by Fox, Sutton
She thought about her dad and called out to her brother. “Hey, slick.”
Damon paused at the door, and shuffled his feet as he looked at her.
“I’m sorry for calling you a moron in front of your girl.”
Ever cheerful, he immediately brightened. “No big, you’ve got a lot going on right now. I’m sorry about Kristi. It won’t happen again.” He started to back out the door, then stopped short. “Oh, and the camera guy said you’re not supposed to stop the crew from following you around or they’ll have to tell the producer.”
“I’ll tell the producer he can kiss my butt. I’m not undressing in front of a camera, or the guys that go with it!”
Idiots! It just never ended. Why couldn’t they just leave a girl alone to do her job? She was bone tired already and there was still an entire evening’s lineup to get through.
The roar of sprint car engines and the smell of dust came in through the open doorway.. The siren song of racers everywhere called to her. It was horsepower, the feel of it, the vibration of it, down-to-your-bones thrilling. She wanted to win, had to win. The money would make all the difference. That was her goal. Her dad was her motivation. She hadn’t thought it could be stronger, more powerful.
She’d been wrong.
The feeling grew and grew inside her, the desire twisted through her soul, made her who she was. Get back in the car, it whispered, seductive. She needed it, the speed, and the power, as much as she needed to breathe. She had to get to that quiet safe place behind the steering wheel. The world she knew and loved.
She gave herself willingly to the call. Like many before her, she wrapped herself in the arms of competition, her lover. It brought her to life, stroked her wearied muscles, and filled her with the elixir of desire. Strong and alive, she would dance the dance of the ages, the dance of men.
No people, no pain. The place where her mind was simply another function of the car she drove, and reaction times were everything. Winning was everything. Nothing else mattered. She didn’t have to feel, she didn’t have to hurt inside, she didn’t have time to think about the train wreck that was her life.
Renewed and revived, Morgan grabbed Lynn by the arm and turned her toward the door. Beyond Damon’s head she could see the camera crew focused in her direction. “Let’s go, boys and girls. What is it they say?” She thought for a second, and laughed a bitter sound. “Oh yeah, it’s show time.”
Chapter 2
Tyler Dalton absently watched the red-haired stripper slide sinuously around the pole, while he waited for his boss to finish reviewing the résumés for the reality show contestants. Pretty in an overly made-up way, she smiled at him across the room and proceeded to climb the pole. Briefly, his full attention was captured by her lean, strong arms moving hand over hand, making her breasts sway back and forth while raising herself high above the patrons.
Her breasts must be real; implants didn’t usually move that way. Okay, Dalton, you’re losing it.
He felt a slight fascination, similar to watching a spider build a web. He might not want to touch it, but he couldn’t turn away, either. He liked strong women. Most women of his acquaintance didn’t have that kind of upper body strength. Hell, most women he knew wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near a place like this. If he had his choice he wouldn’t be caught dead in it, either. But, Samuel, his boss, couldn’t seem to get enough naked flesh.
Tyler enjoyed the scenery as much as the next guy, but strip clubs weren’t his thing. Especially not since he’d caught his now ex-wife dancing in one for drug money. Every time he had to do this, his gut tightened as he walked through the door. Would he run into her again? He hoped not. The thought made him feel tired and used. Running a hand through his hair, he turned away from the woman.
The thought of Cindy was better than a cold shower any day. Crazy bitch. He still couldn’t believe she didn’t want anything to do with Annie. His little blue-eyed angel, Annie, the love of his life. Her chirping laugh and sunny blonde pigtails always made him smile. After four years, it was finally over, almost. There was only one thing left to do.
He laughed at the irony of it. He exposed peoples’ secret weaknesses to the rest of the world through television. They never knew the joke was on him. Tyler had been so blinded by the cool blonde beauty of his former wife, he’d never stopped to wonder if she had any secrets. She did, and when he’d found them out they’d almost destroyed him.
