Smokin' & Spinnin' (5 page)

I raise my eyebrows, considering her confession as a warning.

Jerri continues to explain, “For some reason, this race season, we have had the most problems from Ryan. Back during the off-season, he had a small cameo role in a movie that shot out in Los Angeles, and he came back from that experience with a double dose of attitude, trés movie star, if you know what I mean.” She laughs. “I don’t know if he is burned out or if he is losing his focus or what. It is disheartening because he has so much potential.” She sighs and shakes her head. “And no one knows how to handle Ryan. Well, they don’t know how to handle him outside of the bedroom, which is where they all wind up!” Suddenly she looks remorseful. “Did I say that out loud?”

And we both laugh. My head is swirling with information, but I vow to myself that I can handle Ryan.
I’m going to show Mr. Pompous Ass that I can do this job
.

My job as public relations manager is basically to arrange scheduled events for sponsors, meet and greets with fans, and televised race interviews throughout the weekend. Since Annalise has already made these arrangements, I will only have to go on Sunday to assist Ryan with these events. The main goal, Jerri says, is to make sure Ryan attends every event that he is scheduled for—oh, and make sure he stays in line, which is a job in itself. So, basically, I am a babysitter, well, a glorified babysitter, for Ryan Carter.
Great!
I think I should request an assistant already!

I have never been to a NASCAR event, so I have no idea of what to expect. I make my travel arrangements for Brooklyn, Michigan, according to Jerri’s instructions. I am a ball of nerves as I make my flight and hotel reservations for Saturday and Sunday. I am trying to be as meticulous as I can because I don’t need to screw this up before I get there.

I have to cancel Annalise’s arrangements and make new ones for myself. I have never been to Michigan, or anywhere else, for that
matter, but something tells me I won’t be able to do much sightseeing. I have to be at the track with Ryan early Sunday morning for pre-race activities, then stay through the main event, until the checkered flag falls and Ryan returns to Charlotte. Then, a red-eye flight from Detroit will bring me home late Sunday night. This is all too much information to process without alcohol. I look down at my watch. It’s after five o’clock.
Praise God!
I have got to get out of here!

Chapter 5

L
uckily, today is Margarita Monday! And I am having dinner with Brooke, so hopefully she can help me to hash all this out. I seriously need her advice. I arrive at Rock Bottom Brewery in downtown Charlotte around six o’clock.

Brooke is perfectly dressed and coiffed even this late in the day. It makes me ill. I am frazzled as usual, no doubt thanks to the insane day that I have had.

Brooke signals for the waiter to come over as she says to me, “You look like you need a drink!”

“Thanks!” I snap. “That is a polite way of saying, you look like shit!” The waiter walks up on cue as I say, “I’ll have what she is having, but make mine a double!”

The waiter retreats, and Brooke eyes me intently. “What the what?”

“Well…” I say cautiously, “I got a new job today.”

“Oh?” Brooke looks at me intently, waiting on me to continue.

I sigh, “You are looking at the new “acting” public relations manager for Ryan Carter.”

Brooke’s mouth drops wide open, and I raise my eyebrows at her. I have never seen this look of pure shock on her face.
This is one for the record books.

“Well…actually,” I say straight, “it’s basically a glorified babysitting job with a fancy title.” I continue to bore myself with the details of my new job description. Brooke looks dazed as she continues to stare at me with an openmouthed gape. “Brooke!” I wave my hands at her to break her gaze. “Say something!”

She guffaws. “I would babysit his fine ass any day, no matter what the title!”

I groan loudly, “Oh my God! He’s such an ass! Honestly, I don’t know how he walks around carrying that incredibly huge chip on his shoulder, like, ‘Oh! I’m Ryan Carter. Stop the traffic, please!’ What a bastard!” I say in a huff.

The waiter arrives with my margarita, so I discontinue my conversation momentarily. I take a long, glorious sip. The tequila burns down my throat. Ahh! Just exactly what I needed, and to hell with the two-drink minimum tonight! The waiter retreats again, and Brooke doesn’t miss a beat.

She eyes me. “Oh, come on! You have to admit that he is sexy as hell!”

I take a sip from my glass and answer warily, “OK! OK! Yes, he is hot, but his personality is a cat of a different color!”

Brooke nods her head and quickly says, “That’s just what makes him Ryan Carter.”

I roll my eyes again. “Oh! And according to the office gossip, he has, like, a new girl at every track, so he probably has something Ajax won’t take off!”

Brooke instantly chokes on her margarita and snorts. “Please, I got something that works way better than Ajax!”

And we erupt in a fit of girlish giggles, clinking our margarita glasses.

Chapter 6

M
y plane touches down in Detroit around eight o’clock on Saturday night. I have begged Brooke to come with me because, frankly, I am terrified, but she is stuck working on a huge case for her firm. I have never really traveled anywhere, much less alone. I mean…I know I won’t technically be alone once I get to the track, but it would have been nice to have a travel companion.

I have to stay at the Detroit Metro Marriott at the airport. I check into my room, which is surprisingly comfy. After a quick shower, I change into my pj’s. I pull out my iPad to review tomorrow’s activities at the track. A race courier will pick me up in the morning to deliver me to the track in Brooklyn. The track is sixty or so odd miles west of Detroit. I check and double check my schedule to make sure I have everything together. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I fall asleep.

I wake up to intense sunlight flooding my room. Oh no! I sit up in the bed quickly to get my bearings. I fell asleep without setting the alarm.
Shit!
I fumble around for my iPhone. I steal a glance at the time once I get my hands on it. It’s 9:00 a.m. I am so late!

