An Impractical Match (Match #2)

by Barbara Dunlop

  The two hundred-dollar first prize would barely cover his gas and oil, but there was nothing he’d rather do on a Sunday afternoon. He gunned the engine, making his way to the track exit and the mechanical area.

  Since it was the final event of the afternoon, he went directly to his pit. There, he rolled the bike onto his trailer and peeled off his sweaty helmet. It was nearly a hundred degrees in the shade in July outside of Phoenix. In another few hours, when the sun went down, it might moderate to eighty. He stripped off his body armour, getting down to his T-shirt and riding pants, raking back his soaking wet hair before taking a long drink from his water bottle.

  “Nice run,” called Troy Maklin, one of the racers who’d dropped out because of a mechanical problem. Devlin waved a thanks as Luke pulled his motorbike onto the trailer next to Devlin.

  Luke stripped off his own gear, taking a drink from a bright orange plastic bottle.

  “Time for a cold one?” he asked Devlin.

  “You know it,” Devlin responded, as he cinched down the straps to secure his bike.

  He collected the stray hand tools from the deck of his trailer, placing them all in his gray metal box. Then he stowed the toolbox in the back of his compact truck, retrieving a couple of cans of beer from the cooler. The ice had melted, but the water was still cold. And the beer would be wet, which was the most important attribute.

  Luke jumped down from his trailer and accepted the can of beer. “Nice run.”

  At six-feet even, he was slightly shorter than Devlin, with a slightly broader build, sandy blond hair and lighter skin tones. He owned several car dealerships in the area around Timeless Auto Restoration, Devlin’s classic car shop. The two had met at one of the many car auctions in the Phoenix area, when Luke had outbid the field on one of Devlin’s 1969 Mustangs.

  “Just barely made it past you in the end there,” Devlin acknowledged.

  “You took a chance on the line there. That rut was pretty deep.”

  “I’m naturally competitive.”

  “You’re a glory glutton.”

  “I really just wanted the two hundred bucks.”

  “Luke? Devlin?” came the voice of Hank Morettini, the owner of the Desert Heat Motocross Track, as he made his way across the dirt parking lot.

  Close to fifty years old, he was stocky but fit, with a head of gray hair and a habit of wearing white, pressed shirts on top of blue jeans, even at the dusty track.

  “Hey, Hank,” Luke greeted.

  “Beer?” Devlin asked.

  Hank gave Devlin a nod. “Sounds good. We’ve got a check for you at the office.”

  Devlin extracted another can of beer from the cooler. “Don’t worry about it,” he told Hank. “Keep it in the kitty.”

  “Will do,” Hank easily agreed.

  The local motocross association ran things on a shoestring and were always appreciative of donations. Since Devlin’s and Luke’s businesses were some of their strongest contributors, earning them prime signage near the start-finish line, it seemed silly to take the prize money.

  Devlin handed Hank a beer. He popped the top and took a long swallow. “Just had a very strange conversation,” he told them.

  “Not the zoning committee again.” Devlin’s thoughts went immediately to the trouble they’d had last summer with residents complaining of the noise.

  There were some people on the county commission who wanted the motocross track rezoned to residential development. Every couple of years a petition would be circulated, extolling the virtues of peace and quiet. Never mind that the track had been here for decades, and the new residents had been fully aware of its existence when they’d bought their houses. Now that they’d move in, they wanted the whole area to organize around them.

  “Not the zoning committee,” Hank assured them. “It was from the president of NMAC.”

  That statement got both Devlin’s and Luke’s attention. The National Motocross Association Council supported the highest-calibre of events and riders in the country. It was hard to imagine they even knew of Desert Heat’s existence.

  “They want to bring an event here in September.”

  Devlin waited for the punch line.

  Hank took another drink of his beer.

  “Say again?” Luke prompted, clearly as confused as Devlin.

  “They tell me it’s a regional event, only a class B qualifier, but there’ll be replacement points up for grabs.”