Sprint cars flashed across the big screen television on the wall at the back of the stage. The stripper, now lowering herself off the stage, tried to catch his eye. Finished with her set, she’d have a couple hours to work in a few lap dances or private room trysts before she went back on stage. She winked at him and he ignored her, moving his chair to the right to get a better view of the screen behind her. The first show commercials would be on any minute.
The initial crowd reaction held great importance. He needed to be able to see their reaction to the commercials. This wasn’t the first time they’d done a partial preview in one of Sam’s favorite clubs. The only good thing he could say about them was that at least people left him alone for the most part.
He reached for his beer and scanned the room. A few seats remained empty at the long mahogany bar off to one side. By ten o’clock people would be standing three deep just trying to get noticed by the frazzled bartenders. Pub tables scattered around the stage floor sat half full of patrons taking advantage of happy hour specials.
“Tyler, are you sure I can’t talk you into doing another reality show? They are hot, hot, hot right now.”
Tyler looked at Samuel Hanover, President of Hanover Entertainment. Over the last eight years he’d gained weight, wealth, and jowls. Tyler knew, because he’d watched it happen. He’d even done his part to help it along, producing one hit reality series after another. Sponsors were always clamoring for more airtime.
Samuel sat at the head of the table with the best view of the stage and screen, like a king surveying his kingdom. Tyler watched him flip idly through the dossiers of the new show contestants as if reviewing them for worthiness, trying and failing to keep his eyes from following nubile flesh around the room. Sam’s hand paused as one folder caught his attention.
“You’d think people would have enough reality in their everyday lives. This time, I’m through, Sam. I’ll fulfill the terms of my contract, I give you my word on that, and then I’m out of here. This is the last show. I need to be home with Annie.”
“She has Stephanie, and God knows the rest of your sisters never give you a moment’s peace.”
“They’re only trying to help.” Tyler rubbed his hand over his eyes in frustration. “She’s not their responsibility, after all. She’s mine.” It felt good to say it. He felt free. The constant court battles had weighed him down more than he’d realized. Smoky air filled his lungs as he inhaled and thought about the papers that had arrived today in the mail. Tyler now had sole custody of his five-year-old daughter.
“What if I give you a raise? How about another series? What can I do to keep you?”
Out of respect for Sam’s position, Tyler held in his irritation. “Not a damn thing. You know money isn’t the issue. You also know how important family is to me, Sam. Annie’s been through enough already.”
Sam returned his attention to the open folder in front of him. “Why in the world did you pick a woman?” He looked at the photo, then back to Tyler. “You do remember this is a racing reality show? At five-foot-two and one hundred ten pounds, she’s not exactly model material.”
Tyler leaned back and sipped his beer. It never ceased to amaze him that Sam still thought of women as ornaments. Those attitudes should have died with the dark ages.
The television announcer’s voice flowed smoothly into his ears. “Welcome, race fans, to another evening of Race for the Ride, brought to you by Cameron Motorsports and Hanover Entertainment.”
Visions of colorful sprint cars, four-wide around a dirt oval, flashed onto the
screen, followed by a collage of living, breathing fans. Tyler watched Sam watch the screen, and knew he was looking for the obligatory, full-on tit shot guaranteed to make every red-blooded American male heart beat faster and tune in every week. Once the shot appeared, it was quickly followed by assorted flash ads from sponsors not unlike the circus mid-way hawkers of times past, encouraging everyone to partake of their wares.
Tyler continued to watch Sam’s face and scan the crowd. He felt like a lion stalking its prey. Quietly, softly, then it would spring and there would be hell to pay. Instant reactions he needed to capture. Those brief unguarded moments before people shielded their emotions. He’d seen all of the trailers many times during the editing process anyway.
There, across the room. A table full of young women pointing at the screen and talking animatedly to one another. On the other side of the dance floor, a group of young men, elbowing each other and pointing with unabashed curiosity at the television. Conversation at their table slid to a halt.
