by Stahl, Shey
Racing on the Edge
The
Champion
It’s hard to see past the speed when you’re going 200 MPH.
Book IV
A novel by Shey Stahl
This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of NASCAR, its employees, or its representatives, teams, and drivers within the series. The car numbers used within this book are not representing those drivers who use those numbers either past or present in any NASCAR series, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series and are used for the purpose of this fiction story only. The author does not endorse any product, driver, or other material racing in NASCAR, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series. The opinions in this work of fiction are simply that, opinions and should not be held liable for any product purchase, and or effect of any racing series based on those opinions. This book is told through first person narration and switches point of view between characters.
The Champion is the fourth book in the Racing on the Edge series.
The Champion
It’s hard to see past the speed when you’re going 200 MPH.
Copyright © 2012 by Shey Stahl
Published in the United States of America
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publishers permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250.000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.
Warning: This book contains adult content, explicit language, and sexual situations.
Cover Art and Interior Design: Shey Stahl Productions
Editing and Proof Reading: Linda Knight
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Acknowledgements:
I’d like to thank my badass readers! They are the best and pimp my books like none other. Thank you.
An extra special thanks to my girls who are always there for me, Lisa, Kellie, Daina, Callie, Melissa, Elaine, and Caitie.
My husband and honey girl, I couldn’t do this without your support along the way.
My sister, thank you Ami, I love you for everything you do for me even if you never answer my text messages.
My parents and the rest of my family, your support means everything.
Linda, oh Linda, I couldn’t do this without you and you know that. Regardless, you’re the best and always here to talk me through everything and out of the ridiculous. I laugh every single time you write “Took out semi.” That right there shows my maturity in all this.
And finally, my racer boys who help with all the terms and that includes, my husband, whose mechanic expertise is greatly appreciated. Axel, Billy, Kasey, Joey, Justin, Trey and Cody.
Enjoy the story and don’t worry, there’s more to come after this.
This book is dedicated to my mom. Childhood should be a child’s best memories. Because of you, they were for me.
All compromise is based on give and take, but there can be no give and take on fundamentals. Any compromise on mere fundamentals is a surrender. For it is all give and no take.
~Gandhi
Prelude
A Champion – Jameson
A Champion – A champion is said to be an individual or team who has defeated all opponents in a series, event, or race.
The morning brought with it grief and regret, but also answers as to what might have gone wrong.
My wife—my wonderful understanding and supportive wife—stood beside me, watching the crowd gather in the stands of Charlotte Motor Speedway.
It was times like these that I looked at my life, my family, my team, and wondered why?
Why them and not me, or us?
Racers like me are used to deciding their own fate on a track. That’s not to say outside factors don’t play a role, but usually, your destiny, which is dependent on the outcome of a race, is held in your hands.
As a racer, your home is the track. It’s where your love for racing is formed and where you cultivate it into something great. It’s where nothing else matters but the dedication, passion, confidence, and ambition. These were the only traits that I believed set a racer apart from others. Until today.
Racers are not born racers.
Sure, you may have some innate ability within you that drove you down this career path, but it’s not a gift. It’s a natural inclination for speed, competition and tact—for pushing yourself beyond your comfort zone, taking risks, and striving to be the best.
Over time you nurture these to become a champion in the sport that has consumed your entire life. Success and respect in the industry isn’t just handed to you.
I was a champion. The racing community was looking to me for answers. They wanted me to help them through this tragic time.
But could I?
Lisa approached me and Tate standing on the grid. The tears in her eyes reflected what the racing community was feeling. “Jameson, can you give the speech this morning?”
This was something that countless hours on the track and in the garage never prepared me for. Consequently, I realized that titles, trophies and driving abilities, were not, in fact, what set a champion apart from other racers. The true test was now.
You see, every now and then, a racer comes along and his talent isn’t defined by the trophies or by his ability. What sets him apart is what defines him in the blaring spotlight.
It’s ordinary men doing extraordinary things.
Still, the questions remained.
Could I?
1. Window Net – Sway
Window Net – This is a woven mesh that hangs across the driver’s side window to prevent the driver’s head and arms from being exposed during an accident.
Living with Jameson was...difficult.
The only person I’d ever lived with was Charlie, my dad, and those two couldn’t have been more different. Jameson was constantly leaving his clothes everywhere, shoes in the oddest places and I don’t think he understood where the garbage was or that we had one. I even went as far as making a sign that said, “Hello, I’m the garbage can.”
