by Stahl, Shey
I took a big chug of coffee, trying to give myself a minute to think.
But the coffee was fucking hot, it scalded my throat going down, making me take in a gulp of air, which of course made me inhale the coffee. I’ve learned over the years that inhaling is the distinctly suboptimal method of ingestion when hot.
As I tried to reign in my choking gagging and other nasty sounds I seemed to be making, Spencer leaned back in his chair, laughing at me.
Another half a minute of me spluttering like an engine out of gas, he laughed out. “I’m embarrassed for you.”
I figured out gasping for life-sustaining oxygen, that I was fucked. Finally I answered with, “She’s my friend.”
“You are such a fucking liar.” Spencer grunted sitting down beside me again and then felt the need to continue. “Those two have been messing around with each other since they were what,” he turned to me looking for an answer. I simply glared. This did nothing to addle him. “I think since they were...fourteen,” he laughed. “Caught them dry humping in the movie room one night. She’s been on his dick ever since.” I was displeased to discover that the quality of his voice increased exponentially in relation to its volume.
“Shut the fuck up Spencer!” I snapped punching his shoulder as hard as I could in a sedentary position.
“Friends with benefits...huh,” Paul said. “I’ve got one of those. Works out nicely when I can’t commit to anything.”
“I’ve been telling him that for years.” Spencer added before I punched him again.
“Do you understand what shut the fuck up means?”
“Yes,” he laughed.
“Fuck you.” I grumbled making my way around the guys as they sat there laughing.
I went back to my motor coach and locked the door. My mind raced over what Paul said, he had one. People did the whole friends with benefits thing all the time. It also ruined friendships just as quickly. But if anyone could do friends with benefits with a girl that wasn’t complicated, it was us. We could have more, just a less complicated version. It’s not that I ever wanted to have her and then the ability to sleep around with others. That was definitely not it. Sway owned me; I only wanted her. This was more about us having what we could have—given the situation we were both in.
29. Ball Joint - Jimi
Ball Joint – A ball inside a socket that can turn and pivot in any direction. Ball joints are used to allow suspension to travel while the driver steers the car.
“He’s being picky.” Kyle told me as I stepped on the pit box.
I rolled my eyes because when wasn’t my son picky?
“There is nothing wrong with these tires but he thinks they’re shit.”
“What are his lap times?”
“Enough to break the track record...that I might add, he already set in qualifying.” Kyle sighed and pointed to the laptop in front of him. “These are his lap times for the last fifty laps...but I can’t convince him the cars perfect. Tony says every practice session—the tire wear improves. His lines are perfect, his driving is perfect!”
Jameson poured everything he had into every lap whether it was practice, qualifying or a race so if someone told me he wasn’t giving it everything he had; I knew they were lying. That wasn’t Jameson.
“Let me talk to him.” I reached over Mason to grab the other 2-way radio. “Jameson, you copy? It’s dad.”
“10-4, what’s up?”
“Bring it on in.”
“Just give me a few more laps.”
There was no convincing Jameson of something unless he believed it to be true. To convince him of something, you had to show him evidence, substantial evidence. You should have heard the conversation we had with him when he found out there was no Santa Clause.
When he brought the car back into the garage, I decided it was time to talk to him. So many times, I’ve tried but someday I’d get through to this stubborn little shit.
While I waited for him to finish with a few interviews, Nancy approached us.
She was always like a fresh breath of air for me.
“Hey sweetheart,” she stretched up on her tippy toes to place a tender kiss against the stubble of my jaw.
I leaned in robotically. It’d been at least a week since I last saw her.
“Do you want to grab some dinner at Longhorn before the race in Concord?”
“Certainly my dear...but I need to speak with Jameson first.” Leaning in again, I pulled her closer.
“Oh—well, talk to him tonight. He’s racing in the Outlaw Showdown.”
I tilted my head in her direction, arching my eyebrow.
“Does Simplex know about this?” Since they found out about his track that was added to his property in Mooresville, they monitored him a little closer.
“Absolutely, they scheduled it.”
There nothing I liked better than racing with Jameson but I feared it as well. What if something went wrong and more importantly, what if that something was triggered by me? As you can see, my brooding offspring was just like me.
Jameson finally made his way over to us, scooped his mother into a tight hug and then eyed me skeptically. “I thought you’d be in Concord already.”
“I’m heading there now. I just stopped by to see how happy hour was going.”
“Shitty, I don’t know what wrong with it but I just felt like it was lagging there at the end of the run. It’s tight on exit coming out of four.”
“It wasn’t.” I told him as we all walked toward his motor coach. We had to stop several times for him to sign autographs but eventually we made it. “Your lap times were enough to break the record you already set.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment before smiling at his mom. “Are you staying for the race?”
“Yes honey.” He tucked her under his arm. Though he’d never admit this to anyone, he was a mamas-boy. “I’m heading to Concord with your dad but I’ll be back in the morning with your grandparents too.”
“Oh yeah? Grandpa and Nana are coming?” Jameson asked shrugging out of his racing suit once inside the motor coach.