  “Are you sure it was really them?” Devlin couldn’t help but ask. NMAC never used second- or third-tier tracks, and their schedule was set nearly a year in advance.

  Hank chuckled. “I have to admit, I had the same thought myself. But it looks legit. They’re adding a race to the schedule. They want it in Arizona. Their technical guy likes our course and, get this, it’s contingent on you,” Hank was staring directly at Devlin, “agreeing to spearhead the local organizing committee.”

  “What the hell?” The question was as specific as Devlin could get on such an outrageous statement.

  Hank gave a confused shrug.

  “I’m not an event organizer.”

  “You’re a local board member.”

  “That just means I’m a warm body at voting meetings.”

  “They asked for you specifically.”

  Luke clapped Devlin on the shoulder. “Clearly, your reputation is out there.”

  “My reputation for what? Drinking beer in the parking lot?”

  Devlin loved motocross racing, but he was a recreational racer, a weekend warrior. He wasn’t even trying to stand out at the state level, never mind nationally.

  Hank turned serious. “The reputation of Timeless is growing across the state.”

  It still didn’t make sense. Classic car restoration was not something that was normally associated with motocross. They were two completely different demographics.

  “They know you’re a Desert Heat sponsor,” said Hank.

  Devlin coughed out a laugh. “I’m not the kind of sponsor a national organization would go after.”

  Luke looked as puzzled as Devlin felt. “Maybe they see Timeless as an up-and-comer?”

  Devlin looked to Hank. “You’re sure this isn’t a practical joke?”

  “I looked up the number on their website. Whoever was calling me was doing it from the NMAC national office. They’ve got an event organizer lined up.” He pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his blue jeans. “Jillian Korrigan from UpNext Events will be calling you on Monday.”

  “I’ll believe it when it happens,” said Devlin, taking another pull on his now-lukewarm beer.

  He glanced around the rather shabby motocross track. Nothing about this made any sense at all.

  Chapter Two

  The high-pitched roar of motorbike engines battered Jillian Korrigan’s eardrums, while sandy grit blew into her eyes and the afternoon sun beat relentlessly on her head.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered as she and Shari trudged across the near-apocalyptic landscape of the Desert Heat Motocross Track near Phoenix.

  Thank goodness she’d pulled her hair back this morning. Though it would have been wiser to wear blue jeans instead of the cream linen suit and high-heeled sandals. She’d known they were coming to a sports track, but she’d pictured interior seating, a skybox, or maybe a boardroom outside the track manager’s office.

  “Do you have any idea how much money there is in motorsports?” asked Shari.

  “Apparently none of it is here,” Jillian responded, as they came to a halt beside the bleachers. She frowned at the rutted track and the riders’ mechanical area cluttered with bikes, trailers and equipment.

  “This is a fantastic opportunity,” said Shari.

  “To do what? Tell me again why we said yes to this?”

  “Because they’re a paying client.”

  “We decorate ballrooms and plan five-star dinners. These people probably flip burgers in their potholed parking lot.”

  “Don�
��t be a snob,” Shari admonished.

  “Then quit pretending you want to do this.”

  “I’m not pretending.”

  Jillian shot her business partner a dubious look. “You wanted to get me out of DC. You’d have taken a job planning a frat-house kegger to make it happen.”

  Shari gave a little toss of her head. “I wanted UpNext to move into a new business segment.”

  “There’s plenty of new corporate business back in DC. And you don’t need to protect me from the Staffords.”

  Jillian could handle her ex-fiancé’s family name popping up on everything from billboards on buses to sponsor lists at arts events. The family’s roots were in shipping, going back at least five generations. But Edmund also had an uncle who was a congressman and a cousin looking at a run for mayor.

  “This isn’t all about you,” Shari shouted over the rising sound from a cluster of motorbikes.

