Virgil gave him a long, hard look. “She couldn’t have been all that bad if you’re this hung up on her.”
“She wasn’t bad. In fact, she was damn nice. Another fact—if I thought for one minute she wouldn’t slam the phone in my ear, I would call her and beg on hands and knees for her forgiveness.”
The teenage waitress came back to lay the check on the table, smiled and left. Virgil picked up the bill and gave his cousin a last imploring look. “I have to be in court in a half hour. I’ll see you at Mom and Dad’s on Monday? Stephen has a video of his latest skydiving feat. Apparently his team broke some kind of a world record.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks Virg. I’ll call Delta to let her know I’m coming.”
“Good, that will make her day. She has a video of the wedding, and she’s busting at the seams to show it to you.”
Chapter Six
Jamie stared out her living room window at the expansive blue mass of water that was Lake Michigan. Most days you couldn’t tell where the water ended and the horizon began. It was an awesome feeling.
Usually she loved looking at the water and walking along the bluffs behind her house. It always gave her a sense of power to watch the waves crash against the rocks on a windy day, to smell the dampness as the water sprayed toward her. Today though, when she needed a high, the lake was eerily calm.
Up until the wedding, her life had been a wild hectic ride, chaotic but oddly predictable. The only thing that concerned her was placing in the next race, going for the win. It was all about strategy, skill, highly focused guts, and an enormous amount of luck.
She had to be in Darlington for qualifying on Saturday. It was already Thursday. Doctor Shaffer said she was physically ready. She should be packing her bags instead of staring at the water, thinking about Quint Douglas. It was just a night of sex. Nothing more. Just sex. He’d made that clear before she turned the key in the door.
She had two days to get Quint off her mind and start concentrating on the things that were meaningful in her life. Winning. Gaining points. Going for the ultimate Nextell Cup. Before the Indianapolis race she’d been in eleventh place. No woman had ever placed in the top fifty. Only a handful of men made it to the top ten. Missing three races had dropped her standing to fifteenth; however, she was only thirty points behind. To get back in contention, she had to get out in front and stay there. She had to win.
That meant not allowing Clay Riker to intimidate her. She needed to avoid him on the track. The best way to do that was to qualify ahead of him and stay ahead of him in the race. She didn’t understand it, but the man had some kind of vendetta against her; she believed he would deliberately take her out if he thought she had a chance at first place. At least her father had recognized him for what he was and stopped defending him.
Her father. Now that issue was a separate mountain to climb. The good thing about Buster was, even if he didn’t love her, she could trust him. He wouldn’t do anything to put a driver in jeopardy. That’s what she was to him, a driver, his livelihood. As well as that of the twenty-eight crew members, all depending on her. Not to mention a multitude of sponsors and of course, the ever-present owner of her car, Ray Bentler.
* * * *
By Saturday, Jamie was mentally ready. The morning dawned with only a few scattered clouds, none of them threatening rain. Her Grand Prix passed inspection with only minor adjustments. The test runs were good; the car performed with satisfying results. It was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement at the track, and it was still two full days before the race.
Since Jamie drew seventeenth out of thirty-four drivers who would qualify for racing position, it gave her time to watch how well half of the cars were performing. It took from twenty minutes to a half-hour per car, so she wouldn’t be running until early afternoon. Clay was qualifying fourteenth, only three cars ahead of her.
She sat on top of the semi trailer with some of the crew members to watch the proceedings. A monitor was set up so they could track the results. Just before Clay drove, Buster joined them.
“How’s the knee?” he asked Jamie, taking a seat beside her.
Her father was a man of few words, and Jamie knew better than to hope his question was personal. It was all business to him. She flexed her lycra clad leg to demonstrate its agility. “Ready to go.”
“Still bandaged?”
“Yeah, the doc suggested I keep it secured for another week.”
“Good idea.”
When Clay Riker started his run, Buster leaned over to her, keeping his voice low. “Watch out for that son of a bitch,” he said. “Clay’s been spouting his mouth off, trying to stir up trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked.