Didn’t work. He still set his empty beer bottles on the counter and trash on the counters. I didn’t understand. Even three-year old Lane, Jameson’s nephew, put shit in the garbage but my husband at twenty-three, couldn’t.
Honestly though, Mr. Jangles, my overly large cat, kept his litter box tidier than Jameson did our kitchen.
Since we had just gotten married, I decided to wait at least few weeks before I brought this up to him. We were still in the honeymoon stages. There was no sense in ruining that.
I’ve always wanted to have a huge family dinner. Now clearly, I wasn’t rational when I had the idea
that this would all go smoothly. I must have been high as shit.
What happened that evening was hard to describe.
After we arrived home from the small honeymoon and the championship awards banquet, Jameson, my NASCAR Winston Cup series champion husband, assured me the real honeymoon would come after the baby was born and we could really have some fun. The naughty wizard (my nickname for myself) envisioned broken furniture and clothes hanging from ceiling fans—the good ole Pit Lizard days before I looked like a whale.
Being eight months pregnant I thought I would never see my feet again let alone single digit jeans.
Once at our home on Summit Lake, I decided I wanted everyone together for Christmas. I also decided to have this whole Christmas dinner disaster without Jameson’s knowledge. Nancy, Jameson’s mom, offered to help, as did Alley, his publicist and sister-in law. So I thought no problem, right?
Wrong again.
It started when I convinced Jameson we needed to drive to Olympia the day before Christmas Eve and go to Bed Bath and Beyond so I could actually get dishes to cook with. That was one necessity our home was not stocked with. We were currently eating off paper plates with plastic forks.
His response, “I don’t think so. I have no desire to go to a Bed or Bath...or whatever else they sell. What the hell does the beyond part stand for?”
Ignoring him, I continued. “I need dishes.” I told him sitting next to him on the couch as he flipped through the channels. “This house has nothing in it.”
“That’s not true,” he took another drink of his beer, nodding his head toward the kitchen. “There are paper plates in there.”
“I need dishes for Christmas dinner.”
His head slowly turned toward me. His facial expression was hard to read but it was something similar to the time I told Charlie, my dad, to take a flying fuck when I was thirteen because he wouldn’t let me pierce my nipples.
“Why?” he finally asked with a sour edge.
“EveryoneiscomingoverforChristmasdinner,” I blurted out as fast as I could and began to run away but was quickly stopped by a death grip on my wrist.
“Come again, Sway?” his eyes narrowed. “For a second there I thought you said everyone is coming over for Christmas dinner.”
I swallowed. It was as though I was trying to swallow over a boulder in my throat.
“I did.”
He was silent. No words, nothing, just stared at me, his expression tense, fixated and frankly, it frightened me. I was also almost certain he wasn’t breathing.
I felt the need to explain and then when that didn’t work I did what any normal knocked up woman would do. I cried.
“Shhh...shhh...it’s okay honey.” He soothed rubbing my arm and then swiftly pulled me against his chest when it became apparent that the tears wouldn’t end without some sort of physical assistance. “I just...don’t like my family that much. What would make you think I would want them all at our house, at the same time?”
I cried some more. “I just want everyone together before they aren’t anymore.” I wailed in a childlike way.
That did him in. He knew right then I meant Charlie and agreed to my plan, with a stipulation.
“If those fucking twins spill anything,” he eyed me carefully. “I’m shutting the entire operation down.”
After my break down, we made our way to town for materials and maybe even some drugs for my husband. I wasn’t sure there was any other way to control him if we had both our families together.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a...actually...I have no clue. Let’s go find the plates.” I began walking away from the kitchen gadgets and over to the dishes.
Jameson threw his arm around my shoulder.
“Yes. Let’s find these dishes you speak of and get the hell out of here. I hate shopping.”
We were shopping like a normal husband and wife and it was nice. Aside from his attitude and the occasional second glance at Jameson, most everyone was leaving us alone.
Having just won the series championship in his rookie season, there was no shortage of recognition anywhere we went.
“Plates...yes,” Jameson smiled. “...hey look...beds. How clever with the name and all,”
“Get off that, it’s for show only.” I started to look around the store to see who was watching.
“No they’re not. Why else would they put them out here but for testing?” His eyebrows waggled.
“I don’t think so sport, get up.” He only sprawled out further. “They’re for show only.”
“Come over here.” His voice was dripping with sex, sex that I desperately wanted. These last few days I had turned him down just because I was so uncomfortable.
