by Kaylee Ryan
“Um, here.” She pulls down the neck of her T-shirt. Low enough to show the swell of her breasts.
I’m a man. I like tits, all shapes, all sizes. I’m gonna look if you show them to me, no question. However, you showing that shit for all to see is not gonna get you where you think it will. I’ve met her kind before. Show some skin, bat those eyelashes, and get the guy to fall at your feet. She doesn’t want Blaine; she wants Checkmate. Girls like her are good for a night of fun, but then you pay for it when they turn into stage-five clingers. No thanks.
“Checkmate,” she purrs, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Sure.” I take the Sharpie she offers and step closer. She arches her back, shoving her tits, that I’m sure are also fake in my face. I scribble my name, adding my number 1B next to it. When I back away, she steps closer.
“I thought maybe we could hang out tonight.” Reaching out, she runs the long pointy nail of her index finger down my chest.
I take another step back. “Sorry, lots of work to do on the car. Thanks for coming out to watch the event.” With that, I turn my back to her, picking up a wrench that I don’t need and pretend to be working on the car. I hear her huff and if I’m not mistaken, stomp her foot before walking off.
“Dodged a bullet with that one.” Jacob laughs.
“You seem to be able to spot them a mile away. She’s off to latch herself to the next unsuspecting schmuck.”
“She’s a clinger,” I agree.
“She looks like she’d be fun.” Rick holds his hands out in front of his chest, to insinuate her large breasts.
“You can still catch her.”
He turns to look in the direction I’m guessing she walked away. “Nah, she’d want to hang around to get to you and I’m not in the mood for games.”
“Wise decision,” I tell him.
We spend the next couple of hours going over everything on the car, tightening bolts, checking tires, brakes. You name it, we have our hands on it.
“Man…” Rick stands and bends, stretching his back. “I’m going to call and see if I can get in with Aubree next week before we leave again.”
“Ash swears by massage. She keeps trying to get me to get one,” Kevin says.
“You should schedule with Aubree. I’m telling you, she’s a miracle worker. I was ready to drop to my knees and propose marriage,” he says, laughing.
“She’s cute,” Kevin agrees.
“Hell, yes she is, but those hands,” Rick moans, causing Kevin and Jacob to laugh.
“I’m starving,” I say, changing the subject. I don’t need to spend anymore time thinking about that gorgeous creature that is Aubree, the massage therapist.
“Me too,” all three say at the same time.
“I’m grilling those steaks.” Jacob rubs his stomach.
“My man!” Rick gives him a high-five. “I’ll see what else I can whip up.”
“I’m hitting the shower first,” I tell them. They wave me off. While we’ve all been working in the heat, I’m by far the one who needs a shower the most. My flame-resistant driver’s suit, helmet, and HANS device are hot as fuck. So much so that I have three drivers’ suits. Trust me, putting that sweaty, smelly thing on again the next time at an event like this is not a good time. Some drivers do it, those who are on a racing budget. I’m lucky I’m not, and even if I was, I’d find a way. Eat Ramen for a month, whatever. There is nothing worse than racing a hundred-lap race with a fuck ton of cautions smelling ass the entire time. You would think the fuel smell or oil, even the dirt would overpower it. Not so much.
After a shower, the guys and I eat our steaks, a salad, and baked beans, drink a cold beer, and call it a night. Tomorrow is race day, and we all want to be ready. I’m fortunate that my team, my friends are just as invested in me meeting my goals as I am. They don’t fuck off when we’re here. This is their job, how they put a roof over their heads and food on their table. Some of the crews party it up, but not us. Not before a race. Now, after a win, sure we celebrate, but never before. My team and I we’re determined, and we all want to break this record.
“The car’s good. You’re starting on the pole, so stay out front,” Kevin jokes. He’s crouched down looking through the window of my car with my helmet in his hands.
“That is the idea.” I can’t help but smile as I shake my head.
“There.” He hands me my helmet. “Got you to lighten up a bit. Stay safe, brother.” He stands and helps me connect my HANS device. Two taps on my shoulder and he’s gone.
Time to get this party started.
The official motions for us to take the track. The first couple of laps are leisurely. I move the steering wheel from left to right making sure the tires are clean and warmed up. When the green flag drops, I mash the accelerator to the floor. I shoot out to the head of the pack, exactly where I like to be. For several laps, I hold the lead and then a caution comes out. I immediately slow, not sure what caused the caution—the last thing I want to do is drive up on a wreck with nowhere to go but into the accident. I’ve seen it happen; it’s not good for anyone involved.
There are another four laps before the green flag drops again. I shoot out in front of the pack, setting my pace. I eye Jacob, who is my spotter, and his arms are wide open, telling me that I’m pretty far out front. Looking ahead, I can see the end of the pack which means someone is about to get lapped. It’s nothing personal; it’s racing.