He vaguely heard the announcer change tone, assuming the persona of racing analyst providing the names and hometowns of the ten contestants.
Refocusing his attention on Sam’s question, Tyler looked him in the eyes, not backing down. “I chose a woman contestant for this show because she was one of the most qualified applicants. My staff and I feel she has something to add to the team, and that she’s capable of winning. It is a contest, after all, isn’t it, Sam?”
He looked at the screen, at the larger than life shot of Morgan Blade. Her resume was impressive; she’d been racing since she was nine years old—karts, quarter midgets, mini-sprints, 360 and now 410 sprint cars. She was a winner in every division. “The woman holds a BS in Mechanical Engineering from Colorado State University, and graduated with honors. Christ, man, she knows more about your fleet of cars than you do.”
“She can’t win.”
“What do you mean she can’t win?” Tyler was puzzled. Sam had never had this reaction to any female contestants on any of the other reality shows they’d done before. “Of course she can, if that’s the way it turns out. The audience has the last vote, remember?”
“I don’t want her around for the last vote. Racing is a man’s sport and that’s the way it needs to stay. Women don’t belong in it.”
“Oh, I get it. They don’t belong there unless they’re half dressed holding trophies or signs?” Tyler couldn’t believe his ears. This wasn’t even Cro-Magnon, it was Neanderthal. “It’s too late, Sam. She’s in.”
“I tell you what, Tyler. This is your last reality series; you do what you do best, and that will take care of the problem for both of us.”
“And if I don’t?” He thought about the sad brown eyes looking out at him from the woman’s photo. Even in a group shot she stood out, a loner, set apart somehow. Her life appeared to be perfect. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what had put the sadness there.
“You will. You can’t help yourself. That is part of what makes you so successful, my boy. You like to know what makes people tick. And so does the rest of America.” Sam closed the folder and pushed the stack across the table to Tyler. “Be on that plane to Kansas in the morning.”
He’d be on the damn plane. He’d never backed out of a commitment, and he wouldn’t start now. Three months on the road; then it was over. Two months if he pushed hard. He would push hard, all right, and devil-be-damned to anything that stood in his way.
Chapter 3
I should be committed. “I’m crazy, I tell you,” Morgan argued. “Why couldn’t I have just won the lottery or, better yet, gotten struck by lightning?” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the pounding beat of Gretchen Wilson’s Here for the Party, blaring from the truck’s compact disc player. Her foot tapped in time to the music as the golden plains of Kansas sped by outside the window.
“Okay, I’ll admit it’s slightly left of center. But what if you win? I can see it now.” Lynn waved her red licorice twist like a symphony conductor. “Morgan Blade, world famous sprint car driver… What the heck was the name of that guy again?”
“You schmuck,” Morgan laughed. “It’s not a guy; it’s a team. Cameron Motorsports. And I’m not world famous.” She pressed harder on the accelerator, urging her beat-up old truck to go just a bit faster, give just a little more. They had to get back before too many people missed them.
“Not yet. Don’t you want to be famous?”
“No, that’s my father’s dream. Not mine.” Morgan sobered as she thought of her father and his dreams. The renowned Carter Blade, racecar driver and team owner, who wanted famous race-car-driving children. Morgan had never doubted her strong-willed father’s dreams would come true, until now. Would he live to realize them?
“What will you do with the money if you win? I’d quit my job and take a month long cruise.”
“No you wouldn’t. You’d be bored silly in three days. What would you do with your patients?” She knew Lynn loved her job as an oncology nurse at Parker Medical Center, south of Denver. They’d met two years ago, when her father had been admitted for treatment and placed in Lynn’s care. Their friendship was instantaneous—they just clicked. Neither one of them had much time for socializing due to their crazy schedules, but they managed as often as they could.
“Really, what would you do with the money? Hey, don’t forget about the chance to meet Tyler Dalton.”
