“Uh…hello?”
“What? Who is this?” Marco replies, obviously surprised to hear a woman’s voice.
“It’s me...Carrie.”
His voice brightens. “Hi, Doll! How are you on this fine race day?”
“I’m not your doll, Marco!”
“Really? You gonna argue semantics with me during a race?”
“Shut up. I’m not arguing anything. Just don’t call me your doll, got it?”
“Sure thing Doc. So how am I doing?”
“I don’t know, half the time I can’t pick you out of the crowd.”
“Ouch, that hurts.”
“Hurts? What’re you talking about?” I ask.
“I mean, if I was racing well you’d easily see me near the front and not in the middle of the pack. It’s cool though. All I have to do is win at Daytona. No problem right?”
“It’s a lock.”
“Now there’s the confidence I wanna hear,” he replies.
“Oh I see you, I see you. That guy in the pink and purple’s just about to run you over.”
“What?”
“Shit, go low Marco, now!” I holler. He is about to be put into the wall by whoever is in the obnoxious pink and purple number 81 car.
I watch with dread as Marco suddenly drops down low and inside dangerously close to the edge of the track. An instant later the ugly car slams into the rear of the number 187 car that was right in front of Marco. I jerk the headset off and hand it to Harvey who immediately begins shouting orders.
The car that got hit instead of Marco’s makes a hard right and slammed into the concrete wall that separates the speeding 3000 pound cars from thousands of screaming fans. The moment the number 187 car strikes the wall there’s an explosion of dust, smoke, and auto parts that come raining down on the other competitors as they, with the help of their spotters, try to slip by the crash. The ugly pink car that sent number 187 into the wall becomes a spinning hunk of junk that narrowly misses Marco before it spins out in the grassy area in the middle of the track. Judging from the front end, that guy’s not going anywhere else today.
Out comes the yellow flag and 41 cars slow it down and keep to the lower groove to stay far away from the debris strewn track. Harvey turns to me.
“Good eyes, Carrie! You just saved your boy a high speed date with the wall!”
He gives me a spontaneous hug before returning his attention to the track. He continues talking to Marco while the yellow flag is still flying. My eyes are focused on the car that hit the wall. An ambulance is out there along with a fire and rescue truck, but there are no flames. A couple minutes later the driver climbs out of the window and gets in the back of the ambulance, normal procedure for any driver that gets put into the wall. That was a short day for his team unless they’re fielding more than one car.
Harvey taps me on the shoulder and extends his headset. “Your boy want’s to speak to you,” he says. I’m reluctant to take the headset. What if something else happens, only this time I don’t see it? “Don’t worry Carrie,” he says, reading my thoughts. “They’re still under caution for at least another couple laps to go ahead and talk to him.”
I put on the headset. “Hi Marco.”
“Holy crap Doc, you just saved my ass!” he replies enthusiastically.
“Beginners luck Marco, that’s all it was.”
“Hell no that wasn’t luck, baby girl. I was buried in the crowd and you spotted trouble and warned me in time and told me what action to take. You got the makings of a spotter in you.”
“I think I’ll stick to nursing. Here, you can talk to Harvey now.”
I hand the headset back to his spotter with a newfound respect for the job these guys do for their drivers.
The next three hours are boring as hell. I hang out with Harvey only because staying in the pit with the crew is even more mind numbing. At least when I’m with Harvey I get to see the action unfolding as it happens around the track instead of little snapshots as the cars pass our pit area. If there is a problem in the pit Rachael will handle it. If there’s a problem with our driver, well I’ll see it before Rachael or anyone else does. Well, anyone except Harvey that is. Then with about twenty laps to go I start noticing something is changing with car number 77, the one Marco’s driving. He’s making a move! He was at least a dozen or so cars off the lead, but now he’s actually in the number 12 spot. That’s the best position he’s run in all day.
I turn to say something to Harvey but stop. Some movement out on the track near Marco has caught my attention. The number 98 car is acting funny. First it’s sitting on the bumper of the car in front of him, then he gets all strange like they do in the beginning of the race when they’re following the pace car before the start and they’re testing their tires’ traction on the track. Whoever’s driving car number 98 is about to cause a huge pileup, and unless Marco can get clear he may end up getting caught up in it.
I grab Harvey’s arm and yell at him. “Look at number 98!” I holler.
“What about him?”
“He’s acting all weird.”
“Looks to me like he’s just trying to draft Reyes,” Harvey says, dismissing my concern.
“I thought the way cars are set up these days the need for drafting is kind of a thing of the past,” I reply.
“Anthony Waller is driving the number 98 and this is his rookie year. Maybe no one told him drafting’s a thing of the past.”
“Yeah, but look what he does soon as he gets off number 9’s rear bumper,” I reply.
We both watch him for a minute, then sure enough, he backs off and does his little strange thing and almost clips the red white and blue number 33 car as it slides by.
“Looks like he loses his nerve, backs off too fast, and has to fight for control,” Harvey says. “I think he’s also running too loose. I’ll talk to his spotter.”
