by Stahl, Shey
Racing on the Edge
Black Flag
You can fight or give in.
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 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 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.
Black Flag
You can fight or give in.
Copyright © 2012 by Shey Stahl
Published in the United States of America
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.
http://sheystahl.blogspot.com/
Twitter: @SheyStahl
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Printed Verison:
ISBN-13: 978-1475094084
ISBN-10: 1475094086
Acknowledgments:
Most important, thank you to all my readers!!! There’s nothing better than putting everything you have into a story and having people tell you how much they loved it and fell in love with the same characters you spent years creating. Thank you!
My husband, as always, you have truly been the best husband a wife could ask for. Not a day goes by I don’t sit back and think about how lucky I am to have someone like you in my life complimenting the best each of us has to offer.
Honey girl, everything I work so hard for is for you.
My parents, you’re supportive no matter what I do and my biggest fans of Team Shey! Thank you for all your unconditional love you have given me and telling everyone and anyone about my book.
My sister, you’re the best sister I could ask for. Thank you for reading and being the first to finish the final version of Happy Hour!
Linda, as always, can’t thank you enough for all that you do for me. Pre-reading, editing, and just being there for me. Oh and letting me know when a word is not really a word, like assholish. By the way, I stand by that as being a real word.
Mo, I don’t think I will ever put down the red pen but I take comfort in knowing you’ll love me anyways. Again, thank you for talking me through my frustrations and making me see past them.
Kellie, thank you for pimping my story in all the ways you did and being a good friend.
Megan, my Team Shey friend, thank you for reading and being enthusiastic about my story.
Brenda, thanks for reading and getting your friends reading my stories!
Alexandra Richland, thank you for being a shoulder through the process and helping me describe what I want to say. I’m glad I had the opportunity to develop a friendship with you through writing. You are, and always will be, the best writer and my opinion!
Fire Ball, thank you for believing me and understanding what I don’t have to say.
Catie, thanks for being a great friend and someone to vent to about the frustrations of toddlers.
Laura and Marty, thank you for reading and being supportive.
Callie, I appreciate the enthusiasm we share for reading and you promoting my book, thank you!
And thank you to my racing friends who have provided their knowledge of the sport: PJ, Axle, David, Kasey, Justin, Carl, Trey, Henry, Billy, Eric, Lathan, Joey, Flip, Joe, The Dude.
This book is dedicated to my sister, Ami.
Thank you for always understanding me and finding humor where others don’t.
An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.
-Gandhi
Prelude
Actions detrimental to stock car racing – Jameson
Actions detrimental to stock car racing – This definition refers to section 12-4-A of the NASCAR rule book. NASCAR applies this rule to everything from illegal additions to your car to fighting on and off the track.
An internal combustion engine goes through four cycles, also known as the suck, squeeze, bang, blow process.
You intake air, compress it, spark and then it’s blown through the exhaust. It’s not much different than the human respiratory cycle working in tandem with a beating heart.
A few things are vital to an engine. Without them, you are parked. You need suction, a way to compress the air, a way to create spark, and a way to blow that air out. A number of things can go wrong.
Maybe it’s an electrical problem, ignition, compression or mechanical—the point is that more than one thing is needed for an engine to run successfully. There are a lot of deciding factors.
Most people need a lot of things to feel alive, to feel fulfilled in life. But you only need one thing to actually live.
Just as a car needs an engine, you need a beating heart.
When your heart is threatened by someone or something, you respond on instinct. Humans, animals and even engines all respond in one of those two ways.
You fight or give in.
Even an engine, when pushed to its limit, blows. Animals, they attack. Some may say it’s just instinct and we can’t control it...or can you?
One thing’s for sure...I couldn’t when instinct and adrenaline overpowered everything I thought I knew. Not when it came to my reason for living, for feeling alive.
I could fight or give in.
“It’s your call.” Van replied, leaning against the brick wall.
After driving around for three hours, Van called and said he found Darrin at a bar right outside of Loudon with Mike, having a beer. It was such a normal thing to, do but not for someone who just...I couldn’t think the words without wanting to kill him.
How far would I go to protect her?
The answer: I would do anything.
I was ready for him and once and for all, I would finish this with him. Regardless of the action, this was my fight to finish.
1. 200 MPH Tape – Sway
200 MPH Tape – This is also known as “racers tape”. Duct tape so strong it will hold a banged up race car together long enough to finish a race.
“How’s he doing?” I asked Nancy, Jameson’s mother, standing outside his hospital room.