  The noise grew to an unbearable level as the bikes rounded the bend in front of the stands, roaring even louder as they launched into the air, coming off an impossibly high jump, squiggling in the loose dirt as they landed. It seemed like a miracle nobody had crashed. Jillian slapped her hands over her ears to combat the noise.

  “This is excruciating,” she shouted in return. “And how are they not all dead?”

  “They practice,” came a deep, disapproving male voice from behind her left shoulder.

  Jillian abruptly turned and came face to face with the grimiest man she’d ever seen. He was tall, broad and rugged, dressed in a black T-shirt and racing pants that looked like they might have once been blue and white but were now covered in mud. Fine dust clung to his unshaven face and his callused hands, and he had a black ball cap pulled over his sweaty, dark hair.

  He gave her teal blouse and cream blazer a once-over. “We put a strong focus on safety.”

  “I can tell,” she returned tartly.

  “Not a big fan of the sport?”

  “We’re here from DC.” She offered the first thing that popped into her mind, even as she wondered who he was and whether it was safe to talk to him.

  His eyes were dark gray, fringed in thick lashes. They looked intelligent. But an intelligent man probably wouldn’t be risking life and limb racing a motorcycle.

  “Shari Sharp.” Shari had the presence of mind, or maybe it was the courage, to offer her hand to him.

  The man shook. “Devlin Camden.”

  “You’re the guy on the phone?” Jillian’s disbelief came through in her tone.

  “You’re Jillian?” he returned, putting a matching level of astonishment into his own voice, obviously mocking her.

  “I was expecting someone a little...” She hesitated.

  “Older?” he asked.

  Cleaner was the word she’d have used. “I didn’t expect you to be a rider.”

  “Whereas I didn’t expect you to be...”

  She waited.

  “Quite so prissy and uptight.”

  She bristled, but before she could formulate a reply, another group of motorbikes screamed past, and she cringed, slapping her hands over her ears again.

  Devlin shook his head in obvious disgust.

  He said something, which she couldn’t hear but by amateur lip-reading looked like, “Where the hell did they find you?”

  The group of bikes shot off around another bend, the engine sounds growing bearable again.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” she asked Devlin.

  “After the race.”

  She set her jaw in frustration. He was going to make them wait? He couldn’t tear his attention away from the action long enough to get some business done?

  He seemed to correctly interpret her expression, and it seemed to annoy him. He nodded to the track. “These are the juniors. I’d like to watch them run.”

  “Fine.” She didn’t particularly care if her annoyance came through in her tone. She looked down the rows of bleachers, wondering if she would ruin her skirt by sitting down. Never mind the dust, it looked like there was a real danger of getting oil stains on the fabric, not to mention snagging it on the splintered wood.

  She’d rather go back to the rental car, block out the noise and dust, maybe turn on the air conditioning. Perhaps when it became convenient for him, Devlin could join her there.

  “We’re new to the sport,” Shari offered in a conciliatory tone. “But we’re very experienced event planners.”

  The bikes came around again, making conversation temporarily impossible. But this time a man waved a checkered flag, and the race appeared to be over. The rider who’d crossed the line first punched his fist in the air. Then he did a wheelstand while the crowd cheered their appreciation.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes,” said Devlin. “I can meet you in the office.” He pointed to a small building at the far end of the stands. “But feel free to have a look around first.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer before walking away.

  It took Jillian a second to drag her gaze from his undeniably attractive butt. Admonishing herself for being so crass, she gazed around the desolate moonscape.

  There was a bit of scrub grass in the infield amidst the twists, turns and moguls of the track. The only other visible green was a few trees off in the distance on the slope of a hill. The bleachers were worn, the parking areas potholed, and a faded fence separated the track from the spectators. A sagging white building marked “restrooms” looked positively frightening.

  “The National Motocross Association Council did say they would upgrade security and some of the infrastructure prior to the event,” Shari noted.

  “I think security is on the honor system,” said Jillian, thinking the fence would barely stop a two-year-old. “I’d like to renew my objection to taking this job.”

