Authors: Pamela Britton

Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Love Stories, #Contemporary Romance, #Fathers and Daughters, #Sports & Recreation, #Businesswomen, #Single Fathers, #North Carolina, #Automobile Racing Drivers, #Automobile Racing, #Motor Sports, #NASCAR (Association), #Automobiles; Racing

On the Edge (25 page)

BOOK: On the Edge

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“No. One day I’ll settle down, but with a nice ordinary man. Someone who’s far removed from this lifestyle.”

“Like an auto mechanic from Tennessee?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Is that what you want? Would that make it better? Do you want me to give up driving?”

“No, I’m not asking that because that would be ridiculous. It’s stupid. It makes no sense.” She lifted her chin. “But maybe that
is
what I want.”

Down in the garage she heard cars start, the crack of exhaust incredibly loud even all the way up in the stands. Time for the next series to practice. Adam didn’t even flinch. All he did was say, “You know I can’t.”

“I know,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with tears.

“It’s all I’ve got.”

“I know.” And ultimately, it was more important than her. It always was with drivers.

Another car started. Then another and another. But the two of them were in their own little world, one where the only sound they heard was the beating of their own hearts.

“It would break Lindsey’s heart,” he said at last.

Just as it would break hers. “I know,” she said again, her eyes stinging.

And she’d known that’s what his answer would be. She’d known it would come to this. That’s why she’d been avoiding him. She’d known it and she hadn’t wanted to face the fact that, having come to care for him, she would have to give him up.

“And so I’m saying goodbye,” she said softly.

“We don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, we do,” she said quickly. “I’m going to end this now, Adam, before one of us ends up getting hurt.”

“I’m already hurt,” he said. “And so is Lindsey.”

Lindsey.
Just the mention of the little girl’s name brought her closer to tears than ever before. “Tell her I’m sorry,” she said. “I know she was hoping…that she thought…” She shook her head. “Just tell her I’m sorry.”

She turned away, heading down the long row of empty seats, her steps echoing against the roof above and away from Adam.

“Becca,” he called.

But she kept on walking.

“Don’t do this!”

She had to. For his sake and hers.

But mostly, she admitted, for
hers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SHE WAS WALKING AWAY.

Adam fought the urge to go after her. And the harder he fought, the angrier he became.

What was she thinking?

What was she doing?

Didn’t she realize what it was that she gave up? How could anybody do that out of fear of losing themselves? For a man who faced death for a living, it was nearly an impossible concept to grasp.

But she did give it up.

He watched her long hair sway from side to side as she reached the end of the aisle, turned right and then climbed the steps to the top. Out on the track, a car began to go through the gears. A part of him counted the changes in tempo. First gear, second, third and then fourth. By the time the driver reached fourth, she was gone.

He stood there. But only for a moment. Without thought, he sank into the seat next to where she’d been sitting.

She’d broken up with him.

Because she didn’t like what he did for a living.

The irony of the excuse wasn’t lost on Adam. But what he didn’t understand, what pissed him off more than anything, was that he wasn’t at all like Randy Newman. Sure, Randy had been a brilliant driver, but he’d also been a jerk. There wasn’t a weekend on the circuit that he hadn’t spun someone out. Adam never drove like that, and while he hated to speak ill of the dead, the man had always put his needs above Becca’s. Everyone said so. Adam would never do that.

He turned on his heel, walking in the opposite direction. He wouldn’t go chasing after Becca. Not this time. Not ever again. And with each step he took, his anger grew.

His watch refracted light onto his face as he checked the time. Four hours until qualifying. He had four hours to prepare himself mentally. Four hours to get his head on straight.

He’d prove to Becca he was the better man.

HE STARTED the race fifth. It would have been higher but he had misjudged one of the corners and almost lost control.

It wouldn’t happen again.

Remembering the look on Lindsey’s face when he’d told her what had happened between him and Becca had only fueled his determination. His little girl had idolized Becca. That she’d asked him to give up racing had just about broken her heart, too.

“Fire ’em up.”

It was Friday night. Time to race. Time to concentrate.

With a hand that was absolutely level, he flipped the switch to start the engine.

Nothing happened.

He switched boxes and tried again. Still nothing.

“I’ve got no ignition,” he said, his voice dead calm. He wasn’t worried. He was going to win this race whether he had to start from the back of the field or not.

A NASCAR official came up to his truck and tapped his window, motioning him to get a move on, the safety shirt she wore glowing beneath the neon lights. He splayed his hands indicating that he couldn’t. With a quick wave the official waved for help in pushing him out of the way, but his crew had only been a few pit boxes away and they were already there, Adam shifting it into Neutral. Someone already had the hood pins off by the time he’d been pushed into their pit box, someone else leaning under the hood.

And still Adam didn’t panic.

He could see a tiny sliver of what was going on between the front cowl and the hood. Someone jiggled some wires. His crew chief told him to try it again at the same time trucks started rolling by, the
woosh-woosh-woosh
of engines echoing in the truck’s cab.

Vaa-roof.

It wasn’t a roar so much as an explosion of sound, six-hundred-and fifty horses all kicking and galloping at the same time.

He pulled out the minute they had the hood secured.

“NASCAR’s telling you to take your position.”

“Roger that,” Adam said, ducking to the inside and passing cars one by one. The flagman waved at him to catch up when he crossed under the stand.

“Three laps. They’re telling us they’ll start in three laps.”

