FUEL TO THE FIRE
by Brynn O'Connor
A Hearts Collective Production
Copyright © 2013 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
Dedication
To my boys Diego and Ethan, and my good friend Dan.
Copyright © 2013 Brynn O'Connor
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
Other Books by Hearts Collective:
Broken Strings (New Adult Rock Star Romance) by Brynn O'Connor
Damaged But Not Broken (New Adult Rockers) by W.H. Vega
Wounded But Not Scarred (New Adult Rockers 2) by W.H. Vega
Falling Harder (New Adult Romance) by W.H. Vega
Faster Harder (Take Me...#1) by Colleen Masters
Special Thanks to L.J. Anderson
for the beautiful professional cover art.
Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
Contents
ONE - The Bojangles Southern 500...
TWO - June 16, 2011
THREE - Marco's Hospital Room
FOUR - Practice Run
FIVE - The Atlanta Motor Speedway, The ADVOCARE 500...
SIX - Burnt Rubber, Scorched Hearts
SEVEN - Delirious
EIGHT - Burning Faster
NINE - Things Remembered
TEN - My Marco
ELEVEN - Good News?
TWELVE - Speed Demon
THIRTEEN - Together
FOURTEEN - A New Level
FIFTEEN - Haunted Memories
SIXTEEN - Catching Walls
EPILOGUE
Chapter One
The Bojangles Southern 500
“If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough...” Mario Andretti
Marco
Present Day 2013...
There’s nothing in the world quite like the earsplitting shriek of shredding, rending metal against a concrete wall.
Thousands of fans are assaulted by the sound as cars begin to pile up on the track. Raging fireballs scorch the air, dangerously close to where the faithful devotees of NASCAR look on. Within seconds ,the entire south end of the oval track is one huge, rapidly expanding conflagration of billowing oily smoke.
Fans leap to their feet, craning their sun-baked necks. Race officials skip the yellow flag entirely and bring the race to a grinding halt, waving the red flag furiously. Expressions go from excited to uncertain and finally to somber as the crowd begins to realize that this is more than just a routine wreck.
Teams scramble in the pits, trying to contact their drivers. Rescue vehicles steak across the raceway, heading for the southernmost end of the oval track. The Bojangles Southern 500 has been terminated after a mere 43 laps.
Moments Earlier...
“I see ya got yer first Darlington Stripe,” Harvey growls, “Now git off that wall, Panada!”
Okay I deserved that one. My spotter, Harvey, loves to play with words. In Spanish, nada means nothing. When I’m screwing up, Harvey likes to call me Panada, instead of Panata, which is my actual last name. In fact, he calls me Marco Panada whenever he feels I’m not living up to my family name, which is pretty often.
My car’s running loose. The tires lose traction and the back end slides out. I find myself scraping the fence, earning myself another Darlington Stripe. I’m gonna hear all about it on the next pit. I manage to recover just in time to finish the turn-off the fence, and I’m in a good position to make up some lost ground. My father’s in the front of the pack as usual. I know this because my spotter is only too happy to tell me every chance he gets.
With little time to spare, I slide right up to the ass end of Kyle Baker’s number 17 Best Buy car. I might have a chance to slingshot around him and move up to third. That extra fuel saved drafting will allow me to lay on the gas as I go around without redlining the engine and blowing up yet another $40,000 piece of precision machinery. Well, that’s the plan at least. Just before it’s time for my little maneuver I decide to give Harvey a heads-up.
“Watch this, Harvey!” I give him the finger, then grab the wheel with both hands and drop down low to make my move. I slingshot around Kyle in a perfectly executed move. I give him the finger as I fly by but it’s a wasted gesture. His attention is drawn to something else entirely—a cloud of black smoke ahead.
Without warning all hell breaks loose. I know you’re supposed to be relaxed when you’re about to crash, but I can’t help it. I maintain an iron grip on the wheel as I plow into a big number 8 on the door of Ariel Bronwyn’s Maxim International car. Ariel is NASCAR’s sweetheart and soul female driver. There’s gonna be hell to pay for this one.
I jam my foot down on the brake pedal and abruptly my world is all about shrieking metal, screeching tires, and inky black smoke, so thick I can’t see a thing. The initial impact hardly seems to slow me down as my car begins to spin out. Even with the HANS device firmly connecting my race helmet to my shoulders my head feels like one of those bobble head dolls I used to collect of all my favorite racers when I was a kid. Just when I think I may have spun clear of a majority of the wreckage something in front of me catches my attention. A sudden steel mass hurtles through the air and right at my windshield. Instinctively my hands fly off the wheel in a useless effort to protect my face.
My world goes black.
Carrie
Inside the Team Panata Pit Box…
“We’re up, Carrie!” shouts a familiar voice.
That would be me, Carrie Zane, trauma nurse for Team Panata’s patriarchal driver Adriano Panata. Calling me is my colleague Rachael Moore, who also happens to be my best friend and confidant. I jump up from my seat and sprint across the pit area to the waiting ambulance. If we’re called up, that means our spotter has eyes on Adriano Panata’s number 11 Best Buy car.
