by Lacey Black
“It’s fine,” I reply without putting any thought into it. Is it fine? Sure. I trust Mack or I wouldn’t be here, but at the same time, being cooped up in an actual room together may not be in our best interest. Not because I don’t trust him…but because I don’t trust myself not to throw myself at him and beg him to take me against the wall.
“If you’re sure,” he replies, watching me for my reaction.
“Absolutely. I mean, we’re both adults, right?”
Why do I sound so breathy?
Mack opens the hotel room door and allows me to enter first. It’s a large room, probably a small suite. There’s a small seating area with a large television and a half-wall partition. On the other side of the wall is the sleeping area. There are two queen-sized beds with plenty of room between them, nothing like your usual hotel room. This one has space…and the largest bathroom I’ve ever seen.
“Holy cow,” I gasp, taking in the massive bathroom. There’s a walk-in shower with gorgeous tile and glass doors, as well as a big garden tub. “I could swim laps in that tub!”
Mack snorts. “You and baths. You always loved them, with lots of bubbles.”
“They’re one of the purest joys in life, Mack,” I tell him, setting my bag down on the closest bed.
He follows suit, setting the baby carrier on the other bed and taking Oliver out. “I can’t get over just sitting there in your own filth.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s dumb. It’s not like I roll around out on the dirt track before getting into the tub.”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance his way, only to find his eyes…on my ass.
He looks up and doesn’t bat an eye at the fact I just busted him checking me out. In fact, he seems very relaxed and maybe a bit smug about it. There’s something quite sexy about a man holding a baby. Maybe it’s just him. Perhaps it’s the way Mack looks holding his son.
I keep myself busy and try not to think about the man I’m sharing a hotel room with by unpacking my suitcase. When my belongings are in a drawer, the closet, or on the bathroom vanity counter, I pull my trusty camera out of my bag. I’ve only used it a handful of times, mostly to snap a few pictures of Oliver, but I’ve managed to grab a few candids of father and son together without him noticing.
With my camera in hand, I head over to the bed, where Oliver is stretched out, kicking his pudgy little legs. I bring my beloved film camera up and press the button, the familiar sound of the shutter filling the hotel room. I smile down as Oliver stares up at me, his arms flailing around. It’s not his hungry freakout, but one of excitement.
“Why are you so enthusiastic?” I ask, bringing my camera up and taking another few pictures.
“You still using that old thing?” Mack asks, standing off to the side and watching me photograph his son.
I glance at my vintage Nikon F2. These babies were manufactured from 1971 to 1980, and at the time, considered one of the best professional 35mm film cameras on the market. I found it at a flea market, thrown in a box of puzzles, when I was fourteen. The moment I saw it, I had to have it. My dad haggled the guy down from fifty bucks to twenty, and we left that day with more than just a camera. I found my passion, my calling.
“Well, she’s still as amazing as she was back in the day, so why would I get rid of her?” I ask, snapping another photo of Oliver.
“I guess I thought you’d use the digital one more,” he replies, still casually leaning against the wall.
When I turn around, I bring the camera to my face, center him in the view finder, and snap a picture. “Digital is great for Saturday night races. I can edit them on my laptop and upload them quickly in a massive group. But there’s nothing like taking photos with a film camera, not knowing if they’re any good or not until they’re developed. Plus, you know how much I love to develop film,” I remind, a happy little smile on my lips.
He smiles back. “I remember.”
That look, the one with laugh lines framing the corner of his eyes and those sexy, full lips turned upward, is the one I recall the most. The boyish look, happy after a race or with grease under his nails. Before I can even stop myself, I bring the device back to my face and press the shutter, capturing that smile once more.
A tension fills the room, one laced with sex and desire. His eyes turn from laughing to something darker, something dirtier. The air seems to crackle with something recognizable, something meaningful, something that’s laid in wait, dormant. All it needs is the cue, a sign, and it’ll unleash a force I haven’t felt in a while.
Three years, to be exact.
Oliver cries out, breaking the trance we both seem trapped in. I blink rapidly as Mack pushes off the wall and approaches. His eyes are on me, but he doesn’t stop when he reaches me. Instead, he goes to the bed, to his son. Mack swoops him up carefully and raises him to his head. He places his mouth on Oliver’s belly and blows out. I’m right there, capturing the moment with my camera.
“I think this one’s hungry,” Mack says, bringing him down to the crook of his arm.
“I’m sure he is. If you want to change him, I’ll get the bottle ready,” I reply, turning and heading for the diaper bag to retrieve the supplies.
“Sure, sure, leave me the dirty job,” Mack hollers, stretching out the changing pad and placing his son on top of it.
“I’m no dummy,” I retort, taking the formula can and water bottle to the counter. While I make up Oliver’s spaghetti and meatballs, I listen in as Mack talks, telling his son how nasty his diaper is. I’m pretty sure I even hear a few gags coming from the sleeping area.
When the bottle is ready, the boys are heading to the sitting area, both much happier after the pants change. The moment he’s in position, he sticks the bottle in Oliver’s waiting mouth and gazes down lovingly.
Quietly, I grab my camera off the counter and snap another photo of the two together. This time, Mack knows I’m there and is looking directly at me. There’s residual tension there, as if we both have something to say, but don’t say it. There’s no use, right? One of us is leaving in a handful of weeks, so why bring up the past. Or worse yet, cloud the present and future.
“I think I’m going to run through the shower,” I tell him, aiming a thumb behind where I stand.
“Okay,” he replies, those dark brown eyes never once wavering. Just when I turn to leave him in peace, he says, “Oh, I almost forgot. The guys and I usually have dinner together at the hauler. Probably just some hamburgers and hotdogs. I want to take Ollie so my team can meet him.” He pauses before adding, “Do you want to come?”