“No, I’m not getting into trouble.”
Even though the thought of a quick qualifying lap on that bed, in public, was incredibly enticing, I did not want to go to jail and become someone’s bitch. First-of-all, I didn’t need any more tattoos and second, I wouldn’t look good with a buzz cut.
“Wife...I think given the terms in which we are here...you should be nicer to me.” He hedged reaching for me.
“Husband,” I yanked him up by his shirt. “We’re here for dishes.”
We didn’t get up and eventually started making out on the show bed.
“Excuse me,” a timid voice whispered beside us. “I’m going to have to ask you to get off the bed. It’s for display only.”
I looked over my shoulder to see a tiny red haired girl smiling down at us, her innocence radiating in her flushed appearance.
“See...I told you.” I muttered.
Jameson gave the young girl a lopsided grin, trying to earn her forgiveness with his looks. I slapped him on the side of the head.
“Let’s go champ.”
He groaned but followed.
Eventually we settled on some new dishes and cookware. It came in handy to share a brain at times—it meant that we agreed on almost everything that went into our house. I say almost because Jameson refused to let me paint the baby’s room a soft blue. He seemed to think he needed something a little more manly. We settled on a tan color.
“Now...I need to go to the grocery store.”
“I don’t think so.” He told me putting the bags in the Expedition. “I hate grocery stores. Too many people in them.”
“Fine,” I smiled. “I can go by myself.”
“I don’t hate it that much. “
Whew, I’m getting good at this!
Since the incident with Darrin, if Van wasn’t with me, Jameson refused to let me go anywhere by myself and knowing his feelings toward the accident, I couldn’t blame him.
After the grocery store, we picked up Lane so that Alley and Spencer, Jameson’s older brother, could finish their Christmas shopping. I also think this was their plan to get us some parenting experience. I didn’t feel the need to inform them of what happened to Logan’s hamster Blubber. No one needed to know about that homicide as I was never formally charged with anything.
Lane never stopped talking—I was actually a little worried that he hadn’t taken a breath on the way home.
“I’m hungry.” He announced when we walked into the house tossing his coat over his shoulder.
What should I feed him?
What does one feed a three-year old? What do you even feed babies? I really need to do some research.
I reached for Jameson’s favorite, blueberry pop tarts. You can’t go wrong with pop tarts, or can you?
“What’s pop tart?” Lane asked, appearing by my side.
Jameson lifted him up onto the counter while we both stared at him, confused.
How could a kid not know what a pop tart was?
“What’s a—” I was in shock. “You poor child!” I pulled him into a hug. “What kind of world are we living in when parents don’t feed their kids pop tarts?” I grabbed his chubby little cheeks and squeezed, his adorable pink lips pushed together. “Please tell me you’ve at least had
ego waffles?”
I let go so he could speak.
“Duh...uncle Jay eats those all the time.”
Jameson smiled ruffling his hair. “They’re fucking delicious, that’s why.”
“Jameson!” I gasped. We really needed to work on this language issue we were having. “You better hope he doesn’t repeat that around Alley.” I whispered to Jameson handing the toasted pop tart to Lane.
“You know...” Lane began, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I not say if you give me something.”
I still found it adorable when he missed words.
“Wow,” Jameson laughed lightly, his shoulders shaking with the motion. “He learned younger than Spencer and I did.” Reaching around to his back pocket, he pulled a dollar out of his wallet. “Will that work?”
Lane’s eyes gleamed as he took the said dinero from him. “Yep,” and then he jumped off the counter, pop tart in hand.
A few hours later after we got everything put away, Jameson was keeping Lane busy as I prepared everything for tomorrow’s festivities when I heard our doorbell ring.
I was not at all prepared for who was at the door.
“Look Jameson,” I swung the door open both annoyed and concerned. “...our neighbors came over to welcome us to the neighborhood.”
Jameson appeared around the corner with Lane on his back.
“Oh really, who—” he stopped mid step when he saw Dana Sloan, his harmless, but peppy stalker fan, standing there with Cooper Young, a guy I slept with in high school. Let’s just say neither one of these people he wanted to see. Ever.
“You have to be shitting me?” Lane reached around Jameson’s shoulder and held his hand out.
“Nope, not shitting you,” I smiled at Dana. “They made cookies. We can eat them later.”
He gave me a “hell no” look but nodded.
“How long have you two lived next door?” I asked, trying to mask my discomfort with the entire situation.