  “Your objection was noted and dismissed in DC.”

  “I thought this was a partnership.”

  “It is. But your mental competence is temporarily compromised by grief, so I’ll be making the essential decisions for a while.”

  “I’m not experiencing grief.”

  “Okay, denial.”

  Jillian wasn’t in denial. “I’m fully aware that my handsome, wealthy, well-respected fiancé very publicly left me at the altar.”

  “What you don’t seem to understand, is that you need to recover from that blow.”

  “I’ve recovered. What’s next?”

  “Next, we plan an NMAC motocross event.”

  “I meant, what’s next for us in DC? You remember, our home? The place where our office and our clients reside.”

  Jillian understood that motorsports were popular. She even understood why. She got that boys loved fast, noisy toys and that some men never grew up. But that didn’t mean she wanted anything to do with the industry. She wished them well in their event, but she wanted to go talk to the lawyers or the stockbrokers, maybe the funeral directors. They all held nice, quiet, dignified conferences.

  “We’re going national,” said Shari with a grin and a waggle of her eyebrows.

  “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

  “You lost it the second we bought airplane tickets. Come on,” Shari cajoled. “We can do this. Sure, it’s a bit out of the ordinary.” She took a second to glance around the facility. “Okay, quite a bit out of the ordinary.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’ll be fun.”

  “We’re going to get filthy.”

  “A little dirt never hurt anybody.”

  “A little motor oil has ruined plenty of good outfits.”

  “We’ll buy something cheap to wear tomorrow.”

  Jillian raised her brows. “Cheap? I’m not going to do business looking like I shop at a discount store.”

  It was all well and good for their clients to set their own standards, but UpNext had a reputation to maintain. This might be a hokey little run-down track, but NMAC was a respected national organization. Every contact with them had t
o be professional.

  “You’re going to fret about what these people think of you?” Shari asked with a grin.

  “I’m going to fret about what they think of UpNext.”

  “The best thing you can do for UpNext is deliver a bang-up event. NMAC is a high-paying client, and they deserve nothing but our best work.”

  “Fine,” Jillian agreed, hauling her tablet out of her shoulder bag. Shari was absolutely right. Every client, no matter how humble, no matter how scruffy, deserved their best.

  “We’re looking at a three-day, weekend event,” she began. “Friday is the welcome reception for riders, sponsors and VIPs.”

  “Check,” said Shari.

  “Day two is the junior men’s qualifying and women’s races.”

  “Check, check.”

  “Day three is the men’s finals, culminating at three o’clock, followed by the wind-up banquet.”

  “And, check. Expectation is for the low end of their spectator numbers, likely less than four thousand.”

  Jillian glanced around with a more evaluating eye. “Security, inadequate. Seating, inadequate. Washrooms, inadequate. First aid, inadequate.”

  “Don’t hold back on your opinion.” Devlin’s voice was flat behind her.

  She turned to face him. “It’s important that I’m honest.”

  “Brutally?”

  “Are you looking for flattery?”

  He considered the question for a moment. “Sure. Why not? What’ve you got?”

  She made a show of gazing out at the course. “I like the jumps on turn three. Though, I suspect they make my case for additional first aid.”

  “People don’t participate in motocross to stay cosseted and clean.”

  “Thank you for explaining that to me.”

  Shari jumped in. “We were also expecting to meet Hank Morettini today?”

  “He’ll be in the office,” said Devlin. “Now’s probably a good time to go down there. You can talk to him while they’re doing track maintenance.”

  Following Devlin’s lead, they made their way to the far side of the bleachers, up a trail on a small rise that took them to the office building. The aging wood creaked as they crossed the small porch.

  Inside, the space consisted of two rooms, a large reception area with a long, bright blue Arborite counter and a scattering of folding chairs. Behind it they could see into a small, cluttered office. A man emerged in the doorway.