Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Thanks.” She shook her head and blinked as the glass cleared. “I can’t believe Bobbie Norton did that to me.”

  “What happened in there?” Other than the fact that his life flashed before his eyes when he realized Shelby was in danger.

  She shot him a look. “Tamara is a front for Bobbie. Or was. I think he attacked her in the bathroom. Some woman was screaming that she was dead, but I could tell by the way the bouncers were acting, she wasn’t. Bobbie must have hurt her, though.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s abusive. He’s trying to get her to buy a vulnerable team so he can get back into racing.” She whipped around a corner. “But something stinks. There’s someone else involved. She said Bobbie has connections and she spouted off all kinds of warnings that he’d do whatever it takes to get what he wants. He’s definitely got someone on the inside. Someone on the team.”

  “Kenny Holt.”

  Shelby powered through a yellow light. “Really?”

  “I saw them together today. I just didn’t know it was Bobbie until I saw his picture today.”

  Shelby jutted her head toward the phone. “Try Ernie again. Call Whit. Call someone and find him.”

  “Bronson’s on the infield. Let me call him.”

  Scott answered on the second ring. “Yo, Churchill.”

  “Scottie, have you seen Ernie Jackson?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  Relief rolled through him. “We got him,” he whispered to Shelby, reaching over to squeeze her arm. “Where is he?”

  “Well…” Scottie hesitated and had a muffled conversation. “He was right here about ten minutes ago. Wait a second.”

  “Where is he?” Shelby asked, looking left and right as they came off the causeway to the mainland. “Why doesn’t he have his cell phone on?”

  More muffled conversation, then Scott said, “Okay. Ernie’s full of surprises, Mick.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He just took a ride with Kenny Holt. Looks like they’re going to kiss and make up. Does that mean I’m fired?”

  His gut clenched. “No. That means—” He glanced at Shelby.

  “What?” she demanded in a whisper.

  He just squeezed her hand. “When did they leave, Scottie? Does anyone know where they went?”

  More muffled speaking. “Somebody said Kenny was giving him a ride back to his hotel.”

  Not good. Definitely not good. “Thanks, mate.” He flipped the phone closed. “Ernie left the track with Kenny Holt.”

  She swore softly. “He drives a red Viper.”

  “Scott said they were going to kiss and make up.”

  “No way!”

  “And Kenny was giving Ernie a ride to his hotel maybe ten minutes ago.”

  Without blinking, she jerked the wheel to the left, flew into an intersection and whipped the van into a U-turn that might have used four wheels but he doubted it.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Lousy turning radius.”

  She passed two cars and barreled the van toward the main drag in front of the racetrack.

  “How do you know which exit?”

  “He’ll park in the VIP section. He’ll have to come out there.” She pointed to a main exit. “It will take them a while to walk to the car and then get out of the parking lot.” She slid into a handicapped parking space close to the exit. “We’ll wait for him.”

  A few cars pulled out slowly but not the red Viper.

  “Bobbie was in the stands, using the traction-control device, I bet.” Shelby looked at Mick, her brown eyes wide with realization. “That man is the consummate cheater.”

  “But if Kenny had done well in the race, then the team would be even more attractive. Not vulnerable.”

  She frowned, thinking. “Remember how mad Kenny was when he hit the wall? I think Bobbie must have made that happen. Or maybe they wanted to just throw Thunder Racing into a really bad light so the sponsors think we’re on shaky ground.”

  “Or another buyer would back out.”

  “All of the above,” Shelby said. “I’m certain of it.”

  Headlights beamed from the parking lot. “Bingo,” Shelby said. “Dodge Viper.”

  She inched out of the spot, her shoulders forward, her hands gripping the wheel, ready to pounce. “See if there are two people in that car when he passes.”

  They both dipped their heads to see into the car.

  “It’s really hard to tell,” Mick said. The roof of the Viper was low and the headrests were high. “Better assume Ernie’s in there.”

