by Stahl, Shey
“When did you do this?” I asked curiously watching him as he walked toward me with a slow gait; his hands remaining in his pockets.
We had just arrived in Mooresville not less than an hour ago and I was sure he wouldn’t have had time to do this having been with him the entire time since he proposed.
A smirk ghosted across his lips, his hands came up to cup my cheeks.
“Emma owed me a favor.” He bent down and picked me up bridal style, carrying me up the grand stair case toward the bedroom. More candles were placed on each wooden step leading the path and throughout the upstairs leading to the master suite.
Laid across the king size bed placed in the center of the bedroom, he kissed every patch of skin reverently, stroked the same spots gently, worshipping with his warm fingers.
I let him go as slowly as he wanted, patiently watching him with a small smile when he got to my midsection and carefully explored the hard, subtle bulge with his lips and hands, rubbing it tenderly. And just as I’d hoped, our little spaz nudged Jameson’s hand.
His head shot up, his eyes widening.
“Sway,” he gasped. “Was that...?” his voice faded looking down at the bulge again.
Tears slipped down my cheeks, “Yes.”
I watched as one of his hands trailed up over my belly, rubbing gently over the spot where the baby kicked.
“God, you are so beautiful.” He looked down at me with lust-darkened eyes, through long dark beautiful lashes. He ran his hands down my neck, between my breasts. “Ti amerò per sempre la mia Sway,” He murmured against my neck.
Oh god, he knew exactly what to do to send me over the edge. I had no idea what he just said to me but I loved it when he spoke Italian.
He worshiped me with his hands and mouth. He was showing me all the love he was feeling for me in that moment. All the love he’d felt for me our entire lives together. So much had been leading up to this point that at times it seemed we’d never be together and here we were together, in the most intimate way, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
I felt like squealing with excitement.
Feeling his heavy and hot breath on my neck, he whispered, “I love you,” bringing me back to the moment with him hovering over me.
“I love you too.” I gently whispered resting my head in the crook of his neck.
He sighed contently, moving his fingers lightly over my naked body. His hand reached down and grasped my left hand, bringing the ring to his lips.
“Thank you, honey.” He whispered and took our joined hands and placed them on my stomach over our child. He chuckled. “You really said yes?”
“Yeah,” I laughed too watching our shadows dance on the wall as he moved to hover over me, his body covering mine. “I did.”
“Say it.”
“Yes Jameson Riley, I will marry you.”
The candles, the words, the moment, it all balanced what we were, what we’d become perfectly.
My happy right now.
Now only if only there was a way to get a sprint car rumbling in the background.
10. Dry Slick – Sway
Dry Slick – This is a term given to a dirt track when all the moisture is gone and the track has dried out creating a condition where the cars are loose. In turn drivers will describe the sensation as driving on ice.
“I want to be a pit lizard.”
“No, dad, you’ve got that term confused.” My attention drifted back to the track as we watched qualifying for the truck race on Thursday afternoon.
“I don’t? I want to be a groupie and have fun.”
“That’s not a pit lizard. That’s, well, it’s complicated.”
“Well uncomplicated it for me,” he said as he poured whiskey from a flask into his plastic cup of coffee. I had a feeling grandpa Casten was behind the flask. “What is a pit lizard?”
I explained the difference. He understood or at least he pretended to with lots of nodding.
But then he replied with, “Well I’m not that easy and I won’t follow one of those kids around. But I will follow those RedBull girls.” He took off in the other direction with who I thought I’d never see here at a NASCAR track, grandpa Casten.
Right about the time I was going to sneak back to the driver’s compound and make a sandwich, Spencer rolled up in the golf cart. “Have you seen Jameson?”
I pointed toward the track and kept walking. Though the golf carts were nice with how spread out these tracks were, my fat ass needed some exercise.
“Oh well shit, let’s go squirt.” He motioned with a nod for me to get in with him by patting the seat.
“Where are we going?”
“Food,” Spencer’s eyebrow arched, his blue eyes amused. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry?”
I couldn’t lie. I was starving.
We planned on just grabbing some track food but when Jameson was done qualifying, Charlie and grandpa Casten had gotten kicked out of the garage area for wearing sandals so we were all starving. So we left and decided to get dinner in downtown Atlanta.
“Triple header this weekend, Jay?”
Jameson paused by the Expedition when we saw his grandpa smiling at him. “Is grandpa coming?”
“Yeah, why?” I pushed him forward by kicking his ass with my knee. “Let’s go, I’m hungry!”
“I’m not going if he’s going,” was his immediate response.
“Hey jerk, I’m standing here.” Casten kicked his shin.
“Is it too late to ask him not to come?”
“Yep,” Casten clapped his hands together with a smile that I recognized as trouble. “You’re stuck with me kid.”
“Great,” was Jameson’s final, but annoyed, answer.
