Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Mick,” she called in a loud whisper. “I want to talk to you.”

  Nothing. Maybe he was still clubbing. The trailer was darkened, and, like the others belonging to owners and drivers, very quiet.

  “Mick!” She stood on her toes to see into a window, but the blinds were drawn.

  Either he slept like the dead or he was in no mood for company at three-thirty in the morning.

  Or he wasn’t alone.

  She held her fist over the door again, then dropped it. Maybe he had gone somewhere else after he’d left DayGlo. Maybe he had a blond or a brunette or a whatever in there.

  Had she driven him to that? Teased him with slow dancing, then started an argument? Had she?

  She backed down the two steps, kicking a piece of gravel under her toe and peering through the steel monsters at the infield. If one of the Thunder golf carts was available, she could zip over to the turn two corner of Lake Lloyd and sit on that little square of grass where she and Daddy had celebrated her sixth birthday alone on a picnic for two one July. He’d gone all over Daytona to find Ho Hos because she liked them better than Twinkies. And he’d taught her how to whistle through grass.

  Or she could sneak into the grandstands, sit in turn two and really wallow in some blues.

  Aw, Daddy. Where are you when I need some help?

  Ernie had long ago given up the infield for the comforts of a hotel, and her drivers’motor coaches were dark, too, as she’d expect them to be in the middle of the night before practice. There was no one to talk to.

  She jogged to the area where the carts were parked but didn’t see theirs. Someone might have left it on the far end of the garage, near one of their stalls. She said hello to the night guard at the opening to the chain-link fence that surrounded the D and O lot and headed toward the garage area. Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she inhaled the night air, hoping for a little engine fuel, some lingering rubber. The smell of home and peace and…the past.

  But her hair drifted into her face and all she could smell was the remnants of a man she’d danced with. A man who didn’t bet.

  All you have to do is ask.

  Where was he at this hour anyway?

  The con artist.

  She rounded the garage area and FanZone, lit only by security lights. The wide patio was empty, of course, the food stands and gift shops closed for business. None of this was here the last time Thunder Jackson raced at Daytona. This was all new, spiffy, catering to the millions who’d discovered that there was no better day than a day at the track.

  Why did that irritate her so much?

  Why couldn’t she see the growth and change as good—the way everyone else did. The way Mick did. Why wasn’t it a cool thing that the new garages had windows for fans to look in?

  She wandered to one of those windows, trying to imagine a housewife from Atlanta, an executive from Boston, a painter from Denver seeing her sport the way she did. Revering its history, praising its past.

  She peered into the blackness of the garage, then stepped down a few bays to get closer to her own cars. What could they see, these outsiders trying to get inside her secret, private world?

  They couldn’t see the engineering. The gut-level decisions. The camaraderie. The ghosts of Gil Brady and Thunder Jackson and so many others.

  Something wet her face and she blinked. Holy hell, she was crying. What was wrong with her? She’d die if one of the crew saw her out here in the middle of the night all maudlin and weepy over nothing.

  Wiping her cheek with way more force than it took to remove an unwanted tear, she cupped her hands around her eyes and flattened her face to the window, looking into the shadows of the garage, scanning the row of cars.

  And then she froze.

  The hood of the number eighty-two car was wide-open. No one on either of her teams would leave it like that. And…was the monitor of the computer on? She couldn’t tell. She wiped the window and pressed her face harder against the glass.

  Where was security? She jogged around the other side of the building, to the front. There were no guards posted, but the garages were locked tight. They would all open at precisely the same moment the next morning.

  Across the patio she saw something move in the shadows. Then the hum of a golf cart motor. Tiny hairs prickled up her neck. Instinct told her to stay still and wait until the cart hummed away.

  When it did, she made her way back to the D and O lot. As she rounded the area where the carts were parked, her gaze drifted to the spot that coincided with the number of her trailer spot.

  The Thunder golf cart was back in place.

  Who had it? And where had they been at this hour? She considered going back to ask the guard who’d just returned, but there was a way to get into this section with a key, near the back.

  She detoured through the motor homes and didn’t even try to tell herself to stop. She headed right for Mick’s and then she stopped and stared again. Pale gold fingers of light slipped through the back blinds where before it had been completely dark. He must have just returned. In the cart? Had he somehow gotten into the garage? Nothing was impossible where Mick Churchill was involved. He could charm or enthrall anyone into anything. Access to the garage? Why?

  Something twisted in her chest, and the only words she could hear in her head were spoken in his voice.

  Con artist.

  “STAYED OUT A LITTLE longer than expected, huh?” Ernie squinted up at Mick from where he leaned over the wide-open hood of the eighty-two car.

  “Not at all,” Mick responded. “As a matter of fact, I had my mates home and tucked in long before anybody got in any trouble.” Including him. And, man, he’d had his hands on some trouble last night.

  “You look lousy.”

  Mick acknowledged the insult with a quick toast of the cup of too-strong designer coffee he’d snagged at a concession stand on the way over to the garage area. “No thanks to the Daytona Beach club scene. Something woke me up in the middle of the night and I never got back to sleep.”