“Funny you managed to remember his name.” Morgan shook her head as Lynn waved the whole bag of licorice and fanned herself with it. The air conditioning in her poor truck just wasn’t what it used to be.
“He’s a big time producer. I read about his divorce while I was in the checkout line at the grocery store. Woo-hoo, his picture must be next to the word ‘hottie’ in the dictionary.”
Who gave a crap about some television producer? He was just a man. Like fleas, the damn things were everywhere. If you weren’t lookin’ they bit you on the butt, or broke your heart.
She knew she would do anything in her power to relieve the financial burden on her mom and dad. Especially since they had used their savings to pay for everything when—
Suddenly the engine coughed, sputtered and died. “Just great, another frickin’ growth opportunity,” Morgan groused as she maneuvered the dually pickup and race car trailer off to the side of the highway.
“What’s wrong?” Lynn asked, getting out her cell phone. “Shall I call Triple A?”
“No, give me a minute.” Morgan flipped a switch under the dashboard, turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. The engine groaned but wouldn’t start. “It sounds like it’s out of gas. I switched to the other fuel tank and it still won’t start.”
Lynn stared at the fuel gauges, both showing half full, and frowned. “Those things have read half full for the last two years. How can you tell?”
Morgan leaned her head back against the headrest with a sigh and looked out the cracked windshield at the gray ribbon of Interstate 70 stretched out before them. This was the last thing she needed. They were ten miles east of Quinter and ten miles west of WaKeeney. Not a building in sight, in any direction. It might as well have been one hundred miles.
They had cut it close, leaving the racetrack in a hurry after she finished second in the main event. Being first-place loser meant she didn’t have to hang around. She’d told the crew guys to go on to dinner in the hauler, and she and Lynn would meet them there after delivering the chassis.
Maybe it was crazy—okay, it was crazy—sneaking off without the camera crew. They drove her nuts, following and filming her every move. How would she get through weeks of this?
The rules stated that none of the contestants were supposed to leave the track without escorts, film crew and permission. Too bad. Screw the rules. She needed the money the chassis delivery brought in, to make payroll and payments on the most outstanding of her father’s medical bills.
All she’d wanted to do was deliver it, collect the money and then hurry
to the restaurant before they were missed. Simple. Not.
“Phil used the truck to pick up tires this morning. I thought he’d filled it up.” She knew she couldn’t blame Phil. He’d worked for her dad as part of their pit crew for five years. He had come to work for them just before Lily…
No, don’t go there. Morgan ignored the clench of her stomach and the emotional roll of her heart that came with thoughts of Lily.
This was her truck, her responsibility. She should have asked Phil, and she hadn’t. Damn.
“You have gas for the race car in the trailer, right? Can we put that in?”
“No, that’s methanol. It’s a petroleum product, but it won’t work in the truck.” She thought for a minute. “We do have gas for the generator, though. We can use that.” The whole truck shivered as a tractor-trailer roared by at full speed. “You stay here. I’ll go dump in the gas and be right back.”
The summer heat engulfed her as she walked quickly around to the side door of the trailer, opposite the speeding traffic. She unlocked the trailer door, reached in for the five-gallon gas can and funnel, and heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She looked up in time to see a shiny silver Mercedes two-seater pull up behind the trailer.
Late afternoon sun glinted off of the honey-blond hair rising from the open car door. His eyes were hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses.
“Do you need some help, ma’am?” His voice, smooth like aged Tennessee whiskey, poured over her, hot and tingling when it reached her stomach.
Surprised to hear a touch of the South on the plains of Kansas, she looked him up and down. She watched in heated fascination as his long legs, encased in thoroughly worn jeans, ambled towards her. Broad shoulders, wrapped up in a tailored white button-down Oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled and untucked, swayed in alternate rhythm with his hips. He moved slow and smooth, wearing the most expensive loafers she’d ever seen. It looked like there was a monogram on the cuff of his shirt, but she tried not to stare. No, never mind that. She stared.