Grandpa Casten wasn’t exactly the best company in a public restaurant but I was willing to risk it for food at that point. It wasn’t hard to get Jameson in the car once I told him I’d offer a little micro polishing once back at the track.
I had a feeling that, after lunch with his grandpa, and on a triple header weekend, he was going to keep me to my promises.
Dry Slick – Jameson
Sway and I didn’t have time to celebrate our proposal nor did I have much time to focus on anything other than racing the following weekend in Richmond.
Richmond International Raceway was a ¾ mile D shaped track located in Henrico County Virginia.
I decided I needed more seat time to get back in the groove of racing, or maybe it was to take my mind off everything. Regardless of the reasoning, I took Tate up on his offer to race his truck in the NASCAR Craftsman truck series on Thursday night and his Busch car on Friday followed by the usual cup race on Sunday. I barely had time to breath.
That weekend was the first time I’d raced a truck though. They were extremely different from the stock cars in their weight, body style, and horsepower. They weighed 3400 pounds, without driver and fuel; had four speed manual transmissions and around 650 to 700 horsepower.
I had a blast in it and would probably be begging Tate to get in it again.
The only problem I had with the triple header, besides the obvious lack of time with my new fiancée and lack of sleep, was not being around my usual team.
Tate already had a crew for both teams so I was basically a driver for hire. Aiden spotted for me though. I didn’t know Chris Leddy well enough to trust him when he said, “All clear.”
Every time I turned around that weekend, I was inside a car. For a guy like me, that was awesome, but it was draining as well.
The truck race went good and I was impressed to see that I finished third.
Then came the Busch race, and that went well too with a second place finish.
But when Sunday rolled around, the shit hit the fan again.
“Cautions out,” Aiden announced about a hundred laps into the Chevy Rock & Roll 400.
The sun had finally set leaving the track lit by lights. It was the second night race in the last two weeks and tempers were flaring.
And I wasn’t the only one amped up tonight.
Tate and Andy, two teammates, were battling for the lead when Andy pushed up the track on him. It sent Tate into the wall coming into four. He wasn’t happy and made that known which brought out this last caution.
“What changes do you want?” Kyle asked.
I thought for a moment. We qualified eighth for the race and we were currently running fifth but something seemed to be missing.
“I’ve got good grip but it’s loose in three and four at times.”
We ended up taking four tires, a wedge adjustment and changed the splitter.
“Watch that hose!” Masen called out gesturing toward Ethan in front of the car trying to catch the tire that rolled from Brady Hewbert, our front tire changer.
Brady slipped on the hose and then yanked it backwards slapping the official in our pit with it.
“Shit,” Kyle barked tossing the clipboard. “Pay attention!” he yelled toward the crew and then gave me the go ahead.
I battled for position off pit road with Steve Vander and Bobby.
“Come back in.” Kyle told me as the pace car led us down the backstretch. “They called a stop and go on us.”
They nailed us not only for the hose but a tire violation too after Brady rolled the right front to the wall instead of carrying it. That sent us to the rear on the re-start.
“Jesus, we can’t catch a break,” was all I said in relation to the call.
I’m sure Kyle didn’t need me adding to the noise already going on between him, Mason, and my dad.
Clearly bothered by the calls being made from our pit, it seemed we could do nothing right after that and every stop ended with some problem. Lug nuts weren’t tight, too many guys over the wall, another tire slipped away, over the line on the pit box.
All stupid shit but we were still doing it.
We got to the point where wrecking seemed to be the only mishap that hadn’t happened.
Cautions remained scarce after that as the laps wound down and it seemed third was the best we were gonna get after the pit road penalty. We were lucky, as it was, that we got our lap back.
Bobby, who was leading, slipped up the track in three with four laps to go and I saw my chance with Andy in second who seemed to back off Bobby at that point.
I went high in turn four and one but he shot right back up top taking the line.
Fighting for second looked good when I got a nose under Andy Crocket coming to the white flag. We remained door-to-door, Aiden yelling, “At your door, still there, still there,” every so often. All the way around we remained that way slapping against each other through the final corner. Andy momentarily got out of shape, allowing me to take the position at the line.
After everything, it felt good to end out the night with a good finish but still, those pit stops were pissing me off and what should have been a good day was overshadowed by shitty calls.
To understand how it feels after a race, imagine speeding all day fighting traffic with drivers who want nothing more than to shove you in the wall; calculating strategy; getting on and off a narrow lane with forty two other drivers in temperatures usually only reached in a fucking sauna. Then, when you get out, people are in your face asking what happened, how you felt, and what your car was doing.
Now can you blame the reactions some of us have?
Yeah, we have bad days, bad races and bad fucking weeks. We don’t always reply the way they want us to.
A handful of reporters were in my face when I pulled down onto pit road along with that official who called all those penalties on us.
“It’s not personal kid,” was his response to me.
There’s nothing more to this than it’s me. It was our sweat, and hard work. So for someone to say to me or anyone else on our team, “It’s not personal,” was just a slap in our face.