  “That’s the hell of life on the infield,” Ernie said, straightening. “It’s convenient as all get out, but it never really gets quiet. I like room service and silence all night.”

  “This was…I don’t know…” Mick sipped his coffee and frowned. “I could have sworn someone knocked on the door, and once that woke me up, I was done in.”

  Ernie’s expression darkened as he regarded Mick. “That’s weird.”

  “Why?”

  “Just forget about it.” Shelby’s voice, from clear over in the next bay where she stood next to the fifty-three car, was as bitter as the brew Mick had just swallowed.

  He looked over the rim of his cup, noticing she wore a Thunder Racing cap pulled so far down her forehead he could barely see her eyes.

  “Good morning, Shelby.” He added a little Euro bow. “And how did you sleep?”

  “Not well,” she mumbled, shifting her attention to the open hood of the other car, then back up at him. “Look, this is a big day for us. We’re trying to find speed any way we can. Any chance you could take your NASCAR 101 lesson somewhere else until practice is over?”

  Ernie shot her a deadly look, then turned his back to her, lowering his cap and his voice at the same time. “She gets real uptight before practice and qualifying.”

  Or maybe she hadn’t slept either. Maybe the same vivid imaginings were making her sheets damp and knotted, too. Would Ernie defend her so quickly if he knew that?

  “She’s right, actually.” Mick tossed the coffee cup in the nearest trash. “I’ll only get in the way here. I think I’ll just mosey around the track and the garage area.”

  “Don’t be too obvious poking around the other cars.”

  “Obvious?”

  “You’re one of us now,” Ernie told him. “You may be wearing a guest pass, but this place associates you with Thunder Racing. Nobody likes spies near their car on the morning of practice. Or any day, for that matter.”

 
“Gotchya.” He started to leave, then paused. “Why did you say it was weird that I was awakened this morning?”

  Ernie stole a glance over his shoulder at Shelby and then eased Mick farther away with one hand. “She thinks somebody was messing around the cars last night.”

  He almost choked. “Me? What? Adjusting engines while everyone sleeps?”

  Ernie shook his head, no smile on his face. “Things get very competitive right now. And, like I said, she’s real testy from now till the race.”

  Mick looked over the car at Shelby’s back. She had her hands locked on her hips, studying the computer, deep in conversation with an engineer. Then she turned her head just enough to look over her shoulder and catch his eye.

  And hold his gaze long enough to burn.

  Had she knocked on his door last night?

  Ernie cleared his throat and pulled Mick’s attention back. “Don’t they lock this place up at night?” he asked quickly.

  “Of course. But she was looking in an observation window and saw something she didn’t like.”

  “What time was that?” he asked.

  “She said around three-thirty or so.”

  Exactly when he’d been awakened by knocking.

  Mick turned toward the car, the inner workings exposed by the open hood. Of course, it all looked the same to him as it had yesterday. “Have you found anything wrong?”

  Ernie shook his head, walked to the car with his arms crossed and peered in. “I think the last guy out left a little too fast, but I can’t be sure.” He set his mouth in a firm, unhappy line and Mick knew that his excuse was bogus. “We just gotta have a good practice.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Ernie walked away, and Mick glanced over at Shelby, who had turned her attention to the new driver, Clay Slater. Shelby put one hand on Slater’s arm and said something that made the other hoot with a laugh.

  Then Slater put both arms around Shelby and hugged her so hard he lifted her off the ground. It was Shelby’s turn to laugh, a sweet sound that echoed like bells among the clang of tools and whine of engines. She didn’t seem too uptight to him.

  “There she is!” Shelby called over Slater’s shoulder, her attention moving to a honey-haired young woman who strode into the garage fingering a pit pass around her neck. Her attention was locked on Slater, who beamed as though he’d just been told he’d won the great race of life.

  “Lisa!” Shelby exclaimed. “How can I ever thank you?”

  They all slipped into a private conversation punctuated by laughter and more hugs. No, she definitely wasn’t tense. But then Clay Slater signaled for him to come over and meet Lisa, and Shelby crossed her arms and raised her jaw a bit.

  So she was still mad at him. So much for the theory that she’d made a midnight call for sex. Though the thought was fun while it lasted.

  After he met Clayton’s girlfriend and heard the story that had already become Thunder folklore about their rather unorthodox courtship, Mick took a chance and put a gentle hand on Shelby’s shoulder.

  “Could I talk to you a moment?”

  Amber eyes flicked over him. “I’m really busy, Mick. Maybe this afternoon.” Dis-missed.

  “Ernie told me that something happened last night.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed humorlessly. “I should know better than to assume a secret is safe in the garage.”

  “Of course not. Isn’t that why you knocked on my trailer in the middle of the night?”

  Color drained from her cheeks. Bingo. It was her. He cursed himself for sleeping through it, even if that was the safest course.

  “It wasn’t a booty call,” she said quickly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “What did you want?”

  “You know, it doesn’t matter now. Where were you?”

  “I was asleep.”

  Everything in her expression said she didn’t believe him. “Con artist.” She nearly whispered the words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your words, not mine.” She pointed to the number eighty-two car. “Somebody messed around with that car, I just don’t know who.”