  The van dovetailed on the wet pavement as Shelby floored it, cutting off an oncoming car to get directly behind the Viper.

  “Careful, luv,” Mick warned. “You’re in a van. He’s a professional driver in a sports car.”

  “You’re forgetting whose daughter I am.” She smashed the accelerator and barreled closer to the back end of the Viper. “If I bump draft him right, he’ll have to pull over.”

  “Or spinout with your grandfather in the passenger seat.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Holt zipped into the next lane and launched four car lengths ahead of them.

  “And now Kenny knows what you’re doing.” Mick said drily. “Don’t let him lose you.”

  The wipers pumped wildly as a truck pulled up on their left and covered them with spray. She held the van steady and never let up on the gas.

  “He’s turning,” Mick told her. “Left.”

  “Hang on.” She whipped the steering wheel to the left, earning a blast of a horn from a sedan she narrowly missed. The van wobbled, then picked up speed, barreling down on the Viper, now stopped at a light. As they approached, Kenny ran the light and slid into a right turn onto a side street.

  Shelby followed, another near miss in her wake.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned. “Just shut up.”

  Mick honored that request by staring ahead, keeping his focus on the back end of the Viper. She rammed the accelerator again, nearly reaching the Viper, and forcing Holt to make another turn.

  “Dead end!” Mick hollered as he read the sign. “You’ve got him.”

  The road ended with a massive brick building with glass doors. For a moment Mick thought Kenny would drive right through them, but he slammed on his brakes, tried to turn the car around. But Shelby blocked him in with the van. Mick lunged out the door toward the Viper, grabbing the handle of Kenny’s door, which remained tightly locked.

  Kenny’s beady eyes stared at Mick through the rain-washed window. Mick took one step backward, lifted his foot and smashed the glass into a spiderweb of a million pieces.

  Holt covered his face and hollered, giving Ernie just enough time to throw open his door and climb out.

  “Get out of the car!” Mick demanded to Holt, jiggling the handle again and lifting his foot for another kick. “Now!”

  Holt fumbled with the door and pushed it open with a grunt of resignation. “What the hell’s your problem?” Holt demanded.

  Mick pulled him to the ground and dropped a knee on his chest. “You are.”

  Ernie came around the car at the same time as Shelby, the older man pulling her into a hug. “He said he was taking me to find you,” Ernie said to her.

  Shelby squeezed her grandfather into her chest, then pulled them both closer to Mick. “That was some kick, Soccer Boy.”

  He eyed her from below. “Brilliant driving, Racer Girl.”

  Ernie gave them both a wry smile. “I knew you two were made for each other.”

  Mick looked up at Shelby and watched the realization dawn on her.

  “He set us up?” Her voice rose with total disbelief.

  “Evidently Thunder had a seat on the cruise and liked me.”

  She smiled slowly and then started laughing, looking up to the sky as raindrops slid down her face and into her open mouth.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she said to the dark sky over Daytona. “Thank you.”

/>   “IT’S OVER.”

  Shelby made the announcement as she stepped inside Mick’s motor coach, catching her breath after a mad dash across the infield to tell him the news.

  He laid his book down on the sofa, and her heart caught as it did every time he trained those eyes on her. “I’ve been dying to know what happened,” he said, bounding to his feet to greet her. “I wish they would have let me in the NASCAR hauler for the meeting.”

  “Owners only,” she said. “And Tamara, who came directly from the hospital. She’s got a shiner, a mild concussion and some stitches that will require plastic surgery, but she’ll be fine.” Physically, anyway.

  “So what did she say?”

  “She confirmed everything you and Ernie pieced together. Bobbie set up the whole thing after talking to Ernie. He played on Kip’s weaknesses, got him drunk and found out about the Churchill letters and how much they mattered to you. He knew Kip was pretending to be you. Oh, and she admitted that Bobbie and Kenny were feeding inside information to Rocco DiLorenzi. They were doing everything possible to weaken the team.”