We made small talk for a few minutes before heading to Concord for dinner and the race. I knew I didn’t have a lot of time but I needed to talk to him before the race tomorrow. If there was ever a chance that I needed him to calm down and think, it was this next race. We couldn’t afford another hit in the points like we took at Richmond and Jameson didn’t need the added stress.
“Is Sway coming tomorrow?” Nancy asked Jameson when we were eating.
Jameson, trying to hide his smile by looking down, pushed the tomatoes out of his salad along with the cucumbers. Arranging them on a plate he glanced down at them several times as if he thought someone should take them, but his other half wasn’t here.
I saw the way my son looked at Sway and I saw the look of pure heartache and remorse when she’s not with him. I knew it because I’d been there with his mother. As a racer, you don’t want to fall in love in the peak of your career. It’s less than ideal when you’re trying to balance everything and without trying to, you can break their heart or they can easily break yours. It’s easy to do. They see fame and forgot all about the person underneath.
Even though we live for speed, we have big hearts and when you make it, people seem to forget that. I also knew Sway would never hurt him that way. I hoped at least because with Jameson, it would destroy him. Out of anything in this world, racing aside, Sway had that power over my son.
“I didn’t invite her to come out.” Jameson finally said. “She’s busy.”
“She graduated last week.” I said. “How can she be busy still?”
“With the track—she’s taking over as General Manager.”
Now I understood the change in his personality within the last few weeks. I heard about him flying back to Elma to see Charlie and I had a feeling it had something to do with it. He wouldn’t admit this but Jameson was looking forward to Sway graduating. We all were. Jameson was a
n asshole most of the time with his irascibleness but at least when Sway was around he was somewhat tolerable.
“I’m sure one race won’t hurt anything.” Nancy said to him reaching for his cucumbers. “I can call Charlie and see if it’s all right.”
Jameson didn’t seem comfortable with the subject but I needed to say a few things to him. “Jameson, I know that you don’t understand these feelings you’re having for her, but eventually they will make sense.” Smiling at my wife, I took her hand. “You can have both. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
Surprisingly, he contemplated this for a moment before his guard came up. “It’s not like that with Sway and me.” He guarded himself so tightly when the focus switched to her. Even the Russian Army couldn’t break through to him.
Nancy and I both laughed, they’d both been denying the love they had for the last few years. There was nothing either of us could say to him to convince him. It goes back to that evidence.
Jameson stood and held up his phone.
“I need to go make a phone call.” And just like that, he disappeared around the corner.
Nancy sighed beside me. “Do you think they’ll ever wake up?”
“Maybe,” I told her with a smile. “Probably not but let’s hope so.”
It took me six long months of arguing with myself before I realized I could have both, love and racing. The problem wasn’t knowing you were in love. With Nancy, I knew right away that small town green-eyed angle stole my heart the first night I met her. It was balancing the two loves and being able to provide both the attention they deserved from you. Racing could consume your entire life, if you let it. Since Jameson was four—he’d let it. But gradually, his interests shifted toward women. I should say one woman, Sway.
Nancy and I feared constantly that his lack of a normal childhood had something to do with his indecisiveness with women. Most saw him now as the NASCAR rookie sensation who took his precarious talents to the highest level but none of them new the boy behind the wheel. There was a boy there—one that had fears but hunger that outshined it. He was still just a boy to me though, one that couldn’t see exactly what he needed, the girl.
Ball Joint - Jameson
“What position are we in?”
“You go out twenty-third.” Aiden replied swiping sweat from his brow before adjusting his black Simplex hat. Damp blonde curls peeked out from the sides.
Not bad, I thought. Qualifying in the middle was good, got a good amount of rubber down on the track and you also had the advantage of seeing what line was fastest.
I nodded while Aiden and I walked to the hauler. Spencer and Mason pushed the car toward the grid.
The qualifying order for a NASCAR race is similar to what you’d see at a local dirt track, aside from NASCAR using a Bingo parlor set-up whereas dirt tracks just keep it simple and draw pills with numbers on them to determine your qualifying spot. It’s a tradition with them.
Each team sends a representative to the draw; we usually send Aiden. With his personality, it’s entertaining to watch him wait for a number.
Can you understand why we love this so much? He usually spends the entire time trying to foresee the future so when he comes back, it takes him a good hour to calm down.
When qualifying begins on Friday before the Sunday race, one car at a time goes out on the track. We start on pit road, have less than a lap to get up to speed then make two laps. They take the best time out of those two laps to determine your starting spot.
If there is a tie in the time between two drivers, the owner with the highest points gets the draw.
Only two things can send you to the back of the field after qualifying, missing a drivers meeting or making significant changes to your car such as an engine change or switching to a back-up car.
“You ready?” Aiden asked reaching for his headset. Since last year, NASCAR has required a spotter when your car is on the track. The spotter not only serves as your eyes in the sky but they monitor track conditions, talk to other teams about positions and oddly enough, calm you down when needed. As you can imagine, Aiden did this a lot.