“Trying to convince some of the other guys that women have no place in NASCAR.”
“That’s preposterous! Are people listening to him?”
Buster snorted. “There’s always a few extremists willing to listen when a man spouts out of his ass. Fortunately, the majority of the guys respect you as a competent competitor.” Buster gave her a rare smile. “Hell, they don’t have any choice. You have guts. Every team has good cars. Only twenty percent of this business is car performance, the rest is skill and guts with a little bit of luck thrown in. You can develop skill, but guts is in here.” Buster tapped his chest. “You’re born with it.”
He looked away from her to watch the monitor displaying Clay’s performance, and almost as though speaking to himself, he said, “That was T-Roy’s downfall. He had plenty of skill; he just never had the guts to go with it. Shit, Clay clocked out at 184. That puts him in eighth position. Going to be tough to beat, Jamie girl.”
Jamie stared at her father in disbelief. Had he just paid her a compliment, at the expense of T-Roy? And he had never called her Jamie girl before. Was that affection?
Buster looked back at her. “Anyway, as I was saying, watch yourself, off the track as well as on. I’m wondering if we should get you a bodyguard.”
Jamie’s brow shot up. “Has he made threats?”
Buster shrugged. “More like statements. Like ‘over his dead body would a woman win a NASCAR race’.”
“That works for me,” Jamie said through gritted teeth.
Buster burst out laughing. “That’s what I mean about you, girl. You’ve got guts.” He put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You better get ready. You’re up pretty soon. I suppose I don’t have to tell you to watch the last two turns; they’ve shortened them because of that damned mud hole they call a pond.”
Jamie smiled. “Yeah, I know, but thanks anyway.”
“And don’t kill yourself trying to beat Clay’s time; you can whip his ass on the track. Now there’s a man with too much guts and not enough skill. That’s a dangerous combination.”
Jamie got up to leave, nodding. Her father was right. Clay didn’t have the brains to see a flood coming, but he also wasn’t afraid to stand in the water while it rose up to his ears.
Once she climbed into her car and strapped in, Jamie pulled on her helmet and focused on one thing—driving. Her father chucked her on the shoulder as they pushed her off. She depressed the accelerator just far enough to prevent spinning out, gathered her speed and held it to the floor. She took each turn with grueling determination, holding the corners with maximum speed, allowing the tires to do their job.
When it was over, she pulled into the pit amid a volley of cheers. She clocked in at 185.2 mph. Unless someone following outran her, she’d start in fourth position.
By the time the qualifying rounds were over, Jamie had maintained fourth, while Clay slipped to tenth.
* * * *
In New York, it drizzled all day Sunday on Labor Day weekend until late into the night. Fortunately, it cleared up Monday morning just in time for the holiday party plans to go on as scheduled. The expansive Douglas backyard was set up with tables and grills awaiting the afternoon barbeque. Several neighbors and friends gathered outside. Insid
e, in the den, Stephen was excitedly displaying his skydiving trophy and setting up the video for Quint and Virgil to watch. Stephen had spent the entire summer in Europe, and they all had a lot of catching up to do.
The male family members had always enjoyed a special camaraderie, with Virgil being the more serious one, Quint unruffled and laid back, and Stephen exuding a zest for life that was demonstrated by stories of one adventure after the other. Missing was Hunter’s quirky sense of humor.
At twenty-six, Stephen showed no signs of settling down. He liked his wild gad-about-the-world life, and he made just enough money selling photos and stories to magazines to maintain it.
Virgil caught Quint’s eyes a couple of times, satisfied that his cousin seemed to be enjoying himself. It was impossible not to get caught up in Stephen’s energy.
Stephen was in the middle of a tale about hot air ballooning in northern France when Delta Douglas rushed into the room waving a video.
“You boys have got to watch this. It came on Saturday so Dad and I have already seen it. Nicole wanted to make sure you saw this, Stephen, since you missed the wedding.” She handed the tape to her youngest son. “Oh, and Quint, there is the most darling shot of you carrying that cute little singer. Stephen, wait until you hear her sing, she has a voice like an angel. I need to get back to my guests. We’ll eat in a couple of hours.”