  A half smile pulled at his lips. “I’m honored that you think I know enough about race cars to manage anything other than opening the window net.”

  “I thought about that.”

  He put his arm around her. “How did it go with Tamara last night? Finalize a new bid for the team?”

  “Not yet.” She lifted his arm from her shoulder. “Did Ernie chew you out for slow dancing with me last night?”

  “Not yet.” He dipped his head and put his lips near her ear. “But for future reference, I leave the door unlocked. Just walk right in next time.”

  He left the garage before she could fling a smart-aleck response or a wrench at him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TRACK MAGIC.

  That’s what Shelby’s father called the days when pit crews moved like choreographed dancers and mechanics found the perfect balance between tight and loose. When fuel mileage miraculously lasted longer and spotters called a spinout well in advance of a major wreck and drivers simply shifted gears, turned left and kept the accelerator flat to the floor.

  On days like that, Daddy would say he had nothin’ to do but point the nose at Victory Lane. During the second practice for Daytona, Thunder Racing was drunk on track magic.

  “Can you believe this?” Whit pulled the mike of his headset away and beamed up at Shelby in the pit cart. “Was that fourteen seconds or am I dreaming?”

  She gave him a thumbs-up and a matching grin. Fourteen point two, but still a track record for the Country Peanut Butter car pit stop. She pulled her hat lower against the sun and turned her attention back to the track as about twenty of the competitors stormed by in a three-wide pack with inches between the bumpers. Her gaze locked on the yellow-and-purple Kincaid clown as Clay Slater came around turn four. Right now that was the tenth fastest car on the track—not bad for a rookie. And Kenny Holt was second only to Austin Elliott.

  A thrill of anticipation and possibility gripped her chest. Could this be the year? Could things be changing for Thunder Racing?

  “Could I join you up there in the lifeguard’s seat?”

  She didn’t even have to look down. Didn’t want to. Just in case a wholly different kind of thrill gripped her chest—and parts south. “It’s called a pit cart. It’s for owners and crew chiefs.”

  She felt the pit cart shake as Mick bounded up into the space on her right. “Great view up here. Wow. Look at this.”

  She couldn’t help laughing a little but kept her gaze on the pack. “You’re like a kid.”

  He leaned over, bumping her with one of his impressive shoulders. “Look at me.”

  She followed the cars around turn one and two, deliberately looking right instead of at the man to her left. “I’m working.”

  “Look at me,” he said again.

  The pack was moving left, so her gaze did, too. She swore softly as she saw why he was so anxious to get her attention. “Who gave you a number fifty-three uniform?”

  “I’ve made a few friends on the team,” he said, grinning at her and puffing his chest so the Kincaid logo stretched a bit. “Looks good, don’t you think?”

  Good didn’t begin to describe how he looked in it. And she didn’t even want to think about how he’d look out of it.

  Shelby squelched the thought and switched channels the instant she saw the car next to Kenny Holt’s get loose, but everyone recovered without an incident.

  Mick picked up the pit cart headset and pulled it on.

  “No doubt you need a lesson in working the radio,” she said.

  He flipped the switch, found the channel and winked at her. “Got it covered, sweetheart.”

  They watched three laps in silence.

  “Kenny looks awesome today,” Mick said to her when the pack moved around turn two and into the backstretch.

  “The car does,” she answered. “Set up to p
erfection for this track.”

  “So whoever messed with it last night certainly wasn’t out to ruin the ride.” He shouted just loud enough for her to hear him over the deafening rush of the cars as they passed the start/finish line.

  She’d already thought of that. “Shhh.” She held up a finger to her lips, and at his incredulous look she leaned closer and added, “Don’t mess with the track magic.”

  The cars moved to the backstretch, far enough away so they could hear each other without shouting. But Mick followed orders, pulling his headset tighter and concentrating on the practice. Shelby assumed her race position—elbows on knees, chin in hands, eyes on track—making her as comfortable and relaxed as breathing.

  Except there was nothing comfortable or relaxed about the closeness of Mick Churchill, the pressure of his leg against hers, the power of his upper arm grazing her shoulder.

  A trickle of sweat meandered between her shoulder blades, and she took a deep, calming breath of hot rubber and octane. But it only made her dizzier. A couple of cars bumped and the yellow flag came out, so Shelby leaned back to observe the pit stops.

  “Will they always take four tires?” Mick asked.

  While she watched, she explained the strategy of when to take two and when to take four. “And there’s always the gas-’n’-go option near the end of a race. But then the guys behind you have fresh rubber.”

  “And what’s all the business about bump drafting?”

  That required a quick lesson in aerodynamics, and just as she finished it, the green flag fell. Damn it. She’d missed everyone’s pit strategy. “You’re distracting me,” she told him.

  “Then we’re even.”

  She cursed the little shudder that he sent through her. She closed her eyes for a second, squeezing them behind her dark glasses. This couldn’t go on for another week or more. She had to get to Ernie, present Tamara’s offer and move on. If Ernie wanted press coverage and attention, Tamara could bring some of that, too. If he wanted money, she’d beat Mick’s offer. And if that didn’t work, Shelby’d use her trump card and give Ernie the wrong impression.