  “He did all this just to get back into racing? It’s unbelievable.”

  “There’s a loophole in Bobbie’s ban from NASCAR racing that actually allows him back in the sport as an owner. But that’s closed now, and Holt won’t be racing for anyone reputable in the near future, either. Kenny admitted that he used his driver status to get into the garage in the middle of the night and plant the traction-control device using some bogus excuse about leaving his cell phone.”

  “And Tamara?”

  Shelby sighed just thinking about her. “The quintessential example of what happens to a woman who creates her identity around a man, who isn’t anything if her guy isn’t all that. I almost wish I could…”

  “What?”

  “Give her a job. Give her a reason to believe in herself.”

  “Why don’t you? She knows a lot about racing—and everyone deserves a second chance.”

  She thought of his brother, the man Mick had given second, third, fourth and fifth chances. “Maybe,” she said wistfully. “But at least now it’s over and we can race tomorrow with all of this behind us.”

  He inched back, denying her the kiss she was intent on getting. “We?”

  “Figure of speech.” She stood on her tiptoes and closed in for a kiss, but he lifted his face and she nipped his chin. “I get until the main race, right? Didn’t we agree? I have twenty-four hours left to decide what to do about you.”

  “I’ve tried everything,” Mick said, the frustration in his voice a little hollow, a little playful. “I’ve tried getting you great press coverage, a brilliant driver, more sponsors.” He shook his head, slipping his hands under her T-shirt and touching her possessively. “What else can I do to convince you that I would be the perfect co-owner of Thunder Racing?”

  She felt her eyelids flutter as she rocked into him. “That. You can do that. It’s a start.”

  He dipped his hands over her backside, dropping a kiss on the throat she’d exposed.

  “And that,” she whispered with a smile. “That’s very convincing.”

  He kissed her, gently at first, teasing her mouth with his tongue, guiding her toward the back of the motor home as he deepened the kiss and inched her T-shirt higher.

  “Yes, very persuasive, honey. Don’t stop now. I’m about to decide.”

  “That’s not all you’re about to do.” His voice was husky and tight with promise, and all Shelby could do was kick off her boots on the way to the bedroom.

  Two hours later she woke up from a satisfied slumber, Mick’s sheets wrapped around her. Without opening her eyes, she listened to the quiet of the night before a race. The calm before the storm.

  “Oh!” she said, her eyes popping open. “I have to do something tonight.”

  She twisted on her side to tell Mick, but there was nothing but an empty pillow to hear about her superstitious ritual.

  “Mick?” She popped up, searching the room. The bathroom door was open, and the door to the salon. Everything was still and silent. “Mick, are you here?”

  She slipped out of bed and pulled on some clothes, scanning the room for clues to where he might have gone. Nothing.

  In the main salon she peeked out at the infield and track, then checked to see the time. Nine o’clock. Would he have gone for food? To meet someone?

  She jotted a note, grabbed his keys and stuck the paper in the outside of the door. He’d find her when he got back. She was certain of it.

  The night was clear and warm, promising ideal track temperature for the next day. The teams were ready, the drivers psyched, the cars set up to perfection. There was only one thing left on her list.

  As she slipped through the gate that led to the turn two grandstands, she paused at the top, looking down on her section. She’d expected it to be empty this late after the Busch race, but one man sat in the front row, on the end.

  In her seat.

  What was he doing here?

  She took a few steps down, scuffing her feet to purposely make noise. If Mick was having a private conversation with the ghost of her father, she didn’t want to surprise him or even overhear what he was saying. Some things were sacred.

  But he didn’t turn around at the noise.

  She cleared her throat and descended a few more steps. Still he didn’t turn.

  “If you’re expecting words of wisdom from him, you need to know that he’s usually very uptight the night before a race and he only wants to talk strategy. Nothing heavy or personal.”