I scramble around as I throw on a pair of khaki pants, GCR logo polo shirt, and my Asics tennis shoes. My cell phone starts to ring. I grab it and don’t recognize the number.

“Hello!” I say, exasperated.

The voice on the other end sounds just as annoyed. “This is MIS Courier Service, and I have been waiting on you for over an hour. I am instructed to take you to the speedway. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” I exclaim. “I am sorry, but I overslept. I am on my way down.” I can tell the courier is less than thrilled by my confession.

I throw my belongings into my overnight bag and basically run down to the lobby. I find the driver waiting outside by the curb, and I jump into the car. A young black guy, about twenty, rolls his eyes at me as I slide into the backseat.

“I am so sorry!” I profusely apologize, but I can tell my driver is not interested in hearing it. He slams the car into drive, and we pull away from the hotel with rapid speed.

It is a beautiful day, about eighty degrees. The scenery en route to the track is breathtaking as we roll through the Irish Hills of Southeast Michigan. As we drive, I try in vain to work my hair into submission with my brush. I finally give up and secure it back in a ponytail. Then, I apply a few light makeup touches. There, that will have to do, I say to myself as I snap my compact closed. Thank God for the drive into Brooklyn, or I would have been a walking hot mess for the rest of the day.

As we make the last curve on Highway 12, I look up, and the Michigan International Speedway looms like the
Titanic
on the horizon. “Wow!” I say audibly.

My driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Have you never been to MIS?”

I shake my head. “This is my first NASCAR event ever!”

As we approach the enormous structure, we pass acres and acres of parking areas, fans, and shopping villages that have been erected for the race weekend. There are people everywhere. All of a sudden, I am extremely nervous. I was too busy being late to be anxious, but now the floodgates are open. My heart begins to race as we enter a tunnel.

“Where are we going?” I ask nervously.

“This is the infield tunnel. It takes you into the center of the speedway, where the drivers, teams, and headquarters are located. It is where you need to go.”

I nod my head at him and look down at my phone. I am exactly one hour and thirty minutes late. I wonder vaguely if I should text Jerri to let her know, but then, I don’t want her to worry or question my abilities either. I decide against it and put my phone in my pocket.

Sunlight fills the car as we enter the raceway infield area. I try to take a deep breath, but anxiety takes over. “I need to go to the drivers’ meeting. Do you know where that is?” I ask the driver, who is a little friendlier now.

“Sure, I will drop you off at the end of the lane that takes you right to the building.”

“Great!” I say as the driver puts the car in park. I grab my bag and exit the car, but not before I apologize for my tardiness again.

OK
, I say to myself.
Get it together!

I start down the lane toward the main facility of the racetrack. I make it to the door, and there is absolutely no one even milling around outside. I steal a glance at my phone for the time. I have completely missed the sponsor breakfast, and I am now thirty minutes late for the drivers’ meeting.
Damn it!

I open the door slowly to peer into the building, to make sure that I am, in fact, in the right place. As I look into the meeting hall, I meet the eyes of about a hundred people who turn cautiously to see who has dared enter the mandatory drivers’ meeting
late! Oh my God!
Sheer mortification sets in, and I jump through the door like a scared cat.

The moderator of the meeting continues to discuss safety precautions, weather, and pit road regulations. Luckily, there is standing room only, and I am able to disappear behind a group of guys who are standing at the door. My face is flushed with hot embarrassment. I feel like I am going to throw up.

I look around the room to spot Ryan. It is easy to spot him because he is in the second row scowling back at me. My stomach drops through my knees. I mouth to him, “So sorry!” He gives me a cold stare and then turns his attention back to the gentleman who is giving details about pit road speeds and extra safety measures that have been put into place since the new track configuration. It is like Greek to me. I have no idea what this man is talking about or if it applies to me.

As soon as the moderator answers a few questions from drivers, the meeting is adjourned. Everyone quickly disperses and lines up to head out the door. I stand by the door to wait for Ryan. I don’t make eye contact with anyone because I am just so embarrassed by this point.
Jeezus!

Ryan strides past me with only a look of sheer disgust. I don’t even get a “Hey,” “Bye,” “Kiss my ass,” or anything from him.
Bastard!
I throw my overnight bag over my shoulder and fall in line behind him and the other drivers.

As we walk, I hear Ryan say, “That will be my new fucking babysitter!”

Ugh! I don’t miss a beat and say just loud enough for him to hear me, “When you stop acting like a child, you won’t need a babysitter, will you?”

Ryan angles his head back in acknowledgment of my statement, but doesn’t say anything.

“Yes, I do hope you heard me,” I mutter under my breath. I keep up the pace as we walk swiftly and quietly through the infield area. It is a zoo.

As we enter the driver introduction platform, I notice a few members of security who fall into line with us—and thankfully, just at the right time. A throng of fans descend on Ryan.
Sweet Jesus!
They are all clamoring for his attention, autograph, and photographs. I get pushed around in the crowd, but I stand my ground and follow Ryan’s lead.

This is madness, but I can tell Ryan loves it. As the fans push and shove us to get his attention, Ryan takes his time and care with each one. I notice as we continue to push through the crowd that he turns back and steals a quick glance at me, but I am not sure why. The look on his face is very out of character for him. It’s almost as though he is concerned for me. As our eyes lock, I feel my pulse quicken. It puts me at ease, though, it is fleeting.