by Shandi Boyes
After swinging the gate open, I turn my eyes back to Carey. “Come on,” I say with a nudge of my head.
A childish giggle rumbles up my chest when Carey throws open his driver’s side door and starts climbing out of his car.
“Not you. Your car,” I shout, laughter in my voice.
Even with the brightness of Carey’s Camaro hindering my vision, I don’t miss the confused arch of his brow.
“Do you want to drive your Camaro on the same track champion NASCAR drivers Matias Calderon-Lévesque and Andre Cartis have driven on?” I overemphasize my voice with dramatic flair, hoping to conceal the nervous butterflies jittering in my stomach. I’ve seen this track more times than the back of my hand, so I’m not here to recall old memories. I'm here because every second I spend with Carey creates hairline splinters in the protective barrier I built around my heart six years ago. Just the excited gleam in his eyes as he runs them over the track has a jackhammer working its way through a wall I assumed was impenetrable.
When Carey briefly nods his head to my question, I say, “Then let’s do this!”
The smile that cracks on his face is brighter than the headlights on his car, and it drowns out the warning bells ringing in my head that I’m never going to come out of this night unscathed.
Once Carey guides his car through the narrow opening, I close the gate and switch on the automatic timer. Pretending Carey hasn’t already seen my hideous contouring undergarments, I strut toward the start line while gesturing seductively with my hands for him to follow me. If my dad could see me now, he’d be mortified. No matter how often I wished to be a NASCAR pit girl for just one day, it was a dream my dad was never going to allow to come true. If my dad had it his way, still to this day I would wear nothing but overly baggy race suits with a grease-covered face.
Once Carey’s fat-rimmed tires are pressed up against the edge of the thick white start line, I snag a rag out of the makeshift starters box on my left and wave it in the air.
“Are you ready?!” I shout, ensuring Carey can hear me over the loud rumble of his engine.
My cheeks burn from their sudden incline when Carey revs his engine, advising he is good to go.
“One point five miles of track is waiting to be dominated. Bring it all or go home crying!” I scream into the muggy night air.
Swiveling my flag in the air, I add to the suspense firing the dark night sky with stifling heat. “Go!” I scream while throwing down my rag.
The intoxicating scent of burning rubber and gasoline stream through my nose when Carey’s Camaro shoots over the starting line like a rocket. I knew from his earlier performance tonight that his driving skills were impressive, but when he charges past the first half-mile sign with just over twelve seconds on the clock, my astonishment grows. My eyes follow the blue blur of his car as he moves through the track at a lightning speed. His incredible performance pushes me back to ten years in the past, back to an age where I thought I was invincible.
When he flies over the finish line, my eyes snap to the timer. My breathing halts when I notice there are only 32.84 seconds on the clock.
“Holy shit,” I mumble to myself. Champion NASCAR drivers struggle to get over the 1.5-mile line in under thirty seconds, and they are driving cars designed for these conditions. So for a novice to achieve that in a standard car. . . that’s phenomenal.
“How the hell did you do that?!” I query when Carey pulls his Camaro to the side of me.
The crazy thump of my heart merges into dangerous territory when the most alluring smile I’ve ever seen crosses Carey’s face. I’m not talking about a half-smirk or even a full-toothed smile. I’m talking a genuine smile that extends all the way from the middle of his chest. His true smile is. . . wow. If I thought this man was breathtaking before, I had no clue. He is truly outstanding.
“It’s not the first time I’ve driven on a NASCAR track,” Carey confesses while curling out of his car.
My eyes bulge. “It isn’t?”
Like it could get any larger, Carey’s smile increases before he briefly shakes his head. “I participated in two of the future NASCAR driver programs your dad organized in my late teens.”
“You did!?” I catch my eye roll halfway from the daftness of my questions. “Then how come I’ve never met you before? I attended all my dad’s events.” This time, my voice comes out sounding how it usually does: friendly, but inquisitive.
