Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  Back in the rain, Mick tried to think of everything he knew about Shelby. Where would she go? If something was wrong or right or confusing, who would she talk to? Who was she close to if not Ernie or the crew?

  And then he knew. It was only a matter of retracing the steps they’d taken on Saturday night to get to the one person he should have thought of first. Thunder Jackson.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I KNOW IT SHOULDN’T bother me so much, but it does.”

  Shelby planted her feet on the railing that lined the grandstand, the rain drenching the tan suede boots to a dark coffee color. She swiped a wet strand of hair off her face and looked at no one in the empty seat next to her.

  Mick took three more steps to the front row of the section, his sneakers soundless on the aluminum stairs. Waiting for the right moment to clear his throat or say her name, he listened to her talk to the ghost of her father.

  “I mean, who cares how it happened or that he lied or that we got duped? We got all sorts of benes—good press, some trackside buzz, a great sub driver.” She let out a bitter laugh. “And something else which was, like, the most amazing night of my life, but I know you don’t want the details of that, Daddy.”

  Of her life?

  Yeah, he felt the same way. He took one more step and waited.

  She groaned and dropped her head into her hands, evidently abandoning the conversation with her father but still working this out in her head.

  “He’s a liar!” she said to no one, frustration and fury rich in her voice. “A liar, a cheater and a gambler who’s using me to win a wager so he can pound his chest and say—what?—that he can win in two sports? Who the hell cares?”

  His heart rolled around and dropped down in the vicinity of his heels. She knew.

  She knew.

  “Evidently you care.”

  “Oh!” Shelby gasped at the voice, whipping around so fast her wet hair twirled and slapped against her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” He trotted down the last few steps and looked at the empty seat. “Can I join you?”

  She blinked through the rain, her eyes dark and her lashes spiky wet. Tears? No. He didn’t merit those.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her flat tone even more worrisome than if she’d shot him a lethal dose of venom.

  “I want to do something I should have done last night. I want to talk to you.”

  She turned to face the track. “Go away.”

  “I tried to tell you last night.”

  She winced. “I guess I didn’t want to hear it then.”

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shook off his hood, then climbed over the bridge her legs had formed and dropped himself into the seat next to her.

  The chair squeaked and she closed her eyes. “Shut up.”

  “Who, me or him?”

  “Both of you.” She gave him a quick sideways glance. “I don’t suppose ‘I would prefer to be alone’ means anything to you.”

  He swiped the rainwater off the armrest, sending a little splash into the air. “You’re not alone. You’re sitting here having a little heart-to-heart with your dad, and I’m joining the party.”

  She said nothing but pulled her legs into her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Balancing her chin on her knees, she closed her eyes. “Are you leaving?”

  “Not until we talk.”

  “No, I mean after you win this bet. Are you leaving? I need to know if this is temporary.”

  “Would it have changed anything?”

  She glared at him. “Do you mean would I have slept with you? Yes. I would have. No regrets. I liked it and so did you. But you…” She sighed, abandoning whatever train of thought she’d been on. “How long you are planning to stick around changes the nature of the business arrangement, which is all I really care about.”

  Was it? Was that all she cared about?

  “Are you staying or are you out of here as soon as you win a race as a NASCAR owner?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he sucked in a deep breath and squinted at the empty, wet track. He wouldn’t let her detour this again. It was time she knew the truth.

  “A few months ago my brother Kip got into some trouble. A lot of it.” How many times had he said those words in his life? Too, too many.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m afraid he inherited the Churchill gambling addiction. The DNA got all twisted up somehow, and regardless of the fact that we’re identical, he’s—”

  “Kip is your identical twin?”

  He nodded. “In looks alone, believe me.”

  “What does this have to do with what Tamara told me?”

  “Is that who told you?” Somehow he didn’t think that woman knew. Scott Bronson had been on the cruise where the whole thing happened, but Mick was fairly certain he’d remember the bloodhound Tamara.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.” All that mattered was that she didn’t hear it from him, and she should have. “But it does matter that you hear the real story and not the one that might be out in the world for public or private consumption.”

  “You can tell me any story you like,” she said, snagging his gaze and holding it with the same ferocity she’d used when they’d made love the night before. “But it won’t change the fact that you lied to me. I asked you why you were doing this a hundred times from Sunday, and every time, every single time, you gave me some bullshit answer about ‘winning’ and ‘the challenge of sports’ and the ‘psyche of an athlete.’” She looked to the dreary sky in disgust. “Puh-lease. I almost fell for it.” Her laugh was entirely without humor. “Almost fell for you, too,” she added quietly.

  He cringed at the words and her bitter tone. “I told you the first night we went out to dinner that this had to do with family.”

  “Yes, you did. But you said a lot of things that night. Had me talking tires and transmission, as I recall. You just spun your web around me and I…” She shook her head. “Got caught up so bad.”

  “I told you that I wasn’t doing this for ego.”

  “You might have mentioned it was a bet.” She knifed him with the last word.

  “You’d have sent me packing.”

