by Alice Ward
Locke and me? That felt like a race I could never win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Locke
The months went on, and soon we found ourselves in June, at the Pocono Raceway.
I hadn’t even watched Tawny, our Run Like a Girl spokesperson, compete in the Olympics. I didn’t even know our Shred Like a Girl’s name. But I’d been to every race that Emma had been in, all twelve of them, busy schedule be damned. I’d never been so protective of an asset as I had been toward Emma, so it should have been obvious what was going on.
I knew it was obvious to Laura, who just rolled her eyes and said, “Talladega?” or “Bristol?” whenever I announced I was going away for a weekend.
I was like Emma’s shadow, her damn bodyguard. Wherever she went, I was somewhere in the background. When she was interviewed, I was hanging by, just off camera. And though I always booked two rooms in whatever hotel we were staying at, we ended up sleeping together. No. Now we needed to sleep together. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was all too easy and comfortable that sometimes I forgot we had to keep things secret.
That was a necessity. Now more than ever. Laura was right that it wouldn’t be good for Emma. Emma had done UnCaged proud. Now, interviewers were starting to notice her for more than just her pretty face and gorgeous tits. After bombing out during the trial in Daytona, she’d come back strong with a twelfth-place finish in the Martinsville 500, done a respectable fifteenth in her hometown course at ISM, then she’d killed it in Bristol with a seventh-place finish. She hadn’t finished in Talladega due to engine trouble, but then at Dover, she’d been in fourth until she was tapped on the last lap and had to take a seat.
People were starting to notice her, and she was getting her due as a tough racer. With Danica Patrick out, she was now the only female NASCAR driver on the field. The ads for Drive Like a Girl had been well-received, and our profits were up twelve percent this quarter. People were starting to give her mad props, respecting her for the woman she was.
I didn’t fucking want them going back to the way they’d treated her at that press conference, like she was a joke.
She had other worries on her mind too. She’d done all her winning with Brody as her pit chief. She hadn’t replaced him like she said she would. I told her that I thought what happened in Daytona was just a mistake, but she wasn’t one for forgiveness and wouldn’t let him live it down. Even so, she told me her race winnings were going to his racing arm.
What she lacked in forgiveness, she made up for in loyalty.
But as stressful as things were all around, they were at least a little easier for me in the suite watching her. Gradually, I’d been able to relax enough to take my eyes off the race to use the bathroom or get myself some food from the buffet. Now, I’d gotten to be a bit of an expert in how Emma raced. She liked to hug the inside and stay away from the wall. If someone tapped her, she’d tap them back. She was vengeful that way. And she liked to come out in front as soon as possible and just stay there as long as she could. She was like a little jackrabbit.
I was excited for Pocono because it was a four hundred, and in the simulator, that seemed to be her sweet spot. Five hundreds started to drag her, and anything less, she didn’t have enough time to stretch her legs. After that almost third-place finish in Dover, I felt like something big was on the horizon.
“How you feeling down there?” I asked her as she and the other drivers made their way to the starting line.
“Okay, boss,” she said to me. She’d taken to calling me that a lot more, ever since I told her not to, which made me smile. She sounded relaxed, happy, just as she’d been when I left her in her hotel room this morning. “Taking your car out for a spin.”
“All right. Take good care of it.” And yourself. Take good care of yourself.
I pulled off the headset and affixed my 77 ballcap onto my head.
“Drivers, start your engines!” the starter screamed into the microphone from the podium out front.
Before this, I had to say I’d been stumbling around the sport. Not wanting to appear like a total buffoon, I hadn’t asked anyone the thousands of questions bubbling up in my head as I watched the races, having to figure it out on my own. By now, though, I was pretty comfortable. Yes, I’d seen a share of crashes, similar to the one that had taken Brody’s arm, but I trusted Emma’s ability.
So when the pace car trailed into pit road, the green flag waved, and announcer Darrell Waltrip said, “Boogity boogity boogity, let’s go racing, boys… and girl!” I was actually enjoying myself. It was impossible not to fall in love with the sport. Everyone was so damn excited, and the enthusiasm was infectious.
This time, contrary to my first race, I was actually able to get out and circulate, schmoozing with the guests. I greeted them all, made sure they were comfortable and had everything they needed, and thanked them for coming. I also provided them with all the number 77 merchandise they could fit on their person.
By the time the three-hundredth lap rolled around, I was in high spirits. As usual, Emma had made it to the front of the pack and was jockeying with Ryan Blaney for fourth. Just a hundred more to go. I could count on Emma to keep it close for the next few dozen laps, and then make her move on him, do a little one-two punch that would leave him scratching his head, sucking her exhaust.
“So, your girl going to make a big move at the end and bring home a win this time?” a voice said behind me.
I turned. It was one of our business partners from up in Pennsylvania. During all these races, we gave private access to our biggest partners who were also NASCAR fans, and Sal was one of the biggest. Bald, large, and brash, he was in his early sixties, ruddy-faced, and built like a refrigerator.
I grinned. “She’s still a rookie, but she’s getting there. Making strides every race. She’ll win one of these days.”