Before Carey can answer, I wave my hand through the air. “Never mind. I already know the answer to my question. Associating with handsome young drivers was also on my dad’s no-go list.”
Carey cops my compliment on the chin without the slightest switch in his composure. Rumors circulated throughout the NASCAR industry that my dad issued stern warnings to any drivers chosen to participate in his advanced training program to stay away from his daughter.
“If you so much as share the same air as my daughter, the closest you’ll get to a NASCAR will be when you’re polishing my hubcaps with your toothbrush,” I quote. A smirk curls on my lips when my impersonation of my dad’s thick Spanish accent comes out to perfection.
Carey chuckles quietly. “That was one of Matias’s regular sayings. But my favorite one was, ‘You even glance in my daughter’s direction, the only rubber you’ll be smelling will be the scent of my boot up your ass,’” he replies with a smile.
My mortification grows. I love my dad—truly I do—but he gives overbearing protective parenting a new name.
Acting like my dad’s tactics were perfectly normal for a caring father, I ask, “So what happened to your NASCAR dreams? Why aren’t you out there breaking records in the sprint circuits? You clearly have the skills, as only the best up and coming drivers were invited to join my dad’s program.”
“Life happened,” Carey replies a short time later with a shrug of his shoulders. His voice is low and crammed with sentiment.
I prop my backside onto the hood of his car and scoot backwards until my back is resting against the windscreen. “Sounds like the excuse of a young man without aspirations,” I quote, still mimicking my dad’s accent.
The heat of the Camaro’s engine adds to the sweat slicking my skin, but it is nothing compared to the fiery range of emotions brewing in Carey’s eyes. The happy gleam they wore mere seconds ago has vanished, and his unapproachable demeanor is back full-force. But even with him holding a gaze that would terrify any woman, I’m remarkably unafraid.
I strive to capture the devotion of Carey’s absconding gaze before saying, “Life is 10% what happens to us. The other 90% is how we react to it.”
“Another quote from Matias?” Carey queries, his voice as reserved as his personality.
I shake my head. “No. It was a statement my therapist said to me when I was fleeing our first court appointed session four years ago,” I admit, hoping my honesty will ease his agitation.
I wait with abated breath, fully anticipating that he’ll react as shocked as every man does when I admit to court appointed therapy. I’m the one who ends up shocked when the expression on his face doesn’t change the slightest. He maintains his normal impassive yet intrigued expression.
Fiddling with one of the many gold bracelets wrapped around my wrist, I say, “I have numerous contacts in this industry if racing is something you're interested in pursuing. I’m not offering my support because I find you intriguing. I truly believe you have talent that should be exploited—”
“Exploited or explored?” Carey interrupts, his tone changing from antagonized to astonished.
A grin curls on my lips. “People whose talents are not exploited become disenchanted and disruptive.”
Feeling the heat of Carey’s curious glance, I lift my gaze to his. “That one was Terence Conran,” I advise his questioning eyes. When the confusion on his face grows, I ask my question in a way that only requires a simple yes or no reply. “Is a career in racing something you want to exploit?”
Carey takes his time configuring
a response before he mutters, “You don’t think I’m a little too old to be an aspiring NASCAR driver?”
“God no,” I reply dramatically with a roll of my eyes. “Age shouldn’t be a deterrent when you're destined for greatness.”
I pat my hand on the hood of his car, soundlessly offering for him to join me. When he surprisingly does as requested, I continue with my endeavor to reignite the glimmer of content his eyes bore earlier. “Casey Mears, Jamie McMurray, David Gilliland, and Jimmie Johnson are all drivers in the Sprint Cup Series, and they are all over the age of forty.”
“And they’ve all been driving for the past twenty plus years,” Carey adds on.
I knock my knee against his thigh. “You’re acting like you already have one foot in the grave.” My high voice exposes my excitement at his closeness. Just the warmth radiating off his body has every nerve ending in mine sparked and paying careful attention to his every move. “How old are you, anyway? And pre-warning, if you say anything over the age of thirty-five, I’m not going to be held accountable for my actions.”