My hands grip the wheel. My hold tight as I work my way through lap traffic. This is where things get hectic. I’m leading the race, but I’m also in the back. As a spectator, you have to really watch what’s going on to keep up. My spotter has his hands full as well, keeping track of those on the lead lap that are behind me. It’s times like this I wish for a caution. I want out of this lap traffic and back out front. Clean air, nothing in my way.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen as we race, lap after lap. When the white flag drops letting us know that we’re on our final lap, I don’t worry about my spotter or the leader board. I know I’m still out front. I’ve kept my eye on who I’ve passed and who has made their way past me. I’m the leader bringing this show across the finish line. Coming into turn four, I see smoke from beside me, but I don’t pay it much attention as I cross the finish line. Slowing my pace, I take another lap and this time, I look at the leader board. My number one sits proudly in the first spot.
Another win.
Another step closer to breaking the record.
Stopping at the flag stand, I accept the checkered flag and make a lap the opposite direction of the race, my victory lap. The crowd is in on their feet cheering me on. When I reach the flag stand, I spin my car in circles throwing red dirt and clay all over the flag stand and those there to greet me. Not that they care. Making my way to the scales, I drive over and wait for the green light. There is nothing worse than winning the race, and then your car being light causing you to be disqualified. I’ve seen it happen to some of the best in the business. When I park my car and climb out, they are smiles all around. For me. For the win.
Kevin and the guys are there. Rick hands me a Bishop Racing hat, Kevin takes my helmet, and Rick hands me an energy drink that tastes like a sweet tart, sour as hell, but it’s one of my sponsors and I have to play the dog and pony show to keep their money coming in. It’s worth it.
“I’m here with Blaine ‘Checkmate’ Bishop. Congrats on the win, Blaine.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a swig of the sweet-tart concoction.
“You dominated the track tonight. Something we’re used to seeing from you. What were you feeling when you took that checkered flag?”
“My team should be proud,” I tell him. “They got me here. Without the help of my sponsors,” I hold up my energy drink, “we wouldn’t be where we are today.”
“I heard your crew had some health issues this week,” the announcer asks.
I’m not surprised by his question. Kevin, as the crew chief, filled him in w
hile I was taking my victory lap, giving him some talking points. It helps keep the focus on the team, and not drama that can often surround the racing industry. We control the media that way. It works. Other teams use this same tactic and some just don’t give a fuck. They just want the win. “Yeah, thanks to our sponsor, Knoxville Health Partners, a member of the crew received the medical attention they needed and was able to be here with me tonight.”
“Great job out there. We’ll see you next week at Eldora for the Dream.”
“Thank you.” I take another swig of my sugary drink and smile for the camera. The cameraman yells cut, and I keep the grin but lose the drink. Jacob hands me a bottle of water knowing I hate that shit. The Dream is a big money race. It’s not for points, but bragging rights are good enough. Not to mention it’s one of the biggest races of the season and adding a win to my resume is always a plus.
“Now,” Kevin says, clapping his hands together, “we celebrate.”
We load the car, not bothering to clean it or look it over. We can do that when we get back to the shop. Tonight, we kick back around a fire and drink a few beers, celebrating yet another win for Bishop Racing, another step forward to the championship.
After a long, lonely weekend, I’m ready for today. Three-day weekends are great, but spending them holed up in your apartment is not such a good idea. I could have called Maria, but I feel like I always tag along with her and Isaac. I cleaned, got caught up on laundry, did a little online shopping, and watched a lot of Netflix. Such an exciting life for a twenty-three-year-old.
I love what I do, so going to work is not something I dread like so many others in the world. I remember a teacher I had in high school who said: “Do something you love, and it will never feel like work.” I didn’t believe her then, but now, I get it. I enjoy my job and the people I get to meet and help.
Firing up my laptop, I log into the system and look at my schedule for the day. We like to leave some spots open at various times throughout the week for those who call and have an issue that needs to be treated right away. Here at KHP we focus on the medicinal side of massage more so than the relaxing. The majority of our patients are auto accidents, Bell’s Palsy diagnosis, stroke patients, and many other medical diagnosis. They’re here for treatment of medical conditions. Although many say it relaxes them as well, we’re not here for that. We have some of the same elements, the relaxing music if they want it, but we treat multiple conditions working in alliance with physical therapists, primary care, and a multitude of other specialists to get our patients where they need to be in their recovery.
When the status of my first patient changes to arrive, I lock my laptop screen and head out to the waiting room to call them back. I have four one-hour appointments this morning and two for this afternoon. I have ten minutes at the end of each hour to clean the room and chart. It’s also when I rush to the restroom if needed. It’s going to be a busy day for sure. “Mr. Mayer,” I call out.
“Aubree, sweet girl, I have something for you,” Mr. Mayer tells me. He’s a sweet, older gentleman who suffered a stroke about a year ago. He has function in his left arm, but it tends to go numb on him. We use massage to relax the muscles and stimulate the nerves, giving him relief from the tingling sensations. “The wife said to make sure you heat it up first. Swears it’s better that way.” He hands me a plate covered in plastic wrap.
“What exactly am I heating up?” I ask as I follow him down the hall. “Treatment room one,” I tell him.
“Homemade bread. Add a little honey after you heat it up. Hell, I add it when I don’t, but the wife swears it’s better warm,” he says again.
“Please thank her for me, and I promise to warm it up first. Go ahead and get undressed. We’re going to start with you on your belly today. I’m just going to run this to my office.”