  His shoulders straightened and he lifted his head, but he didn’t move.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she reached him.

  He turned red-rimmed eyes and an ashen face toward her. “Not exactly.”

  “What’s wrong?” Her legs folded as she crouched down to his level, instantly reaching for him. “What’s the matter, Mick?”

  “Kip’s back in jail.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Oh, Mick.”

  “My sister called while you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He just shook his head and stared at the track. “It’s worse. He was busted for running numbers on the United.” He looked at her, pain on his face. “My team. My football team.”

  She took his hands. “You’ll rise above that.”

  He let out a half laugh. “I don’t care, I can weather some bad press. It’s just that…” He shook his head and his voice faded. “I wanted to make this decision on my own, not have him make it for me.”

  “What decision?” She knew but wanted to hear him say it.

  He turned to her, his green eyes as full of emotion and doubt as she’d ever seen them. “I lied to you, Shelby.” As she reacted, he reached out. “Don’t take it personally. I lied to myself, too. The business with Kip, it was all a lot easier to walk away from my football career because, well, I haven’t exactly been playing up to par.”

  She frowned at him. “Athletes retire, Mick.”

  “But I didn’t want to retire. I’m only thirty-five. I could keep playing. But I have this thing about…”

  “Quitting.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Never, never, never.”

  She knew. “Funny, I have this thing about change.”

  He flashed her a look. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

  God, yes. They were. Couldn’t he see that?

  “So,” she said as casually as she could muster because his answer mattered so much it actually squeezed her chest. “Without Kip as a reason to stay, what are you going to do?”

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “I guess I’m still waiting for you to say yes or no.”

  “Oh.” The sound came as a strangled sigh. “Mick.”

  He pulled her close. “I know this is crazy, I know this doesn’t make sense, but I’m in love with you. And I don’t think that’s going to change.”

  She lean
ed forward and kissed him, gently at first, then like a kiss that could last forever. “Good. I hate change.”

  Then he pulled her onto his lap, and the whole row of seats creaked in unison.

  EPILOGUE

  HE’D PLAYED IN Barcelona’s Nou stadium before a hundred thousand certifiably insane football fans. He’d won the World Cup with a tiebraking left-footed kick in San Siro. He made the final goal ever scored in the historic pitch of Waldstadion before the famous walls of that Frankfurt stadium were flattened for all time.

  But nothing, no international sporting event in any country, on any continent, prepared Mick for Daytona.

  The size and intensity and deafening rush of noise and machinery and color and thousands and thousands of spectators all poured into a bowl to burn under dizzying, blinding, unrelenting sunshine.

  Hundreds of people lined the pit road, in packs of matching fire suits and visored helmets, NASCAR officials peppered in the bunch, and everyone wired together on invisible microphones. Nerves, excitement and adrenaline vibrated the air.

  A pastor prayed. A celebrity sang the “Star-Spangled Banner.” A squadron of fighter jets screamed overhead. And then the whole world shook with…thunder.

  Settling into his seat in the pit cart, Mick reached for Shelby’s hand. She was listening to the static and chatter in a headset but pulled down her sunglasses to meet his gaze.

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I’d say.” He pulled out the magazine he had rolled up in his back pocket. “See this yet?”

  She glanced at it. “Sportsworld?” She shook her head and tapped her headset. “I’ll read it later.”

  “Read it now,” he yelled as the pack rolled by, led by the pace car.

  She scowled at him. “I’m a little busy now.”

  He slapped the magazine faceup on her lap so she could see her own beautiful smile and twinkling brown eyes. “Oh!” She pulled her sunglasses off. “We really got the cover.”

  “Open it. Page nine.”

  Forty-three race cars rumbled by in a pack. She fluttered the pages and flipped to the feature article. More pictures of her in the garage, with the crew chiefs, with Clay Slater. A sidebar on the Kincaid Toys sponsorship with a large color picture of their clown.