After hearing of the accident, we arrived about an hour ago at the Pocono Medical Center but still hadn’t been allowed to see him.
I understood, seeing how it was now around three in the morning. It was hardly visiting hours but I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now. Not when my boyfriend, and the father of my unborn baby were here.
Nancy’s teary eyes met mine before wrapping her arms around my neck, holding me for a long moment. “The doctor is in there right now doing an exam. One of his broken ribs punctured his lung. That seems to be the worst of it. Also, the capillaries in his eyes ruptured from the G-force of the hit so his face looks pretty bad.”
Nancy broke away from my embrace when a few members of his team approached us. Justin West,
one of the drivers of Jameson’s sprint car team, and close friend of his, smiled toward me. It was a comforting gesture and one I appreciated right then.
“Will he need surgery?” Jameson’s younger sister, Emma, returned with three bottles of water handing them to Nancy and me.
“Not for the lung. They put in a chest tube so that seemed to help. He will need pins put in his wrist as the bone splintered up his arm.”
I cringed, thinking about how painful that must have been for him and knowing that out of anyone, Jameson Riley could handle physical pain. A few other drivers for the cup series came by to check on Jameson. Bobby Cole, his teammate with Riley Racing, approached us, his dark hair scattered from a night of sleeplessness.
“Is he still unconscious?” Bobby asked leaning against the wall, his tired eyes hard.
Looking over his team, everyone looked exhausted. Though they looked exhausted, no one would leave now. Not until they knew he’d been all right.
“He’s in and out. The doctors are giving him medicine to keep him sedated. He’ll heal faster that way.” Nancy looked down at her hands. “He’s got numerous broken bones on his left side and you know Jameson, he won’t stay still.”
I was starting to get dizzy again so I used the wall for support, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor and pulled my knees to my chest.
Immediately Nancy and Emma were beside me.
“Are you okay?” Nancy asked.
Nancy, though she wasn’t my biological mother, mine died of breast cancer when I was six, was the closest thing I had to a mother these days.
The guys walked back toward the waiting room with the rest of his team, leaving us alone outside Jameson’s room.
“Yeah...I just...I’m worried about him.”
“He’s going to be okay, Sway.” Nancy reached for my hand. Her rusty loops of hair that matched Jameson’s fell into her face. “How are you feeling?” She asked brushing my own hair from my face.
“She puked the entire plane ride here.” Emma answered for me. “Poor Wes was a little grossed out by it all.”
“I was so sick when I was pregnant with Jameson.” Nancy smiled. “The first four months were spent praying to the porcelain gods.”
After a debate with my cat, Mr. Jangles, and him eating my birth control pills, I ended up pregnant. Long winded story short, I flew out to Charlotte to watch my best friends first Coca-Cola 600, we ended up becoming fuck buddies with benefits, discovered we loved each other all along, and that ended in me getting knocked up. There was a lot more to it, but that’s the short version.
“See, he was an asshole even back then.” Emma added casually picking at her nail polish.
“He was a perfect baby though,” Nancy defended flicking Emma’s arm. “I did have a horrible pregnancy but he was the best baby out of all you.” Emma glared. “Always quiet and observing. Jimi actually pinched him sometimes just to make sure he was normal and would cry.” Nancy got this far away look as she remembered her youngest son as a baby. “The first time we took him to a race, it was at Skagit. He was maybe nine months old at the time. His eyes never left the track. He was mesmerized by the cars even then.”
I smiled, that sounded like Jameson. For being the middle child of Nancy and Jimi, he was completely different from Emma and Spencer.
The door cracked open and all three of us stood.
A round dark haired man that looked like a stubby version of George Clooney walked out. I assumed this was the doctor by the white coat.
His eyes found Nancy. “We will be taking him for surgery on Tuesday morning. I want to give him some time to rest.” He told her. “Our main concern is the pneumothorax.”
I’m pretty sure he could tell we all had no idea what that was. It sounded like a fancy name for “pain in the ass” to me.
The doctor chuckled lightly before he went on to explain what that meant. “It’s a hole in his lung.”
Why don’t they just say that in the beginning? Who was the one that thought up all these elaborate names for shit? I want to meet this person and slap them upside the head. Just because.
“Usually this is caused from a hole in the chest wall, such as a stab wound or gunshot wound that allows air to enter the pleural space. This can also be caused from both blunt trauma and penetrating injuries to the chest wall, Jameson has received both. The track safety officials indicated his belts were fastened but loose—which is why he received injuries of this nature.” Tucking the folder in his hand under his arm, he continued after looking over his notes. “After performing an MRI shortly after he arrived, we observed that this was caused from a cut to the pleura by one of his many fractured ribs. He’s awake for the moment and asking for a Sway?” His questioning eyes glanced toward Emma and I, trying to decipher which one of us was Sway.
