broken chair, and claiming Greg had damaged their property.”

“A folding chair.”

“Not only had he damaged their property,” Holly went on, “but Monica claimed he was also trying to intimidate and bully them. Greg says she kept spouting off about knowing her rights and going to the Series, rulebook in hand, because it wasn't fair for one team or owner to harass others. She wasn't going to stand for the team being discriminated against.”

“Discriminated against? Because she's a woman?” I shook my head. “They're careful about that. I should know.”

“I'm not sure. Maybe because she's female? Maybe it's Arena's ethnicity—or hers? Maybe he's gay, I don't know.”

“If you don't, does anyone?”

Holly shrugged.

“How could someone be discriminated against for something people aren't aware of?” I wondered.

“Sugar, I'm not saying it makes sense.”

“And how can she possibly claim harassment or bullying when they're going over the boundaries of their own space and pushing trash cans around?”

“No one's proven those actions, we simply all
know
. Plus, all it takes is nerve to claim to be the victim of the same thing you do to others. Nerve and blindness to your own hypocrisy.”

“Or not caring you're a hypocrite.”

Before we reached the end of the Arena tent, a golf cart barreled toward us down the walkway. We pressed ourselves back against the fence, still observing the team. Every single person under the Arena tent wore team colors—whether firesuits, polo shirts, button-downs, or long parkas. One car's crew hurried around, prepping for a pit stop.

I shook my head. “I guess it's good Greg's not next to them this weekend.”

At one end of the giant tent, I spied my cousins talking with a nondescript, clean-cut guy in a green shirt and two beefy guys in sport coats, jeans, and expensive-looking western boots. As I watched, Tug Brehan approached the group, shook hands, and visibly preened in response to a comment from the guy in green. I looked away quickly, hoping they didn't see me.

“Time to get out of enemy territory,” I muttered.

Holly glanced at the Arena pit cart nearest us. “Isn't that your new best friend?”

Monica, the home-wrecker—if Holly had her name right—sat at one end of the pit cart next to four men, all facing the track with their backs to us. Three of the men hunched over laptop monitors. The man next to her sat tall and straight, watching the monitors hanging above his head. Given his “I'm the boss” aura, I assumed he was Richard Arena.

“Think she has an actual role with the team?” I nudged Holly to move along.

“She's not here as someone's girlfriend if last night she was—” Holly stopped when I glared at her. “Not saying it doesn't make it go away, Kate.”

I didn't want to think about the woman kissing Stuart. I didn't want to think about Stuart in the hospital. I wanted to think about him well and healthy. I refused to imagine the alternative—I couldn't, not while I was in the middle of the artificial, manufactured world of the twenty-four-hour race day.
I pulled out my phone and typed another plea for information to Polly at the hospital.

Between the Arena expanse and our smaller Sandham Swift tent was a one-car team space similar to Western Racing. The WiseGuy Racing Mazda was out on track, and a small crew gathered around four monitors set up on a folding table behind a smallish pit cart. It was another modest, but stalwart, operation and a team name I recognized as having participated in Grand-Am for many years. I hoped their story was more positive than Greg's. I wondered if we'd see them the rest of the season.

We finally reached Sandham Swift again and nodded hellos to the crew. Holly made a beeline for the disheveled food table and started tidying and refilling supplies from coolers and boxes under the cloth drape. I headed for the far end of the pit space, where I saw Colby sitting, balaclava and helmet in front of her, on one of the smaller pit boxes.

A step later, I tripped over Cooper Whiteside, clad in black and bent over a tub of equipment. Cooper was one of the two spotters on the 28 car who would spend the entire race at the top of the Daytona Speedway tower building, keeping us updated on traffic.

He shook his head at my apology, his hands full of radios and headsets. “No harm done. I'm not usually underfoot once the race starts. The 29 car's spotters are having radio issues, so I offered to run over for extras. Millie and I—” he referred to his wife and spotter-partner for our car “—will be ready to swap units if something goes wrong with the primary.”

I was impressed with the planning and forethought that went into every aspect of the race team. We had contingency plans for the driver not hearing radio communications or the pits not hearing the driver. Now we had a backup plan if spotters were unable to communicate. “Good idea. Talk to you later, Coop.”

“I'll be on when you get in.”

I made it to the far end of the pit and climbed up next to Colby. I waited for a racecar that putted down pit lane, then turned to her. “Any word from Mike on the car?”

“He says the car's still good, and the traffic is crazy,” Colby reported. “Track's already messy at the exit to the Bus Stop. Dampness forming offline.”