“Fuck you it’s not personal.” I told him shifting my stance away from the reporters.
I didn’t know this official and already we weren’t starting off on a good note.
Alley stepped in between us as Sway walked over. “NASCAR wants to see you. Now.”
One good thing about that was I could get out of some of the interviews and hopefully get out of any compromising words. Sway followed close behind, I assumed, to keep me in control.
“You’re acting like a child!” was one brave reporter’s response when I denied his interview.
Was I acting like child?
No, I didn’t think I was. They didn’t understand any of this if they thought that.
You know, sometimes I wanted to take their hands and place the truth in it. I wanted to give them everything I had. Sometimes I wanted to act like they treated me and show them just how childish I could be. I wanted to give them the weight of everything I felt and let them be the goddamn judge of this shit.
Sometimes I wanted to vent, scream, and give it all away. Here, you take my talent; take my life you feel the need to criticize every moment of the day; take everything I have and you deal with the shit. You see what you can make of it since you seem to think I’m doing so badly.
I wanted them to feel the pressure, the inadequateness, the letdown, all of it; fucking take it.
When the local track media asked about the fine and what my thoughts were on the official who fined us, I gave them my thoughts.
When the reporter kept up his chirping, I replied with, “You really think I give a goddamn what you think of me?”
“I’ll wait here with Sway.” Alley nodded toward the big red hauler. “Jimi’s waiting back at the hauler for you too and then you have the contender’s conference.”
Sway kissed my cheek and offered a reassuring smile. She knew me and understood exactly how much I was bothered by all this.
The NASCAR hauler was the least of my worries after the comment I made to the reporter. In a matter of fifteen minutes, my phrase of “You really think I give a goddamn what you think of me?” was being replayed, with bleeps, on every sports broadcasting station.
My worst fear, my dad.
“Don’t do anything stupid today.” He said to me after our team meeting.
Looking back on that comment, I was sure that didn’t include this. I was positive it didn’t and he’d see my side to it.
Turns out, I was wrong. Who knew?
Kyle displayed a grim expression standing outside the hauler when I returned from the meeting with Gordon, a few thousand dollars in fines poorer for my language and behavior toward the official.
“Your dad is gonna have your ass and a few choice words.”
My mood hadn’t improved and I replied with, “Fuck you. How’s that for choice words?”
“Always a pleasure.” He chortled walking out.
I thought Jimi would storm in screaming and blowing a gasket but no, he said, “Do you want this? I’m not going to keep fighting this battle if I don’t think you’re in it too?”
“I want what I’ve always wanted.”
And that’s all we said to each other.
It was times like this where I missed the days when nothing mattered but the next checkered flag. Now, well, it wasn’t so easy. Every decision held implications.
Dry Slick – Sway
With Jameson, the possibility of verbal shrapnel wasn’t his concern. Racing was his concern. That’s the only way I could describe that race in Atlanta.
I must have, once again, bit off most of my nails waiting for him to come out of the NASCAR hauler.
My pit lizard dad, who’d been kicked out of the garage and then media center, strolled by with his partner in crime, grandpa Casten. They didn’t pay much attention to Alley and me because they were focused on the beer garden.
“What’s with those two?” Alley asked leaning against the side of the golf cart Kyle pulled up in.
“Charlie wanted to be a pit lizard.” She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Don’t ask.”
Before I could explain, Jameson came out and tipped his head for
us to get inside the golf cart. On the way to the media center for the contender’s conference, he said nothing until we got out.
Standing outside the large sliding doors, Jameson gathered my hands bringing them to his lips. “Let’s hope I make it out of here alive.”
The adrenaline, the emotion, and the disappointment were hard to control at times. Jameson knew that well. I only wished the media saw that too.
The media asked their standard questions, how the car ran, how the drivers felt about their finishes, everything they usual asked in the post-race press conference of the top three drivers. Then they opened the questions to the other reporters.
That’s when the conversations shifted to the fines and Jameson’s remarks to the official and reporter that got in his face. Gordon, the Director of Competition smiled when he sensed the turn. It seemed Gordon had just as much hate from Jameson these days as he had for him and enjoyed the feuds, usually fueling them.
No doubt, he was behind the officials calls today on pit road.
The silence lengthened as Jameson shook his head crossing his arms over his chest. Oblivious and unforgiving, these people surrounding us were seeing what they wanted to see; a beleaguered rookie’s temper tantrums.
Jameson remained steady. A faraway look angled his features. He didn’t offer the media much information, but he spoke with passion of a sport that consumed his every thought. “I don’t race because it’s my job. I race because it’s my life. So yeah, I take these fines seriously and when someone makes a whim call on pit road that can ruin our day out there, yeah, I take that personally.”
“Daddy gonna bail you out of this one too?” The same reporter that called him a child asked.
The crowd in attendance, including me and Alley, froze and stared at the audacity of the reporter.