Carey locks his gaze with me, his eyes confused, his lips twisted.
I smile at his confusion. “If you're over thirty-five, I’m going to hold you down until you cough up the location of the fountain of youth you’ve been drinking out of. A million dollars will be nothing but chump change for me once I’ve distributed that age defying concoction to all the old, wrinkly ladies of America.”
The vibrant spark flaring in Carey’s eyes from my compliment bolsters the euphoria pumping through my veins from sitting so close to him.
“I’m thirty-one. Old enough to know my racing aspirations belong in the grave I already have my foot in,” he replies. From the roughness of his tone, I can’t tell if he is trying to be witty or forthright.
I scoff, feigning repulsion before shifting my eyes to the sky. Stargazing is a mandatory requirement of mine every time I’m outside after dark. There is a magical beauty in a dark sky full of stars.
A pout slips onto my lips. With a heavy set of clouds in the sky, the usually sparkling visual isn’t as enticing as normal. Or perhaps it is because nothing comes close to the allure of the man sitting next to me? Who needs to look at a beautiful sky when you have the very definition of a man sitting next to you? If just the meekest touch of Carey’s thigh against mine is sending a thrill of excitement down my spine, imagine what a purposeful contact would do?
A few minutes of silence pass between us. I turn my eyes away from the sky twenty minutes later when Carey murmurs, “It’s been a long time since I’ve just sat and did nothing.”
I’m not surprised by his revelation. He seems like a guy who would constantly be on the go. For some people, keeping their mind occupied is the only way they can keep their thoughts in neutral territory.
I lick my dry lips before asking, “Don’t you know doing nothing is one of the hardest things to do?”
My pulse quickens when Carey drifts his eyes to me. “Doing nothing is hard work?”
I nod my head. “Because you never know when you’re finished.”
My lungs stop working when Carey throws his head back and laughs. No dream I’ve ever had can compete with the accomplishment I feel by making Carey laugh. In the cruel and twisted world we live in, making another person happy is one of the kindest things you can do. That is what this feels like. No matter what happens from this point out, nothing can ruin this night. I achieved the seemingly impossible. I made the man with dark, haunted eyes laugh, and it was everything I could have wished for and more.
Carey’s laughter stops as quickly as it began. Although the stormy cloud dimming his dark gaze has cleared away, a new unreadable filter takes its place.
Another stretch of silence passes between us as we watch the clouds in the sky slowly reveal a beautiful star-filled night. Just like in life, sometimes walking through the darkness is the only way you can truly appreciate the brighter things in life. If the sky wasn’t so dark, you’d never see the beauty of the stars.
I suck in a nerve-clearing breath before turning my eyes to Carey. “Just because someone plays poker for twenty years doesn’t mean they have world-class skills. The same can be said for driving. You either have it or you don’t. You have it.”
My greedy gasp of air entombs halfway between my lungs and my throat when more than inquisitiveness brightens his gaze. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes are enhanced with the unique mix of confusion and hankering.
Unable to determine if it is my declaration causing the new shimmer in Carey’s eyes or the fact our thighs have been touching the past forty minutes, I mutter, “Dreams are like memories. No matter how old you get, you never stop creating them. You just have to decide if you’re strong enough to pursue them.”
The small section of skin between Carey’s eyes becomes heavily creased—adding to his confused expression. He appears just as baffled as I am about our bizarre interactions tonight. It is so peculiar that a man I only met hours ago has such a sense of familiarity about him. If I didn’t know any different, I’d swear I’ve met him before. It’s probably his worldly eyes adding to the confusion clustering my mind. He has eyes that look damaged and broken, but they also plead not to misread his outward appearance. Although his standoffish demeanor gives the impression he wants solitude, the aura beaming out of his eyes tells a completely different story. He is just like every other human being out there. He is waiting for someone to throw him a lifejacket, to show him that there are rays of sunshine even in a storm-filled sky.