“He's staying on slicks, right?” Those were the dry-weather tires, with a slick, smooth surface and no treads. We also had the option of intermediate tires, or “inters,” with a few grooves cut in them for something between wet and dry track. Rain tires, or “wets,” had lots of grooves for channeling away water on the surface of the track. I hadn't felt enough rain in pit lane to require either inters or wets.

Colby nodded. “Still dry on the racing line. Jack's radar says we'll get rain at some point, though. Hopefully not in my stint.”

I grinned. I was driving the car after her. “Leave the rain to me.” I'd come to terms with racing in the rain over the past year—having done it just enough in the Corvette to build confidence in my ability to feel the car's grip.

“I like rain, but you've had this car out in it before.” The pit cart rocked, and Colby looked at the man climbing two steps and settling down next to me. “Right, Miles?” She shouted to him, to be heard over the noise of a prototype passing us in pit lane. “We'll leave the rain to Kate?”

Miles snickered. “As long as I'm not out there at the same time.”

My introduction to Miles had involved the rain, multiple impacts, and broken cars during a race in Wisconsin last year. We'd both tried to take the same line through Road America's notorious Kink at about 120 miles per hour, which hadn't turned out well for either of us. I'd fared better than Miles, at least physically. He'd broken a collarbone and lost out on a chance at NASCAR's season championship. I'd spent two weeks as the most hated woman in America—or that's how it felt at the time. It hadn't helped that later the same day as the accident, I'd found an old friend dead.

The story had a happy ending—mostly. I'd solved two murders, Miles had recovered and won the last two races of his season, and once Racing's Ringer stopped hounding me, the rest of the blogosphere and NASCAR Nation slowly let go of their “Kate hate.” To my surprise, Miles and I became friends, which led to him joining Sandham Swift for this race.

An even bigger surprise was Miles and Holly ending up more than friends. I still wasn't used to my best friend dating a guy who'd been named
People
magazine's most eligible bachelor—twice.

He'd treated her well so far, I admitted, as she climbed up the side of the pit box and Miles hauled her onto his lap. But I had personal experience that proved one shouldn't trust drivers who reached celebrity heights.

I saw movement in my peripheral vision and discovered the reason for my mistrust standing in the Sandham Swift tent opening. He surveyed the scene and caught sight of me, then smiled and started forward.

Cornered. Nowhere to run or hide. I'd avoided him successfully for the past three days, but no longer.

Sam Remington, NASCAR rock-star. My ex-boyfriend, ex-love, ex-almost-fiancé.

Chapter Seven

3:05 P.M. | 23:05 HOURS REMAINING

I slid past Colby and climbed down from the pit box.
Why the hell did you have to descend from NASCAR mountain to run this race, Sam? This is my turf now, and you can't make me feel inadequate here. Not ever again.
I felt a flare of frustration.
Besides, who cares about your ego when Stuart's facing real problems?

I pasted a smile on my face and moved forward to meet Sam. He was as handsome as ever, with blue eyes that seemed to smile on their own and a way of focusing as if you were the only person who mattered in the world. Curly dark hair you wanted to run your fingers through. A charming, disarming grin. A total package that made women swoon for no single, identifiable reason other than “handsome and approachable.”

I stopped two feet away and stuck out my hand. I wasn't going the hug-and-kiss route. “Hi, Sam.”

He looked from my eyes to my hand, surprised. Then he shook, wrapping my much smaller hand in both of his. He looked delighted. “Kate. It's so good to see you. I tried to find you the last couple days, but kept missing you.”

That was my plan.
I smiled and tucked my hand in my firesuit pocket, out of reach. “Good to see you, too. Congratulations on last year.” He'd placed third in NASCAR's season championship. Not bad for only his fourth year in the big leagues.

He hung his head the way millions of women—minus me—found endearing. “Thanks. It was a hell of a run. Great team. I've been lucky.” His face lit up. “But wow, you've been on a tear. I'm so happy for you. So proud of you—the team, race results, the sponsorship deal. Congratulations.”

I hesitated. I could respond with: “How dare you be proud of me when you didn't think my career would be worth anything?” or “Why would you care when you're more interested in a woman who supports your dreams than a woman with her own?” I considered all the accusations and cutting remarks I'd practiced over the years when imagining this conversation.

I let them go. “It's been a good year for me, too. I guess you never know what the future will hold.”

“You sure don't. Look, Kate, is there somewhere we could talk more privately? I wanted to…” he paused, wrung his hands, and finally finished with, “catch up a little.”

Perhaps he'd meant to say “explain” or “apologize.” Maybe “beg forgiveness” or “grovel.” I didn't care. The action around us saved me. All three crews had been quietly prepping for pit stops for the last fifteen minutes, and now they stepped up the activity, pulling on helmets and uncoiling hoses. At the same time, Tug Brehan ducked into the tent and made a beeline for Jack on the central pit box.
Stuart?
My heart leapt into my throat.