Quint and Virgil exchanged a look, while Stephen eyed them both suspiciously. “What’s this about you carrying the singer, Quint?”
Quint sent Virgil a warning glance and shrugged. “Don’t get all excited, Stephie. She had a bum knee. I was just helping her out.”
Stephen popped the tape in the VCR and pushed the play button. “I have to see this. If it’s good enough we could invite your friend Cynthia over to watch.”
Quint swore.
Virgil laughed. “Watch it little brother. Unless you want to get roasted with the hot dogs you best not bring up the ‘C’ name again.”
Stephen chuckled at Quint’s expense, and settled back to watch the wedding.
“Those costumes are awesome!” Stephen said. “You two look lovely in tights.”
When Jamie began singing, Quint became dead still. She was too far away from the camera to see her face, but her strong voice came across loud and clear. Quint’s heart started a thumping dance in his chest, and he could feel the heat rise to his face. To make matters worse, he knew Virgil was watching him. The camera panned the wedding guests during the song, and Stephen was too caught up watching to pay attention to what was going on in the room, until the scene outside the church played.
Quint had no idea his carrying Jamie to the carriage was being immortalized on video. Stephen let out a hoot and just as suddenly his laughter died.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “That’s Jamie LeCorre.”
Quint and Virgil exchanged a quick look. Virgil’s eyebrows were raised, and Quint was aware of a sinking sensation. “You recognize her?” he asked.
“Hell, yes,” Stephen said. “No doubt about it. She cut her hair, but that’s Jamie. She caused that pileup in Indianapolis last month.” He turned to Quint. “I hope you got her autograph?”
Quint stared at Stephen, unable to speak. Something Jamie had said about a five-car pileup tugged at his memory. “What pileup?” He managed to ask.
“NASCAR, you dope. She’s a driver. She was eleventh in line for the Nextell Cup before that wreck put her out of commission.”
When Stephen saw the shock on Quint’s face he laughed. “You mean you didn’t know? You had one of the most famous women in the country in your arms, and you didn’t even know it.”
Virgil spoke up quickly. “We don’t watch NASCAR. Besides she was going under the name of Jamie Devon.” He gave Quint an apologetic shrug. “I thought she was a Pink Mink centerfold.”
“She was,” Stephen said “Pink Mink Enterprise owns and sponsors her car. She posed with her car, number thirteen. She had her clothes on. Didn’t you read the article? It explained how she took over when her brother T-Roy was killed qualifying at Bristol about eighteen months ago. She placed eighth in her first race. Their father, Buster LeCorre, was the crew chief. As far as I know, he still is. Quint, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
Virgil shook his head. “Sorry, Quint, this is all my fault. I was the one who told you who she was.”
“It’s not your fault,” Quint muttered. “You don’t follow NASCAR any more than I do. Besides, I saw the decals in her trunk.”
Stephen looked from Virgil to Quint. “Am I missing something here?”
“Yeah,” Virgil muttered. “Welcome to the Douglas family sideshow. Quint’s president this week.”
Stephen grimaced. “I hope you didn’t mention that magazine to her. I’ve heard she goes to extremes to disassociate herself from Ray Bentler, he’s such a reprobate. She won’t even be seen in public with him off the track.”
Quint leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Staring at the floor, he shook his head, remembering the hundred-dollar bill he’d left her, imagining her reaction. It would have been bad enough if she’d really been a hooker, but now…
“Lord, if I could just see her again,” he whispered. “Try to explain.”
Stephen smiled. “Well, my friend, you’re in luck. The Labor Day Mountain Dew 500 is today.” He glanced at his watch. “The race is about half over; it’s usually on channel seventeen.” He walked up to the television, ejected the video, and flipped stations until a scene of cars racing around a track came on. “Man, you guys have to start getting out more. I can’t believe you didn’t know who Jamie LeCorre was. That’s her, in the flamingo-colored car, number thirteen. Hells, bells, looks like she’s running third.”