Rachael’s already in the driver’s seat and starting the engine when I open the passenger door and climb in. This is bad. Really bad. We’re heading for the southernmost end of the track, and from what I can see from here it looks like a war zone. The entire curve is a sea of twisted metal punctuated by billowing flames and thick black smoke. How our spotter was able to pick Adriano out of that mess I’ll never know.
“You ready for this one?” Rachael asks without taking her eyes off the carnage.
“Of course I am!” I claim, with far more confidence than I feel.
After my fiancé Danny Franchetti died in a crash at Daytona, I had to take some time off. A year after putting him in the ground, I was still swearing I would never work another race as long as I lived. But once racing gets in your blood it’s there to stay. As a little girl, I dreamed of being a doctor and the first female race car driver to win the Daytona 500. Well, I didn’t become either, but I came pretty close. My first job was as a trauma nurse for Danny’s Havoline Racing Team. He was their premier driver, breaking records left and right. It seemed there was nothing he couldn’t overcome and nothing he couldn’t accomplish once he set his mind to it. Until, that is, it came to a previously undiagnosed seizure disorder. He was told to take off his helmet and gloves and retire for good.
&n
bsp; But he just couldn’t give up racing. He got a shady doctor to give him the necessary medical release to race again. Not three months later he had another seizure during the Daytona 500 and hit the wall at 190 mph. He was taken to the track hospital where he was pronounced dead. It really left me devastated. I was supposed to be grieving my dead fiancé, but I was bitterly angry with him for cheating the system so he could continue racing. I was also terribly angry at myself for not making Danny quit and for not telling NASCAR authorities what he was up to. To say that was a confusing time for me is an understatement.
Working on the Panata racing team is my first real job back since Danny died. I did work at a hospital and a doctor’s office just because I needed the money, but my heart wasn’t in it. I love racing and I love being a trauma nurse. Nothing can compare to the adrenaline rush that both those provide for me. In retrospect, I’m surprised it took me nearly a year to find my way back to the track. But I did. And now were pulling up on what is probably the most horrific crash scene I have ever witnessed.
Our team’s spotter directs us to Mr. Panata’s car. I let out an involuntary gasp when I first see the car. What used to be a shiny green and yellow race car is now a burned-out wreck. I jump out, go around to the back of the ambulance, and throw open the doors. I grab the trauma kit, secure it to the gurney, and pull it out of the ambulance. I tow it up to the Panata car, unfasten the jump kit and join Rachael at the car’s door. The moment I lean in the window I jerk back involuntarily. The stench of burned flesh assaults my nostrils.
“Carrie, are you okay? You better pull yourself together. Look who’s coming.”
I look over to where her eyes are fixed. Three race officials are approaching. One is carrying a camera and a video recorder. They’re here to launch the investigation just in case there was any foul play involved. Its standard procedure, really. Most crashes are just driver or mechanical error and not foul play. But still...
“Carrie, Rachael!” a paramedic from the tracks rescue services calls, waving us over. “We could use your help!” he says as we approach, “Follow me.”
May as well lend a hand. There’s nothing we can do to help our own driver. This one’s going to rock the racing world. Adriano Panata, Patriarch of the Panata racing dynasty...dead.
We make our way past several other torched cars, over to another one that’s surrounded by fire personnel. They’ve got the Jaws of Life out, but are waiting on us before they get started. Judging from the look of the car, it’s hard to believe anyone could still be alive in there.
“Look,” the paramedic begins, “We need you to crawl in there with your jump kit and start working him up. Our guys are too big to squeeze in there. Once you’re in place, we’ll cover you and start pulling this wreck apart.”
I walk around to the passenger side of the car and look in. The driver moans and starts to move about.
“Hold still, Marco!” I shout above the cacophony surrounding us.
I shove my trauma kit in first then belly crawl after it. This is not gonna be easy. First things first. Get his helmet off and administer oxygen.
“Marco, I’m taking off your helmet. I’m gonna need you to be still. I know you’re in pain but you gotta keep that head of yours still. You got it?”
I hear a muffled reply but I’m not sure he is actually conscious. It sounds more like he’s just responding to my voice and not what I’m actually saying.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” I say anyway.
After I take off his helmet, I see up close just how handsome Marco really is. We’ve never been formally introduced, since I am attached to his father’s medical team. I have seen him in passing from a distance and I never really paid him any attention. He races well enough, or so I am told, but there are rumors. Some say the only reason he races is because of his father Adriano. With his father’s passing today, only time will tell.
There’s a fine sheen of sweat covering Marco’s features. I open one eye and shine my light in, then try the other. They react normally, but let me tell you, he has the most beautiful teal eyes I have ever seen. They’re like a pair of priceless emeralds that you can’t take your eyes off of. His shock of black hair is matted down and going in all directions. His strong regal jaw sports several days’ growth of whiskers, but it only adds to his rugged good looks. How can a sweaty, barely-conscious man with helmet hair be so damn attractive to me? I must be getting really desperate.