I stepped forward when Nancy reached for me, my eyes wide but managing a wobbly smile. Stifling a gasp, tears filled my eyes as I entered his room.
There, in the middle of the room surround by various machines was Jameson. The sight was strange and an unfamiliar feeling. I’d never seen him in the hospital before.
Among various bruises and scratches over his arms and neck, his left arm was in a bandage. His hospital gown was on backwards, open in the front, showing a bandage across his ribs. Bruises covered his stomach and chest, outlining the faint shape of his belts from the car. Even though I knew he was alive, the whooshing and beeping of the machines assured me.
My vision blurred from tears as I stared at him.
Slowly he turned his head to look in the direction of the door, wincing in pain as he did so.
When his bloodshot eyes finally met mine, his gaze was bleary, dazed and completely blank for a moment.
I was beside the bed in an instant; a retarded sob broke through me as I gently touched his cheek.
Jameson’s eyes closed, his lips twitched into a small smile as he carefully leaned into my hand. He sighed, blinking heavily, and then those beautiful grass green eyes met mine.
“Sway,” he croaked.
I couldn’t stop another pathetic cry from escaping me as I bent my head down to his, pressing a soft kiss into his hair, my body shaking and shuddering with relief.
He struggled briefly, trying to reach for me but gave up with a moan.
“Shhh...stay still.” I soothed through my tears touching his cheek softly. “Please don’t move.”
“Yeah...good idea...” his voice was rough and unrecognizable, but he squeezed my hand with his right one. His eyes shut briefly, and he grimaced before looking at me once again.
“Can I get you anything?” I whispered.
“No,” he replied in this weird gravelly voice that was unlike him. He tried to turn his head again and then winced. “Fuck.”
“I’ll call for the nurse,” I said reaching for his call button.
He was either still pretty well out of it or in a huge amount of pain for him to react that way. Jameson had always been adamant that he never needed help from anyone.
A few minutes later, a tall auburn haired nurse walked in his room. “Hey sweetie, you’re awake again.” She smiled at us checking his IV lines. “Jameson, you probably don’t remember me, but I’m Melanie, your nurse.”
I wasn’t impressed with this particular staff member.
Why does she have to be gorgeous? Why?
In my head, that Pussycat Dolls song was on repeat. I could hardly focus on anything but the song at that point.
Leave it to me to be singing a song at a time like this.
I used to think it was a catchy tune...now I hated it. Here I was trying to concentrate on the fact that my baby’s daddy was lying in a hospital bed with tubes around him and I’m worried about the tall auburn beauty taking care of him and singing Don’t Cha because I feel like that’s the song she would be singing to me.
Damn you crazy irrational baby hormones, damn you.
“I think he’s in pain,” I explained, with a worried glance at his
face. I then turned toward Melanie. “Can he have more pain medication?”
Keep your paws to yourself pussycat doll.
“Ah.” She patted her pockets and pulled out a syringe. She had a small scanner in her other hand, and flashed it at his wristband and then at the syringe before setting it aside. “I’ve got the good stuff.” Melanie smiled and injected the contents of the syringe into his IV. “That should help sweetie. Let me know if the pain gets any worse, okay? Do you want some water, or anything else?”
He shook his head slowly, grimacing again.
“Try not to move around,” she said kindly, checking the bandage and chest tube. “You’ve got a number of broken ribs, and I don’t imagine it’s going to feel so great for a while. Your neck will be very sore as well.”
He grunted as a response and shut his eyes.
“Thank you,” I said as she moved to the door.
And remember, paws off! My mind screamed toward her.
“No problem.” She smiled before shutting the door behind her.
It was quiet after she left. Jameson was lying motionless in the bed with his eyes still closed. I shifted to sit in the chair thinking he’d fallen asleep when his hand lifted weakly.
“Stay?” he asked quietly, so quietly I had to strain to hear the words.
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I assured him, bringing his fingers to my lips to kiss them. They’re rough and warm, just like I remember.
One corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile, a soft sigh escaped him. “Come here,”
“Huh?” I asked, confused looking to him for an answer.
“Up here,” he repeated, puckering his lips in an adorable way. His eyes drifted open, lazy and tired.
It was such a Jameson thing to say, and the reprieve I felt was immense. “You sure?”
He started to nod, winced, and instead breathed, “Yes.”