  “Ya think?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, the only sounds a few random shouts from the infield, the splat of raindrops on the aluminum steps.

  “I took my brother on the sports cruise,” he began again, “trying to help him get his life back together. Which, I might add, has basically been my second career for the past thirty-some years. Saving Kip from Kip.”

  “From Kip? I can’t imagine it’s easy to live in the shadow of an icon,” she said drily.

  That was Kip’s excuse. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “In any case, he’s been fighting an addiction to gambling since we were lads. An addiction to gambling, an addiction to women, an addiction to booze, an addiction to cigarettes. Hell, he’s addicted to addiction. Anyway, he was on probation. I think you call it parole.”

  “From jail?”

  Mick nodded. “He was busted for running numbers on cricket games, and one of the people involved was murdered. Kip got probation in exchange for giving some information that got someone arrested. Anyway, I took him on the cruise with me so he’d be safe and so he’d stay out of trouble.”

  “But apparently that didn’t happen.”

  It sure didn’t. Kip, being Kip, found trouble. “He’s mistaken for me quite a bit. And he never corrects the mistake. He digs the attention.” He shook his head a little at the understatement. “I made the monumental error in judgment of going to bed early while Kip spent some time mouthing off in a bar, pretending to be me and making an astronomically stupid wager that I could buy a team and win a NASCAR NEXTEL Cup race as an owner. And here I am.”

  She released her legs from her bear hug, let them slide to the ground with an incredulous look. “There’s got to be
more to it than that. Ernie said he approached you, and Tamara said there’s a million dollars involved. And why on earth didn’t you just explain that he made the bet, not you, and be done with it?”

  Mick exhaled hard. “Kip made the bet with the wrong people. People involved with illegal sports betting who have a lot of power over my reputation, over the blasted tabloids, over Kip’s probation. And he didn’t bet a million dollars, he bet something worth a million pounds.”

  “What did he have to bet that’s worth a million pounds?”

  “Paper.”

  “What?” She choked out the word.

  “Paper that is actually a piece of British history.”

  He felt her draw away in surprise. “What is it, the Magna Carta?”

  He smiled. “Kip’s weakness is sports betting, my father’s weakness was artifacts. Years ago, back in the seventies, my father was involved in the gray market and some pretty untoward dealings with historic treasures and the like. Anyway, he got his hands on some personal writings of our buddy Winston.”

  “Churchill?”

  “The very one. My dad was a huge fan, because of the name, of course. He lost everything gambling, everything but some very historic letters Winston Churchill had written and that business card I showed you. Today, they technically belong to us. To our family. I’ve been planning to formally donate them to the Churchill Society or the appropriate British museum, but my mum was holding on to them. They were…the last piece of my father.”

  “So, let me get this straight. Kip bet those letters that you—that he, acting as you—could own a NASCAR team and win a race?”

  “Preposterous, isn’t it?” Mick replied. “To be accurate, what he wagered, as me, was that I could win in any sport, in any country, in any field of play. Someone suggested NASCAR, and he boasted that maybe he—or I—couldn’t drive, but I could win as an owner. Things got out of hand and he used the letters as a wager. Handshakes and some subtle threats were exchanged. There were several witnesses, and many of them no doubt would love to see me fail.”

  She stared at him. “What if you do?”

  “Then we lose the letters. If we don’t turn them over, I imagine my reputation will be sullied. But, far worse, someone could take their anger out on my brother if they don’t get the letters. And these someones can be brutal.”

  She regarded him closely for a moment, processing all of this. “But how did Ernie get involved? He said he approached you.”

  “He did. He was in the bar that night and heard it happen. He pulled me aside the next day, and I immediately told him the truth about the mistake. But by then, I knew these men were serious and they wouldn’t care who made the bet. Ernie and I started talking.”

  “So Ernie knows?”

  “Ernie knows.”

  She blew out a long, slow breath but said nothing. He looked at her profile, waiting for any indication that he could ask for forgiveness, but her expression was blank, wet and distant.

  Finally she turned to him. “Back to my original question. Are you going back to England when it’s over? Back to play soccer again?”

  “I don’t know.” He searched her face, trying to psyche out her mind-set, but all he could see were lips just a wee bit swollen from lots of kissing the night before, her chin slightly chafed from his beard. He put his hand on top of hers. “I certainly never expected this little sojourn across the Atlantic to include anyone like you.”

  She pulled her fingers away as though he’d burned her. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m not changing the subject. I’m telling you why I don’t know what I’m doing when…if I’m done here.”

  She bit down on that swollen lip, her eyes tapered and unforgiving. “I’m still hurt and I don’t care if you did it to save your reputation or protect your brother or preserve the history of England. You lied to me.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand to stop him. “And I still don’t know what to do about my race teams.”

  “And I don’t know what to do about my life.” He looked at her just as a raindrop trailed down her cheek, almost like a tear. He wiped it away with his fingertip. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “I like racing. And I like racers. And, God, I like you. Could you forgive me, Shelby?”