“Hey princess, wake up!” Rachael hollers behind me.
I have check out his upper body to assess his injuries...and what an upper body this man has. For someone who spends so much time in a car, he’s got a surprising physique. I let my hands roam over his broad shoulders, down the length of his muscular arms. He’s got powerful hands and long well-manicured fingers. For a brief second, I wonder what it would feel like to be touched by his hands. My fingers feel for possible breaks. I put both hands on his exposed collar bones. His skin is warm and slightly damp. I let my hands slide down across his smooth chest. They rise and fall with each breath he takes.
My heart hammers painfully against my ribs. I can feel the heat rising in my face. I feel like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing. Somewhere along the line, my exam stopped being purely medical. I can feel every corded muscle and count every rib beneath my fingertips as they play across his smooth skin. Every time my fingers make contact with his skin, little bolts of pleasure shoot right up my arms.
“Carrie, are you finished already?”
“Yea Rachael,” I gasp, “I’m finished.”
“Great. The rescue guys are going to put a cover over you and Marco then they’re going to pull apart the cars so they can get him out.”
“Got it,” I reply.
This is not my favorite part of the rescue. I don’t like being trapped in a car while there’s screeching metal and breaking glass. Marco’s car has fused with another and their going to have to pull the two vehicles apart in order to get Marco out. His legs are pinned and probably broken. But his pulse is strong and regular, so he’s probably not bleeding out somewhere down there.
Everything gets dark as a heavy tarp is draped over both of us. I take a deep breath and will myself to relax. It’ll all be over in a minute. I take another deep breath, but it catches in my throat as the sound of grinding, protesting metal assaults my ears. I can feel the car rocking as fire personnel work their magic. Then with one final jerk, everything goes quiet. Our protective covering is removed and I can finally breathe again. I crawl out to watch the final efforts to rescue Marco Panata. Soon he’ll be in the hospital. He’ll be safe, well cared for, but for him the nightmare is just beginning. As soon as they decide he is stable enough someone will get the unpleasant task of telling him his father died in the wreck. And for once it won’t be me doing the telling.
Chapter Two
June 16th 2011…
“Nobody remembers who finished second but the guy who finished second…” Bobby Unser
Carrie
Two years earlier
Danny’s stirring brings me out of a light sleep. I glance over at the clock—it’s nearly eight on Saturday morning. My head is pounding and my stomach is in full rebellion. I’m no party girl, but last night was different. We were celebrating Danny securing pole position in today’s Poconos 400. Race officials look down on racers who imbibe so close to a race, but there was no stopping Danny last night. If I feel bad for having what little I had, he’s going to feel like he spent the last 12 hours tumbling around in a dryer. I’m just about to roll over and go back to sleep when my phone rings. I grab it quickly before the noise can wake Danny up.
“Hello?”
“Hi Carrie, this is Doctor Carmichael.” Doctor Carmichael is Danny’s neurologist, the one who cleared Danny to race again after his last accident. It’s strange that he would be calling me on a Saturday morning. “Just checking up on our boy. How’s he taking it? It has to be hard, knowing that he’s going to be watching tomorro
w’s race from the pit. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
What is Dr. Carmichael talking about? Danny has the pole position in tomorrow’s race. He’s not going to be on the sidelines.
“It’s not every day that a racer of his caliber gets a career-ending diagnosis. I just want to make sure he is adjusting as well as can be expected.”
My blood runs ice cold and my body begins to shake uncontrollably. I just about drop the phone before I recover my voice and answer him.
“He’s handling it, doctor.”
“That’s good to hear, Carrie. You know he has always been a favorite of mine, so it’s hard for me to see him sidelined as well.”
“Hey uh...Doctor, do you think you could fax me over his diagnosis? I can’t find his paperwork anywhere. I had it here and was going to do some more reading and I guess I misplaced it.”
“Of course.”
“Just out of curiosity, Doctor, what would happen if you hadn’t have caught the problem and he raced anyway?”
“Well that’s hard to say, Carrie. You never know with seizure disorders. He could have a seizure and end up embedded in a concrete wall at 200 mph. Or he could be just fine and win the race. But given that a seizure is what likely caused his last crash, the risk is way too high for him and the other drivers to let him race. I just want to make sure he understands that.”
“Yes, he does doctor, and thank you for your help.”
“Anytime, Carrie. Feel free to call if you have any questions or concerns. Let Danny know he can call as well. Bye now.”
Doctor Carmichael’s last words barely register. If Danny was benched, as his doctor claims, then how is Danny racing today? And if Doctor Carmichael didn’t clear him to race again, who did?
With a sinking feeling in my gut I dress quickly and quietly. I need to get that fax and read it before Danny wakes up. Before leaving the room I take a quick look in the mirror. I’m gonna have to put my game face on if I’m going to keep that call and the fax secret from my fiancé. My face looks well-rested but the wrinkles between my eyebrows attest to the fact that I am deeply worried. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and will myself to relax. I open them again. No change.
Fuel To The Fire (New Adult Contemporary Romance) Page 1