He nodded and took a sip of his beer as he sat beside me at the table overlooking the oval. “Yeah. She’s definitely a hot property to have.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant “hot” in a derogatory way, but he was one of my business trade partners, so I took it at face value. “Yes. She’s definitely going places.”
He laughed. “I know one place I’d like her to go. In my bed.” He bobbed his eyebrows, grinning like a hound.
I turned to him. Was he fucking serious? If he wasn’t one of our biggest business partners, I’d have clocked him. My fists clenched, and I had to tell them to behave. “She’s a serious athlete, Sal.”
He put up his hands, conceding. “Doesn’t mean she isn’t also a hot piece of ass.”
I frowned. Big partner or not, I couldn’t stand for that. So what if his big-box store refused to carry our products? We still had fifty-five other retailers who did. I stood up. “All right—”
I froze when I heard one of the announcers shout, “Oh and there goes number 77. Fire and flames.”
Shit.
I fastened my eyes on the oval just in time to see 77 spinning across the track before colliding with the inside guardrail, then flipping, end over end in a barrel roll, once, twice, three times. Cars soared past, avoiding the wreckage, but my eyes were fastened on the mangled car as it bounced about the track like a child’s plaything. The hood with the UnCaged Fitness logo was ripped open like the top of a tin can.
“… and it still hasn’t stopped rolling from the momentum,” the announcer said through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope the driver, rookie Emma James, will come out of this all right.”
Fuck. I dropped the beer I was holding and grabbed the headset. Brody was yelling Emma’s name, over and over again, with no response.
“What’s going on?” I barked into the mic. “Emma. Answer us!”
Silence.
Heart in my throat, I raced out of the suite and down the staircase, toward the entrance to the field. Meanwhile, the race went on, the yellow caution flag out. By the time I got down to the pit area, the rest of the crew was surrounding her mangled car. An ambulance a
nd fire truck had arrived and were putting out the flames, leaving smoke in its wake.
It hadn’t looked that bad from above, but now that I was close to it, it looked like a crushed tin can. The crew was cutting into the frame, trying to pull her out. Shit, shit, shit. “Emma,” I said again into the mic.
No response.
The twisted wreckage of the door was pulled off the side of the car, and I could see her body lying behind the wheel, limp and still. They lifted off her helmet and wrapped a brace around her neck before pulling her out of the wreckage, laying her body flat on the waiting stretcher.
I couldn’t breathe.
I didn’t know how I pushed through the crowd, but in an instant, I was kneeling in front of her. Her face was pale, but she was breathing, and when I grabbed her hand, I felt her pulse beating steadily in her wrist. But I couldn’t see any blood. No burns. The security measures we’d put in place had done their job.
So why was she unconscious?
“How is she?” I murmured to the EMTs as they worked on her, checking her vitals.
One of the men lifted her eyelid, flashing a light into her eye. The pupil dilated as expected, as did the other one. It was a very good sign.
“Good. Let’s give her a minute.”
As they worked, I watched her eyes flutter, then open. The first thing they landed on was me.
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, emotion clogging my throat. “God, Emma. Are you okay?”
She tried to shake her head, but the restraints holding her down kept her still. “No,” she croaked.
“What’s wrong?” I said, searching her fire suit for lacerations, broken bones, something out of the ordinary. “What hurts?”
“I peed myself,” she said sheepishly, trying to sit up.
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard I cried, or maybe I’d been already on the verge of crying, and the laugh just pushed the tears out. She was okay, even better than okay. She was trying to sit up. She was alert, feisty, alive Emma, and I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life. She pulled the brace away from her neck in annoyance, threw it on the ground, and looked around, like she was trying to figure out what the fuss was all about.
I completely forgot about everyone and everything around us. I was too fucking happy to care about all of that. I grabbed her in my arms and kissed her.
The rest of the crew gave the thumbs-up to onlookers, and the crowd erupted in wild applause around us as I kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. Tongue and all, breathlessly, not needing the air, like this was our first meeting, or last goodbye.
And I didn’t fucking care. She was alive. When I broke the kiss, she said, “I don’t think I’m going to win this one, boss,” which made me laugh again.
“That’s okay,” I told her, my hands on either side of her face. “You can win the next one.”
She wanted to walk, but I insisted she needed to get checked out first. The EMTs loaded her into the ambulance, and I went with her.
And I refused to let go of her hand the entire time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Emma
I felt like I’d been run over by a truck.
Or a race car.
Whatever.
I was sore from head to toe. Even seemingly safe places, like my earlobes, hurt.
But fortunately, after a thorough checkup by a physician at the hospital, I was given the all-clear and released with a few bruised ribs, along with a sprained shoulder, ankle, and wrist. No concussion, and the whiplash was minimal thanks to the HANS device I’d been hooked to.
I’d just feel like hell for a couple weeks.
“You’re a very lucky woman,” the doctor, who’d seen the replay on television, said to me as he wrapped up my ankle and wrist. “It sure looked a lot worse.”