Adam registered the comment, but that was all. He was focused on warming up his tires, on checking his gauges and testing out the handling. Two laps later and he readied himself. This was his race to lose.

And he was not. Going. To. Lose.

Jason Ingle might have something to say about that, a little voice said. The man was toward the back of the field, but Adam didn’t care. It was obvious to everybody that Ingle was a better NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series driver than he was a NASCAR NEXTEL Cup driver. But for some reason he suspected Jason blamed him for his demise. He’d tried patching things up after a driver’s meeting not too long ago, but Jason hadn’t wanted a thing to do with him.

Fine.

He wasn’t in the sport to make friends.

They picked up speed, the lampposts surrounding the track sliding past his car faster and faster. The distance between them seemed to shorten the faster he went, an optical illusion that told him they were almost up to racing pace.

“Green, green, green.”

He didn’t need to be told. He saw the flag man jerk the green flag back and forth. He didn’t slam the pedal down, he pushed it gently, feeling his whole body relax the moment he crossed over the start/finish line. He didn’t see the stands anymore. Didn’t catch a glimpse of the leader board. Didn’t see the infield grass flash by. Didn’t see anything but the back end of the truck in front of him, the sponsor’s logo like a giant target on the truck’s back end.

He pointed his nose right for it, ducking down at the last minute to pass the guy before a single lap had passed.

“Clear high.”

He jerked the wheel up, steering the truck into the groove, his eyes on the track in front of him. Lights flickered off the hood of his truck, the green-and-white sheet metal vibrating beneath the force of the draft. One down.

“You’re looking to be about a half second faster than the leader,” his crew chief said.

Adam didn’t bother to answer. The next truck was in sight. He kept his gaze focused on the guy’s rear tires, registering his position on the track without conscious thought, looking for weaknesses as they went into turn three and four, noting the way he lost bottom end exiting the turns. Easy pickings.

He waited half a lap before making his move, following the guy around and then ducking up high, near the marbles, his back end breaking free for a second. But his competition didn’t have the horsepower to keep up with him, even with Adam running the high line.

One more down.

It was like that with the next truck, too, Adam suddenly in a position to lead. And so he would. It wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when. The guy in front of him was going down. Now.

Lights flickered on and off like neon signs when he steered the truck into the bottom groove. The guy was fast. Almost as fast as he was. But the leader didn’t have anger urging him on. Adam didn’t care how he had to win, he just wanted to win. And so he took a risk he probably shouldn’t have. His truck pushed. He slid right into the side of the leader. Tires squealed. His truck lurched. Adam held on.

“Still outside,” his spotter said.

As if Adam didn’t know that. They were trading paint like a couple of targets on a paintball field.

“Still there.”

But he was pulling him. Inch by inch he gained ground until…

“Clear high.”

“Good job, driver,” his crew chief said, excitement causing his voice to rise. “Just ride around the front now.”

And stay out of trouble.

But it wasn’t as simple as that. Halfway through the race the fifty-one truck challenged him. He lost the lead for a few laps, but a good pit stop and a fresh set of tires put him back in front again. No, his biggest challenge came from none other than Jason Ingle. Big surprise. But he didn’t come from behind. Adam had to pass him and put him a lap down. Unfortunately, he had to do so with twenty laps to go. And Jason wasn’t going to let it be easy. Oh, no, he had a bone to pick. But Adam didn’t even flinch when Jason checked up, hoping Adam would run into the back of him. Adam pulled the wheel to the left and ducked beneath him.

“Nice try,” he said.

“You’ve got company,” his spotter said.

Adam glanced in his rearview mirror. But it wasn’t Jason behind him now. It was Sam Kennison, his new teammate.

“Somebody better tell him to play nice,” Adam said. “I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Ten-four,” his crew chief said. “I’ll tell him you said that but somehow I don’t think it’ll help.”

And probably it wouldn’t. Sam had been posting decent lap times all night. Adam knew that, having been kept in the loop of who was fast and who was not.

Suddenly, he had a race on his hands.

And, suddenly, Adam was smiling. There were twenty laps to go. He was racing for a win and his main competition was his own teammate. Sure, it was the son of an old rival, but Adam trusted Sam. The kid would make it interesting.

Sure enough, less than two laps later, Sam darted into the bottom groove right when Adam dropped down to keep the line closed. But Sam forced Adam to hold the high line, his spotter calling, “Low, low, low,” in his ear.

He could hear the air pressure change as wind from Sam’s truck buffeted the sides, rattling the catch net to his left. For the first time that night, Adam felt his knuckles tighten, felt the adrenaline surge. One foot, two—Sam began to pass him. But Adam hung on, holding on to the high line through the turn’s exit.

Sam fell back.

Adam had better top end, but that was the only thing that saved his ass. Sam would push on him again through the next turn. And the next. And the next.

And so it went until Adam heard the words he’d been dreading. “Ducking down,” the spotter said. “Looking for a pass.”

Sure enough, Sam shot to the bottom, nudging up along his back quarter panel. Metal touched metal.

“Low.”

Obviously,
Adam was tempted to answer, but the adrenaline was pumping now. Sam would have to work harder to pass him.

Or wreck him.

“Coming again.”

Adam tried to hold his line, but his truck pushed high. Sam moved up. Adam held on to it, the straightaway once again providing the room needed to accelerate. Sam fell back once more.

Two to go.

He couldn’t take much more of this. But the problem didn’t end. The next lap Sam tried to take the high line.

BOOK: On the Edge

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