Entertaining enough, he could make quick decisions on the track but couldn’t decide on what socks to wear in the morning.
Pulling out my headphones, I smiled slipping my iPod inside my suit.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
And I was. Throughout the week, I was able to relax and focus on the bigger picture, winning the championship. If I could win the Triple Crown, Chili Bowl and numerous track championships—I could win this as well.
I’d like to think I was relaxed but after snagging the pole, happy hour was a different story. Suddenly I thought my car needed something more, or maybe it was me?
The night before the Coca-Cola 600 was my only free night.
What did I do with my one free evening for the week?
Yeah, you guessed it. I raced at the local dirt track. It just so happened that the Outlaw Showdown was only twenty minutes away in Concord. So Tate, Bobby, Spencer, Aiden and I piled into a mini-van and zipped over to Concord after I had dinner with my parents. Being a team owner now, I had a car ready.
“Why are you adding weight?”
“Because Skip said we were light.”
Tommy looked over at Rusty, our mechanic, scratching his orange hair with a wrench. “Take the floor plate out and replace it with a steel plate. Let me know how much weight we’re off then.”
Rusty and his little helper, his brother, began tearing out the floor plate.
After weighing in again, we were still off by fifty pounds with my car so I had them add a lead to the Nerf bar on the left side—it seemed to take care of it.
It was a blazing hot day and even with the sun setting as day turned to evening, the track turned dry and slick. Anytime the track crew tried to moisten it up, the sun had it dried out before the water truck had pulled off.
Some of the drivers were packing their suits with ice packs, while others dealt with it. Being used to the high temperatures, I just dealt with.
It was nothing like the race in Texas earlier in the year when the inside of my car was close to 135°.
Before the heat races, I made my way over to the flag stand for an interview with one of their announcers.
Simplex asked that I come, since they were sponsoring the Outlaw Showdown this year. This meant I had a little sweet-talking to do.
Standing there, I had my suit wrapped around my waist with a wet t-shirt clinging to my body. It probably didn’t look appropriate but if you’ve never been on the East Coast during the summer with 103° temperatures and high humidity, you’re not missing anything. Nor would you understand why I was standing in front of around five thousand fans sporting a wet see-through t-shirt.
I let out a small chuckle as they recapped my career.
“This young man standing here beside me...” Richard’s hand grasped my shoulder shaking me slightly. I smiled wider and the cheering from the crowd intensified. “He started racing at four. By the time he was six, he had won two Regional Quarter Midget Nationals, moved onto the Deming Speedway Clay Nationals at nine...then the Triple Crown, dozens of track championships...Chili Bowl...the list could take up an hour of our time here but what you all want to know if who this kid is...right?”
By their screams, they knew me all right.
Richard smiled and pretended to clean out his ears with a quick shake of his peppered hair.
“Looks like they know who you are already?”
“Oh I don’t know about that.” I laughed. “Maybe they have me confused with someone else...?”
“Do you think this is...Jameson Riley?” the fans were literally all standing on their feet screaming. I think I said this back when I won in Rockingham, but I was utterly amazed at how popular of a driver I became overnight.
Richard went on to talk about the Winston race. I kept my comments short and nothing that would come off as rude. When asked about “Rowdy Riley” and Dar
rin, I simply replied with: “It’s just racing. Anytime you put forty-three drivers together, tempers flare. It doesn’t go beyond that, it’s just racing.”
“So you two get along outside of the track?”
“I wouldn’t go that far...”
The crowd screaming dissuaded Richard off subject and I was able to sneak away for the pill draw and then heat races. I ended up just one tenth off the track-record, which my dad set. This left me starting on the outside of the front row with him.
It felt good to be out here and still competing competitively still. You can’t understand the feeling you get when you can successfully switch to a completely different series, and win.
I loved being around my “dirt-buddies” as I called them. Even though I was now technically considered Tyler and Justin’s boss—it never felt that way. We were just a bunch of friends going back to our roots that night. Or at least I was going back to my roots, they never left.
And even though I wasn’t racing with them anymore, times hadn’t changed that much. Justin was still considered “Wicked West” and could pull slide jobs on some of the best on dirt.
Ryder remained the “Beast from the East” and then there was Tyler. His racing had taken off and soon got the nickname of “The Sleeper” because he had the ability of waiting until the last second and then coming on strong like wild fire.
Another kid that caught my eye was Mark Derkin’s grandson, Shelby Derkin. He was a sixteen-year old kid out of Richmond Indiana. The kid lapped most of the 360 division in his main and could have easily qualified for the B-Feature in the 410 class if he had the power. Part of me wanted to hop into a 360 and see what this kid had to offer. This just goes back to the side of me who always wanted to race with the best.
Why?
Because the only way to see how good you are is to race against the best.
After the drivers meeting we hung around my dad’s hauler waiting for the features to begin when a few girls made their way over.
There was one I looked at twice, thinking it was Sway. They could have passed for twins, though I doubted she had Sway’s witty traits.