  She just looked at him. “I don’t know.”

  He leaned closer, and the seat creaked, giving him an idea. “Ask your dad.”

  She blinked again. This time he could have sworn the moisture came from inside her eyes, not the sky. “You know that’s just pretend. He’s not here.’” She tapped the chair.

  “But he’s here.” He touched his fingers to her heart. “Listen to him. What does he tell you?”

  She half smiled. “Oh, if he were here, he’d probably say, Shelby girl—”she lowered her voice and added a twang “—the metal and smoke that’s in front of you is gonna spin you out way faster than the guy on your backside.”

  Mick frowned. “Translation, please?”

  “He’d mean that the unknown wreck that’s ahead is more dangerous than the trouble in your rearview. Don’t look back. Look ahead and forget the past.”

  “That’s actually pretty sage advice. How come you don’t listen to it?”

  “I do. I’m always worried about the wreck ahead of me.”

  He took her hand. “I think you’re so busy looking in your rearview mirror at what used to be that you might be missing the track magic that’s right in front of you.”

  She started to smile. “I think you’ve been hanging around the races too much lately, Soccer Boy.”

  “Maybe I have, but I like it.” He patted her leg and stood. “Ernie’s worried about you, Shelby. He’s in the garage. Will you come back with me now?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not ready yet. I think I’ll just sit here a little bit longer and be mad at you.”

  “All right.” He slowly climbed over her legs and looked down at her one more time. “I have to ask you a question.”

  She looked up at him, that lower lip caught in her teeth again. “Hmm?”

  “When I got here, I heard you say something about the most amazing night of your life. Did you mean last night?”

  She closed her eyes for a second, then slowly opened them again. “Yeah, but it was just sex, Mick. Just real good sex. Nothing else.”

  He reached out and touched her chin with his fingertips. “You’re wrong about that.”

  “It wasn’t real good?”

  “It wasn’t just sex. And we both know that.”

  SHELBY TOOK A SECOND shower, dried her hair and gathered her wits about her, all the while giving herself the mother of all pep talks. It was crazy and self-indulgent to sit in the rain and moon about a guy, about a bet, about her dad, about her team, about the cards she’d been dealt.

  And it wasn’t just sex. He was right. Her heart lifted despite the dreary weather she saw when she peeked outside. The drizzle had turned to a downpour, so she grabbed an umbrella and headed for the hauler to see what was going on with her racing team.

  There, a group of Thunder crew members were gathered in the hallway and in the lounge, laughter and easy talk drifting out the back doors. Scott, Clay, Whit and Pete were around the shock dyno, while several others were putting away tools and working.

  Deep in the shadows of the hauler she could see Mick and heard his voice as she approached. “So the inside spots for rows two through twenty are set in the first duel, which includes seventeen of the top thirty-five from last year.”

  The response was a hoot from Big Byrd.

  “By George, I think ’e’s got it!” Whit said in a painful British accent.

  “Damn straight,” Scottie said. “And once you understand qualifying at Daytona, you are one of us for life.”

  One of us for life. Shelby’s steps slowed as she reached the doors, and the laughter died a bit.

  “Hey, Shel, where ya been?”

  “’Bout time you sho
wed up, boss.”

  “Good morning, Miss Jackson.” Big Byrd did his kindergartener impression.

  She looked from one to the other, her gaze settling, of course, on Mick as she searched for the light quip, the easy talk that would give her crew the impression the only thing on her mind was racing and winning.

  She shook the rainwater off the umbrella with a mighty jerk and shot Mick a daring smile. “So what happens in the second duel?” she challenged.

  “Same thing,” he said, a grin making his eyes twinkle. “Except for positions forty, forty-one and forty-two go to the three cars not in last year’s top thirty-five that had the fastest Pole Day speed.”

  “Woooweee,” Scott said with an “I’m impressed” whistle. “Good-bye, Manchester. Hello, Talladega.”

  Mick pointed at her. “The other plate race.”

  That was it. She was a goner. How long could she fight it?

  “I’ll give you this, Soccer Boy,” Shelby said as she stepped all the way into the hauler, her voice amazingly casual considering her brain had just melted and her heart was history. “You are a quick study.”

  The lounge door opened and Ernie’s silhouette appeared in the light. “I’ve been calling you all day,” he said to Shelby. “I need to talk to you.”

  He needed to talk to her? “Might be the other way around, Ernie.”

  “Come in here.”

  At his tone, the guys separated for her to go through to the lounge, a few of them disappearing out the back of the hauler. She gave Mick a quick look as she passed but slipped by wordlessly, closing the door of the hauler lounge behind her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is what’s wrong.” Ernie slammed a newspaper in front of her and pushed it toward her. “I been trying to get to you all damn day. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Turn two.” As though that explained it. Her gaze dropped to the headline. “Oh, no.”

  Thunder Racing for Sale After Driver Dismissed for Cheating.

  Shelby stared at the words, then the masthead of the Raleigh newspaper. “Rocco DiLorenzi wrote this.”