Quint stared at the screen forgetting to breathe, until something moved beside him; it was Virgil taking a seat on the sofa to get a better view.
“Christ, how fast are they going?” Virgil asked.
“The Darlington track is about a mile and a third long. They can probably get about a hundred and eighty on the straightaway, but the last two turns are dangerous, and they come up mighty quick at that speed.”
Quint leaned forward, staring at the car Stephen pointed out, trying to determine if it was really Jamie. All he could see was a pink helmet. “Are you sure it’s her?” he asked.
“Damn right it is,” Stephen said quickly. “The substitute driver, Markus Lasco, would be somewhere in the south pasture.” He punched the remote to turn up the volume.
The announcer’s commentary filled the room.
“…after five yellow flags in the first hour, this last hour has been relatively uneventful. Grady is still in the lead, followed closely by Dunn. Those two have been trading places for most of the day. Jamie LeCorre is hanging tight behind them holding tenaciously onto third for the last fifteen laps. Clay Riker has come up behind her on the straightaway but she leaves him in the dust on the corners. That is one lady who knows how to hang onto a curve. Riker has made no secret of the fact that he doesn’t believe women belong in NASCAR. Could be he’s a little jealous.” Raucous laughter filled the speaker. “She’s bested him in the last ten races she’s run. Too bad she missed three. I don’t suppose he’s forgotten that she practically left him standing at the altar a few months back either. Whoa, looks like a fender bender on the third turn. One! Two! Three! Four cars, all trying to climb the wall. The yellow flag is out for the first time this hour…”
The camera switched to a pile of spinning cars, one spewing smoke, two others jammed together by twisted metal. The fourth car gyrated backwards out of control until it came to a jarring stop against the concrete wall. A line of cars slowed down to weave their way through the debris.
Quint nearly leaped off the sofa. “Jesus, is Jamie in that mess?”
“No,” Stephen said quickly. “It was the four cars behind Riker. The others all have to hold their positions now until the yellow flag is lifted. I can’t believe you’ve never seen a NA
SCAR race.”
“I’ve watched parts of these races with the guys, but that was before I was involved,” Quint said, without taking his eyes off the screen where the crash was replaying. “It looks like the green car tried to overtake the yellow one. He wiped out himself and the yellow car as well as the two behind him. All he did was tap him and all hell broke loose.”
“Doesn’t take much at that speed.” Stephen explained. “And what do you mean you’re involved? You were only gone two days.”
Quint glanced at Virgil before he answered. “Well, I sort of got to know her at the reception and we helped her change a flat.”
Stephen snorted. “Get real. She could change a tire in five minutes or less.”
“She was on crutches,” Virgil supplied.
“Oh… Yeah… That’s right,” Stephen said. “She got hurt in that Indianapolis crash. I didn’t see it, but they’re saying she caused it. I do know she refused to accept responsibility.”
When the yellow flag lifted and the race resumed, Quint went back to sitting on the edge of his seat. “What do you know about that driver, Riker? The announcer said she left him at the altar.”
“I think she ditched him earlier this year. It must have been bad because rumor has it she’s sworn off men.” Stephen shrugged. “I don’t know, she’s in a man’s world, maybe she’s lesbian. That would be a shame—”
“She’s not a lesbian,” Quint snapped.
Stephen grinned. “I thought that might get a reaction from you. Just how well did you get to know the untouchable Jamie LeCorre?”
Quint was saved from answering when Hank Douglas walked in the room to announce the food was ready. He was met with protests from three sides.
“You know your mother. When she says the food’s ready, the food’s ready. Besides, that race will still be on when you’re done eating.”
“Tell her the wedding singer is a NASCAR driver,” Virgil said.
His father glanced at the television where twenty-six cars were speeding noisily around an oval track. “No kidding. This I have to see.” He squeezed in beside his son on the sofa. “Which one is she?”
Secret Sacrifices Page 6