I knew I was lucky. But at that moment, my body screamed in rebellion at me, for putting it through that nonsense. What the fuck did you think you were doing? it seemed to yell at me. I was in so much pain, under so much codeine, that I didn’t even worry during the helicopter ride home. My brother and father had stayed back at the Poconos to handle things back there. They’d called my mother, who was due to fly in from Arizona the next day, but they’d left me in the hands of Locke. Everyone seemed to agree I’d sleep better in my own bed, but all I kept thinking was, My own bed in Wintersburg?
And it was a stupid wreck too, at such a stupid time. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so confident as I did today. I’d been in third place. I’d narrowly missed winning stage two, probably by inches. I only had one last quarter of the race to get through, and I felt like I could pull it off.
Then the crash happened.
Another rookie had been beside me, and I didn’t know what he had been thinking, riding my left side before cutting across and clipping my right back-end. I thought I had control. Thought I could ride it out, get right back on track and give the asshole a piece of my mind in the form of a little love tap of my own. But I lost the wheel and felt the back end of the Fusion start fishtailing toward the guardrail, and I knew I was in trouble. The last thing I saw before the world upended on me and I went flying head over ass, was the big PENSKE sign on the wall coming up fast to greet me.
And then I was flying. For a moment, when I was airborne, I thought, hey, this isn’t so bad. But what goes up, had to come down, and I did, with a crash that jarred every part of my body in all possible different directions. Then another impact, this one worse than the first. And another, lighter, but I’d already begun to feel woozy, losing my grip on what was up and what was down. The more I kept flipping and flying, exhaust and smoke clouding my vision, my head being battered inside the helmet, the harness straining against my body, and the steering wheel digging into my ribs, the more I knew I was one wrong bounce away from being shit out of luck. A smear on the asphalt. Cages, fitted seats, and safety harnesses worked wonders, but they didn’t work all the time.
After I was released from the hospital, and back in Daytona, Locke got me into a car and we’d gone directly to my apartment. Somehow, we’d managed to avoid reporters, which I appreciated, because all I really wanted to do was lie in bed for the rest of my life. I was banged up, beaten, and the doctor told me I needed to stay off the racing circuit for a few weeks, just to let things simmer down.
The next few weeks? To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see another race car again, ever.
Once I got home, Locke helped me into bed and helped me to peel off my clothes, dressing me in my most comfortable pajamas. Then he brought me a tray with my pain pills and orange juice.
“Remind me,” I said to Locke as he helped me adjust the pillows in bed. I felt every muscle in my neck straining as I stretched. “To throw away my number 9 poster when I get back to Wintersburg.”
He smirked at me. “You have a number 9 poster? Who’s that?”
“Chase Elliott. I really thought I was going to get to beat him. That had been my goal, to beat one of my idols.”
His eyes lit with understanding. “Is it over your bed?”
“Huh?”
“The poster.”
“Oh.” I nodded, wondering what difference it made. Yeah, it was kind of crazy thinking I was now racing with all the people I’d spent most of my life idolizing, but if I thought about it too hard, I was liable to get into an even bigger crash next time. “Well, across from my bed. I had others, but mostly Chase. I told you, I’ve been NASCAR obsessed since I was five.”
He was amused by this. “Did you… kiss it every night before bed?”
I scowled at him as I grabbed the two pills and swallowed them with a gulp of OJ. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response,” I huffed out and attempted to cross my arms before being given a painful reminder of how much it hurt.
I needed that codeine to work its magic, right away.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Well, that was actually the reason for the nonresponse. I�
�d been a hardcore Chase fan. Ever since his rookie year, I’d been smitten. I’d gotten the poster when I was seventeen, and yes, it had lip gloss marks on strategic places. But I was older now. Mature. I did not kiss posters anymore.
“Shut up, jerk,” I whined, sounding like I was all of twelve.
He shrugged and pointed to a huge bouquet of flowers setting on the dresser. “Sorry, I don’t like when my girl’s idol sends her flowers. Especially when he’s a handsome dude. The rookie who knocked you off course was handsome too.”
I had to grin at that. “Are you jealous?”
He nodded, making no attempt to hide it. “Maybe the rookie tapping you was the race car driver version of a pickup line?”
I narrowed my eyes. He obviously didn’t know what it was like out there. It wasn’t like some seedy bar. We were all hardworking professionals, competing over a boatload of money. However, the more I thought about it, the more it began to grow roots in my head. Chase Elliot sent that big bouquet of flowers to little ol’ me?
“Seriously? Chase sent me flowers?”
I was fangirl gushing, but I couldn’t help it.
Oh, my god. The thought of Chase Elliott sending me anything… it was ludicrous. But… awesome. My inner schoolgirl cartwheeled.
His scowl darkened, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. “Get rid of the goofy grin.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, my fingers coming in contact with my very goofy grin. I forced it down and snuggled back down under the blankets. Pain screamed through my muscles, which reminded me for the thousandth time of the shitty crash I’d gone through.
My grin dissolved instantly.
If that was any driver’s way of picking me up, I really hoped he didn’t try again.
Actually, the thought of going back out on the oval again at all really… terrified me. Toward the end there, I thought I wouldn’t stop flipping until I was dead.
I really thought I was dead.
“So, um,” I said, shrugging as I picked up the remote control. “Who won the race?”