“You got it. I even wore my American flag boxers. I know the holiday is over, but hey, the wife bought them for me, so what can I say?” He shrugs. I smile at him before closing the door.
Mr. Mayer is in his late seventies and has suffered from muscle spasms in his back for years after a bad car accident in addition to the stroke he had last year. Massage seems to help him. I see him faithfully every week for a one-hour visit. His wife is always sending goodies with him to give to me. They’re a sweet couple.
My morning flies by with a full schedule of regular patients. That’s another thing I love about my job. I get the opportunity to really get to know my patients. Some think of massage as quiet and calm, and that can sometimes be the case, but most of my regulars are rather chatty. I spend a lot of time alone when not at work, so it’s a nice change of pace for me.
“Knock, knock.” I look up to see Jackie standing in my office door. “Got a minute?”
“Sure, I just finished with my last patient of the morning. Just working on getting caught up on some notes. What’s up?”
Jackie has a look on her face, one I can’t quite place. When she steps into my office, I’m surprised to see Jonah, the CEO of KHP, following along behind her. I immediately break out in a sweat. I love this job, and I’ve worked here since I was nineteen. Never, not once, has Jonah been in my office. My mind races with why he could be here and then it hits me.
Blaine Bishop.
Surely, he didn’t call and complain about me. Did he? Sure, I was snarky with him, but he was an asshole and deserved it. I made sure to thank him for changing my tire.
“Aubree,” Jackie says, pulling me out of my internal panic.
“Hi.” I walk around my desk and offer Jonah my hand. He takes it and gives me a warm smile.
“Aubree, I’ve been hearing good things,” he says.
My shoulders relax, and by the look on Jackie’s face, it was visible as well. “That’s a good thing,” I manage to say. Jonah is young, early thirties maybe, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating. He is the CEO after all.
“It is. We’ve been inundated with calls this morning. Your schedule is full this afternoon.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “Okay, well, we leave those spots open for this reason. Although we usually have at least one that goes unused. I haven’t had a chance to look at the afternoon schedule, but it’s all good,” I offer them a bright “I’ve got this” smile.
“Good indeed. Have a seat, Aubree.” Jonah points to the chair behind my desk. On shaky legs, I do as he says while he and Jackie take the two open seats facing me. “Let me start by saying thank you for going to the Bishop Racing headquarters and taking care of their crew member who was injured.”
“You’re welcome. I was just doing my job.”
“No. You went above and beyond your job description. Your visit has had a positive outcome for KHP. Seems Blaine Bishop won his race on Saturday night. It was a local track of sorts, just an hour away. How familiar are you with the racing circuit?”
“Not very,” I admit.
He nods. “The drivers who win, usually the first through third place winners, are interviewed. Like any other sport, they mention their sponsors. Apparently, Mr. Bishop has a big following in the dirt racing community. His team must have mentioned how they were down a crew member. When the interviewer asked him about it, he gave a shout-out to KHP. Hence, the influx of appointments.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “His mention of our facility caused that?”
“Indeed. There is power in marketing when it comes to celebrity status.”
“He’s hardly a celebrity,” I counter.
“Maybe not to you or me, but in the racing community, he’s just that.”
Jackie must see the confusion on my face. I don’t understand why I’m having this meeting with both of them. This could have easily been an email. “Jonah has an idea, a proposal of sorts that he wants to run past you.”
“O-kay,” I say slowly, looking at Jonah, giving him my attention.
“When it comes to marketing, you can spend thousands of dollars and still never find that one niche that brin
gs in your customers, in our case, patients. We sponsor the race team so that thousands of fans can see our name, our logo every Saturday night. We do see return on our investment, but nothing like this. I’ve been brainstorming with Jackie as well as the marketing team this morning, and I think I’ve come up with something.”
“Okay. I’m happy to help if I can.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Hear him out before you make your decision,” Jackie chimes in.
“What I would like to propose is to have a staff member, namely you, travel with the Bishop Racing team. The driver, Blaine, especially, could greatly benefit from this, according to his crew chief, Kevin.”
Did I hear him right? He wants me to travel with them? That means I’ll be spending more time with Blaine, the asshole. I guess there are worse things. I could be losing my job. My hands begin to sweat. Can I do that? Can I travel with a race team? I don’t know anything about racing. “I met Kevin when I was there,” I finally say. What else do I say to this crazy outlandish idea of his? He’s my boss. I can’t tell him I think it’s certifiably nuts.
“Yes, well, he’s agreed to have you travel with them and basically be there to work on any member of the Bishop Racing team as needed.”
“Are any of them injured?”
“No. However, working on the race car can be very physical. Long hours, some heavy lifting, bending, and reaching. Then you have the driver. Hands clasped on the steering wheel at high rates of speed, he too could benefit from your services.”
“Why me?” I ask him. I wipe my sweaty palms on my scrub pants, hoping that they are unable to hear the beat of my racing heart. Blood whooshes through my ears as I try to block it out and focus. I’m content with my life. I have a routine; this is uprooting that routine.
“Well, you already know them and to be honest, you’re our best. If we want these guys, Blaine specifically, to keep singing KHP praises, we need to send our best.”