Harvey goes over to confer with the rookie’s spotter. In the mean time, I focus back on Marco. He’s driving like a demon. This time when I count the cars ahead of him I get 10. Just one car to go to be in the top ten and with 19 more laps to go. I actually think he’s got enough time to win this race. A few minutes later, Harvey comes back over and gives me an update.
“You were right, something’s going on. He’s got all kinds of problems right now. He’s running loose, his tires are too soft, and he’s too new to the sport to know when to just back off and pit.”
“Well, are they just gonna let him stay out there until he causes an accident?”
“He’s going to pit. He just has to make it around one more turn and he’s home free.” Harvey replies.
“Good ‘cause I don’t like how close he is to Marco and—”
Shit! Just like that the race is lost for us. The idiot in the number 98 car moves up to draft the guy directly in front of him but this time instead of kissing the man’s bumper he hit’s him hard enough to get his nose underneath the 34 car and literally lifts the back end of the other car about three feet in the air.
For a car moving close to 200 miles per hour, a lift like that is more than enough encouragement to get airborne and completely out of control. After hitting the car in front of him, rookie guy spins out, clipping the rear of Marco’s number 77 car. Pretty soon he’s spinning out of control. In one split second three cars are hurtling down the track with no hope of regaining control. The last thing I see before smoke, dust, and debris completely block my vision is Marco spinning towards the grassy area in the middle of the track. Just when I think he’s home free, another car down low and inside plows into Marco’s door. And just like that, it’s all over for Team Panata.
I hit the stairs at a dead run. By now, Rachael and the rest of the pit crew will have been informed by Harvey that their car has crashed, again. I take the steps two by two, hanging onto the rails on both sides to make sure I don’t do a header on the stairs on the way to Team Panata’s pit area. Off the stairs now I sprint down pit row until I reach our area. Rachael is j
ust getting into the ambulance. She’s just got it started when I open the passenger door and climb in.
“Good of you to join us,” she remarks as we pull out.
The race is under the yellow flag again. Rachael waits for the right moment, then streaks across the track toward where Marco was last seen. Radio chatter being picked up by our rig tells me that neither Harvey nor our crew chief Alanzo has radio contact with Marco. That could be really bad or it could just be nothing.
As Rachael navigates around the debris littering the track I catch myself holding my breath. I let out an explosive sigh and will myself to relax. He’s going to be fine, I’m sure. After all, he wasn’t the guy who caught air after being rear ended. Now that guy may not be fine.
“You okay Carrie?” my partner and best friend asks.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well...you’re holding your breath again. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Yes lots, and nothing at all, I reply in my mind. Then without thinking I just blurt it out.
“I slept with Marco...”
“Good to know he’s virile!” Rachael replies with a sly smile on her face.
“Very much so. But that’s not the problem.”
“Yeah, I’m guessing it’s not, given the fact that our sponsor, the entire pit crew, and our team doctor knows about your marathon love making sessions.”
“What?” suddenly I’m no longer worried about Marco, I’m pissed! “He just had to open his big mouth about what happened between us.
“Yeah, looks like lover boy has been doing some talking Carrie. By the way...how’d you guys manage it in that tiny little bathtub anyway?”
The look on my face must be pretty comical because she just bursts out laughing. I can feel the heat rising to my face. This is not like me. I never hide anything from Rachael. With her, I’m an open book and have no secrets and nothing to be ashamed of. Then it hits me. She was there with me the times I vowed never to get involved with another driver. She was there when I swore vengeance upon my late fiancé Danny. She alone knows just how much Marco had to have got to me in order for me to have even talked to him much less slept with him. I really have compromised my principles and she knows it.
Before I can frame a suitable reply, we pull up to Marco’s car. It does not look good. He’s got both front and rear end damage, but the worst of it is where another car plowed into his door. I jump out, go around to the back and grab the trauma kit. Rachael is already leaning in the passenger’s side window.
I go around to the other side, kit in hand and prepare myself for the worst. But he’s not in the car. Surprised, I straighten up and look around me. Maybe another crew pulled him out to treat him. That sometimes happens when another driver is really bad off. I spot another ambulance and start that way when someone calls my name.
“Lookin’ for me, Doc?”
As pissed as I am at him, something about his voice just melts me. I shove all my inappropriate feelings down safely inside and turn on my business attitude. Walking over to me is a patient who has been in an accident, and I have to treat him for possible head and spinal injuries.
“You shouldn’t be walking around here,” I tell him, “You took a pretty hard hit.”
As we’re talking, my eyes are scanning his body, watching the way he is walking, monitoring his speech patterns, and basically just looking for any indication of an injury that is not obvious. My fifteen-second inspection of his car tells me exactly what I need to be looking for in my patient. The scene of a crash can tell you a lot about the kinds of injuries your patient may have received. As you walk up to an accident, you use that information to guide your initial physical exam. As he walks up to me, Rachael appears out of the haze of oily black smoke pushing a gurney.
“Climb aboard,” she commands.
I’m more than a little surprised when Rachael takes a seat beside Marco in the back of our rig. Normally that’s my spot and she drives us to the hospital. Obviously she thinks I’m too involved with Marco to be able to objectively care for him. It’s an insult actually, and one that will have to be addressed when the day is over. Now I’m pissed at not only Marco, but my best friend as well. This has not been a good day!