I looked at Sam. “Now isn't a good time.” If I had my way, there'd never be a good time.

Then Holly and Miles were next to me, Miles reaching out to shake hands with Sam.

“I'll catch up with you later then, Kate,” Sam said. “I'm up with Carnegie Performance Group if you can stop by.”

“Sure. See you on the track.” I walked over to stand next to Colby near the pit box where Tug spoke with Jack.

Colby dragged her attention to me as I approached. “Wow, Sam Remington. Friend of yours?”

“My ex.”

She glanced at Sam, who was still a few feet away, chatting with Miles and Holly. “You let
that
get away?”

“He's attractive.”

“Are you kidding me? Try gorgeous and
hot
.” She growled a little bit.

I laughed, probably for the first time all day. It felt good. “You're welcome to him, Colby. But I'll warn you, he wants a support system, not an equal partner. That's why he's my ex.”

Her eyes narrowed. She looked from me to Sam again. Then back to me. “Much less hot now.” She turned back to face the track.

I saw Tug finish with Jack and look around. He reached me just as the crew stepped onto the low wall between the hot and cold sides of the pits.

“Have you—Stuart?” That was all I could force out through my suddenly dry throat.

He shook his head. “No word yet, I'm sorry. I'll tell you personally or text the minute I know anything.”

I swallowed, trying to force my heart rate to slow down.

“We did want to talk with you for a moment, Kate,” Tug went on.

I finally realized he had a woman with him, who'd followed him through the tent and stood next to us.

I apologized to her and introduced myself.

“Elizabeth Rogers.” She shook my hand with the grip of a limp fish. I wondered again why more people didn't value a good handshake the way they valued orthodontia or clear skin.

I saw our lollipop—the car number on a long stick waved out in the hot pit lane to orient the driver—start to move and knew we were seconds away from the car's arrival.

“After the pit stop?”

Tug and Elizabeth nodded, and I studied them as we waited.

Tug wore the most expensive brands, latest trends, and even regulation Series attire with a flair that made some men assume he was gay. Women knew better, recognizing the glint in his eye that signaled a deep appreciation of females as a species. His chatty, almost flowery conversational style didn't counteract the suspicions most men harbored about him. But it put women at ease.

Tug and Stuart had competed for the job Stuart eventually won. When the American Le Mans Series and Grand-American Road Racing officially merged into the United SportsCar Championship at the end of last season, there were two qualified people to fill every one new job. In the face-off between two heads of operations, Stuart had come out the winner with multiple years of vice presidential experience at the ALMS.

Tug Brehan, twenty-seven and new to the job in Grand-Am, had accepted the role as Stuart's second-in-command. Tug had been a friendly team-player the two times I'd met him, though the puffed-up, self-important vibe I got from watching him work pit lane was new. Or maybe I didn't know him very well.

I hadn't met Elizabeth before. She was decked out in a Series shirt and radio headset, so she had some role at the race. Compared to Tug, however, she was less everything. Less stylish, less outgoing, less warm. She wasn't unfriendly or unattractive, but she suffered in comparison to the charm and style Tug possessed. She was plain standing next to him, with her unpolished fingernails and shoulder-length straight blonde hair held back by a headband, of all things. Not to mention the neutral, unmoving expression on her face. Everything about her projected, “I am serious and focused.”

I snapped out of my daze as the 28 car jerked to a stop in front of us, the 29 and 30 cars arriving behind it within seconds. All three crews leapt into motion, filling the cars with fuel and putting on fresh tires.

Jack's strategy was to dive right into double stints for each driver—each stint representing anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes, which was the most we could do on a full tank of fuel. The exact time was dependent on yellow flags, because if caution flew past the halfway point of a fuel load, we'd pit under yellow. Each driver would do triple stints or more later in the race, especially in the late-night and early-morning hours, but to get our feet wet, we started with about two hours of driving time, give or take those yellow flags.

Thirty seconds later, Mike had pulled out of the pits, the 29 and 30 cars following shortly after.

An SGTV pit reporter appeared in their wake, speaking into the microphone. The reporter turned, zeroing in on Jack leaning off the side of the pit box to talk to a crew member. I narrowed my eyes at the reporter.
Hello, Scott Brooklyn. We will talk later.

But first, I gestured Tug and Elizabeth out to the walkway behind the tent, to be out of the way of crew members recoiling hoses and refilling fuel tanks. I grabbed a bottle of water on the way and waited for them to tell me what they wanted.

Tug opened his mouth to speak, but reached for his phone instead. He looked at me. “News from the hospital.”