My voice comes out with a quiver when I begin to speak. It isn’t shaking with nerves; it is hindered by anticipation. “There is only one rule in life. If you don’t go after what you want, you’ll never have it.”
“And how does fate play into this?” Carey asks, his voice gritty and deep.
“It doesn’t,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Fate only takes you to a certain point, then it is up to you to make it the rest of the way. I’m not saying life is a sunset walk on a Caribbean beach. Sometimes it can feel like everything is falling apart, where, in reality, everything may be falling into place.”
I slide across the hood of Carey’s car as I battle to keep buried memories hidden. It took an intense amount of therapy and the love and guidance of those surrounding me before I could even consider the prospect that my life didn’t end six years ago. Only now do I realize my life plan may have veered slightly off-track, but it never came close to crossing the finish line.
The hot metal hood of the Camaro sticks to my sweat-slicked skin, dragging the hem of my dress up high on my thigh when I slide off the side. The oddness of our exchange this evening grows when Carey maintains my eye contact even with a scandalous amount of my skin exposed. I don’t know if that makes him an admirable man or me a foolish woman for chasing someone clearly not interested in me.
I stop wallowing in self-pity when Carey mumbles, “Fate brings people together, but it takes more than that to keep them together.”
Smiling, I nod my head. “Fate decides who comes into your life. Your heart chooses who gets to stay.” As I pace to the driver’s door of his Camaro, an idea formulates in my head.
“So what do you say, Carey? Can you spare a couple of minutes of your time to help a girl achieve a lifelong dream? Or are you going to wait for the sun and moon to align and let them choose your path?”
Chapter 7
Hawke
For every second that passes in silence, the width of Gemma’s pupils increase. Although she only asked for a few minutes of my time, the look in her eyes tells me she wants so much more. I can’t say I don’t understand the bizarre mix of intrigue and confusion in her heavy-hooded gaze. I'm battling the exact same range of emotions. The past hour has been unlike anything I’ve experienced the past five years. When I raced around the track, it felt like I was speeding past every horrid thing that has happened in my life, and that I was finally making headway in my grief. In the twenty minutes that followed, fo
r the first time in years, I secured a full breath. To others, that may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but when you're a man drowning in grief, inhaling a lung-filling gulp of air is a treasured moment.
But do you want to know what is even more astonishing than that? My race around the track didn’t just make a small crack in the grief that’s been crippling me the past five years; it also cleared away some of the mistrust Gemma’s eyes have been carrying since I barreled into her nine hours ago. It makes me wonder what is going on in that head of hers if crossing a dream off a broken man’s bucket list eases the pain in her eyes.
Peering into Gemma’s eyes is like glancing into a kaleidoscope, so many different colors and emotions reflect back at me. Although her eyes have never been filled with sympathy the past hour, there have been an array of emotions I can’t recognize. Don’t play me for a fool; I can read the ga-ga glint that’s been brightening her eyes the past hour as clear as the sun in the sky, but there is something much deeper than just lust there. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, identifying that glint is just as important to me as my next full breath.
After a few moments of silent contemplation, only one thought crosses my mind. When you’re a man living your life as if you're on death row, anything that gains your attention should be explored, shouldn’t it?
“Come on, Carey. What man accepts a favor without giving one in return?” Gemma whines, her voice quivering with both nerves and excitement.
My eyes roll skywards. There she goes again with the guilt trip. That is how I am certain she has no clue who I am. Guilt is swallowing my life whole, so her little nicks don’t cause the slightest ripple in the ocean of grief I’m treading in.
Gemma takes a step closer to me. Her wild berry smell adds a feminine touch to the virile surrounding we’re immersed in. “Unless you’re afraid I’m going to show you up,” she mutters, her tone as cocky as the competitiveness in her eyes. “A little bit of competition never hurt anyone.” She spreads her hands across her hips and stares straight into my eyes. “Will being beaten by a girl bruise your massive ego?”