Marco checks out okay and by the time we make our way back to our pit box the race has ended with Andy Fitipaldi taking the checkered flag. Mr. Fitipaldi is the principal driver for Fitipaldi Racing and is our primary arch enemy. Fitipaldi Racing fielded two cars in the race today, Andy and his protégé Calvin Johnson, 2009 rookie of the year. Fitipaldi Racing basically stole Calvin right out from underneath Team Panata. Andy took the checkered flag and Calvin finished fourth. That gave the team an impressive 83 points for the day and Team Panata a giant goose egg. More and more it’s looking like Daytona is our only chance for redemption.
“You okay?” Rachael asks as we clean and restock our vehicle.
“No I’m not!” I reply, a little harsher than I mean to.
“Is it because I took over patient care with Mr. Panata?” She asks.
“You know it is!” I reply.
I don’t like fighting with Rachael. She is my closest friend and she got me through the hardest time in my life after Danny died. She also helped me realize just how fucked up our relationship actually was. I couldn’t see it at the time, but looking back now I can’t believe how blind I was. It kinda makes me wonder about myself now. If I was that blind to the truth last year, how wide are my eyes open now?
“Look,” she says. “Maybe I should have checked in with you before taking over, but I didn’t think we had time for a conversation like this one right in the middle of a crash. I did the conservative thing and took over patient care. Now tell me I did the wrong thing Carrie.”
“No...it was the right move. But I’m still pissed.”
“I know you are, and I would be too if the situation was reversed. So how are you? Are you really getting involved with Mr. Panata or is this just some fling?”
“To tell you the truth...I really don’t know.”
It’s an honest answer. I really don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that my body responds to Marco’s like never before. Instinctively, he knows exactly what my body wants and mine knows what he wants. There was none of that awkward exploration that often accompanies a first time romp in the hay. It was like we have been lovers for years, but with the passion of young love. Weird, I know. And right now, for better or for worse, I’m not ready to give that up.
Chapter Six
Burnt Rubber, Scorched Hearts
“Nobody remembers who finished second but the guy who finished second…” Bobby Unser
Carrie
18 months ago…
“What the hell are you wearing, Carrie?” Danny asks me.
He’s got this ugly expression on his face. Something’s wrong, but I have no idea what has him riled up.
“What?” I ask. I look down at my black mini thinking I must have spilled food on it or something, but it’s clean.
“Tell me you’re not going out in that thing!” he replies.
Once more I look down at myself. Is it too short? Could it be the bare shoulders thing? That must be it. He always tells me I have bony shoulders.
“Carrie!” he yells. I better figure out how I’ve transgressed, and I’d better do it quickly.
I walk over to the mirror in the hallway, thinking that must be it, but what I see is an elegant evening dress that is neither too risqué nor conservative. How can he find fault in this? But to make him happy I go back to my bedroom, pull a cashmere sweater off the hanger and put it on. Now both my shoulders and my chest are hidden.
Thinking I have resolved the issue, I grab my purse and car keys and go over to where he’s sitting watching the race. I lean down to give him a kiss when it happens. It’s so fast I don’t even see his hand. My head snaps around as the back of his hand strikes my left cheek. I’m so shocked that the pain doesn’t even register for a few seconds, and neit
her does its source.
I stumble backwards, hands to my face, mouth open in shock. My vision blurs as my eyes fill with tears. I don’t know if I’m angry, in pain, afraid, or just in shock. I’m confused. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.
Seeing the look on my face, the rage that masks his normally handsome features fades away and the Danny I know and love comes back. Then he’s on his knees, a long winded eloquent apology spilling off his tongue, but it just doesn’t register. My fiancé hit me. Danny hit me with the back of his hand. I open and shut my mouth a couple times and my jaw actually pops at the hinge. Has he just broken my jaw? I look down at him again but I can’t even see straight. I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of the expensive cashmere sweater he bought my last week and I don’t even care that it’s covered in tears and snot. He’s begging my forgiveness.
“...You should know better than to bait me like this,” he is saying. “You know I don’t like other guys staring at you yet you deliberately dress like a slut. What do you expect me to do? It’s your fault really. When you actually think about it…it’s your fault I had to slap you. You understand that right?”
The only thing I understand is nothing. My cheek stings and my heart aches and my whole face burns in shame. How could I have brought this on myself? He loves me. A person who loves you doesn’t do that to you. Unless...unless I really did something to hurt him. I look down at him as the anger begins to fade. He is crying openly, not something that happens often.
“I-I’m sorry...” I begin as I kneel down in front of him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Danny. I should have known better than to wear this stupid dress...”
He looks up at me, his eyes shining. “You understand right?” he asks. “You understand why I had to do that don’t you?”
I nod. “I swear, I won’t do that again. I promise.”
I’m practically begging his forgiveness. He takes my hands in both of his and stands, raising me up at the same time.
“All is forgiven,” he looks at the clock. “Look, you still have time to change and go.”
Fuel To The Fire (New Adult Contemporary Romance) Page 4