A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea, that I could use a little alone time, away from Mack. But a bigger part of me feels excitement. I’m thrilled at the possibility of heading to a racetrack, in the garage area, and seeing what all has changed since my time there when I was a girl. I also remember how important the team is, the comradery and downtime spent together. That’s probably why I end up saying, “Sounds good.”
Good idea?
Probably not.
But there’s no going back now.
Chapter Six
Mack
“There he is!” Chief hollers as he mans the grill, flipping whatever meat he’s cooking.
“Is that little Cruz?” Jones asks, setting his beer down on the table and heading our way.
“Yeah, this is him, but keep your dirty hands back,” I tease my friend.
“Yeah, get back, Jones,” Fish yells as he gets up from his chair. “The best friend gets to see him first.”
“No fair, you’ve already met him,” Jones fake-whines, sticking out his bottom lip for good measure.
Fish is already shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. I got pissed on that first night. That makes me important.”
“That’s complete bull—” Jones retorts, but stops mid-sentence. I realize instantly what made him stop. No, not what made him stop, but who. “Well, hello, pretty lady,” he says, his voice all sugary sweet.
Before
I can even reply, Fish smacks him on the back of the head. “Ain’t gonna happen.” Then, he takes the carrier to the table, unbuckles the harness, and removes my son from his restraints. “Everyone, this is baby Cruz. We’re going to teach him everything we know about racing.”
My team all crowds around the infant, and part of me wants to balk at how close they all are, but the guys are all pretty cool. They each take a turn checking him out and saying something to the little man before stepping aside and letting the next one get a better look. When Coop is the last one, he takes Oliver from my best friend’s arms and cradles him to his chest as if it were the most natural thing on earth. I guess, for him, a proud father of two, it is. I have a lot I could learn from my crew chief, and this time, I’m not talking about racing.
I place my hand on Lena’s lower back and escort her to the thick of the group. “Everyone, this is Lena, my friend from Brenton. Lena, this is…everyone.”
“Hey,” they all holler in some form or another as Fish jumps up and motions for her to take his seat. “Here, darlin’, take this one.”
“Oh, I’m okay to stand,” she tries to say, but I already know Fish won’t allow it. He has more manners than any man I’ve ever known.
“I insist.”
Lena glances my way but slowly starts to head toward Fish. “If you’re sure.”
“Oh, I’m definitely sure,” he replies with a wink. “Can I get ya a beer?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Budweiser?” The moment the request is out of her mouth, a round of whistles erupts from the crew.
“Damn, Cruz, seriously? Budweiser?” Chief asks, obviously impressed with Lena’s preferred beer of choice.
“Will you marry me?” Cookie asks, dropping down to one knee in the dirt in front of her.
“No, she won’t marry you. Who wants to marry a guy named Cookie?” Pete asks from his chair directly across from Lena.
“I’m the Cookie Monster,” he roars before turning to Lena and adding, “If you know what I mean.”
“Dumbass, everyone knows what you mean,” I finally say, taking both offered Budweisers from Fish and heading over to where she sits.
“Stop being crude in the presence of a lady,” Fish adds, smacking Cookie on the back of the head.
“Dammit, man, stop that!” he hollers, rubbing where his skull hurts and drinking several gulps of brew.
“If you’ll all stop acting like children for five minutes, we can go over tomorrow’s schedule before dinner’s ready,” Coop says, coming to stand in the middle of the circle, my son still nestled against his chest.
“Want me to take him?”
“I’m good,” he replies before turning his attention to Lena. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Lena. Do you mind if we discuss a few things?”
She takes a big swig of her beer. “Mind? Are you kidding? I grew up listening to this shit, so don’t let my presence stop you from conducting business.”
“What do you mean?” Pete asks.
Lena shrugs as she replies, “My dad was a crew chief.”
Now she has everyone’s attention. “Who’s your dad?” Chief asks.
“Jim Stanley.”
The entire area is quiet as the group just gawks back at her. “Jim Stanley’s your pop? You’re shitting me, right?” Jones asks.
She shakes her head in reply.
“Holy shit, he’s a legend.” This from Pete, his eyes wide with shock and, like everyone else, eager for more information.
Lena lifts a shoulder. “He was okay.” She knows she’s playing off the footprint her dad left on the industry. She knows it, and they know it.
“Okay? He was one of the greatest in the business. I mean… Damn! Fuck it. I don’t care if you’re Mack’s girl or not. You drink Budweiser and your pop’s Jim Stanley. You have to marry me now.”
A few balls of napkins and even an empty beer can fly toward Cookie, who takes cover behind his arm. “All right, goofballs, let’s get this done. Grub’s almost ready,” Coop chimes in, pulling our attention back to where he stands in the center of our makeshift circle.
Our crew chief goes over tomorrow’s lineup of events, including when we need to be ready to go. Qualifying starts mid-morning, so we want to make sure we’re set long before I slide behind the wheel. No doubt my team will do everything they can to make sure we’re at top running performance for tomorrow, including staying up as late as necessary to work on the car. Not that there should be anything wrong with it, but my guys are perfectionists, and they want the best qualifying times and race positioning possible.
When Coop is done speaking and the food is ready, we all head over to grab a plate. He grilled up brats with some sausage links, and Coop’s wife made sure we have plenty of sides. The woman loves to cook, so the guys all throw in money every race weekend to have Beth whip up some amazing side dishes. She even does desserts.
We all gather around the hauler, taking whatever seats are available. Lena tries to stay off to the side, but with this crew, there’s no out-of-the-way. You’re in the thick of it, like it or not.
Cookie shoves half a sausage in his mouth and barely starts to chew when he asks, “Lena, you comin’ to the race track tomorrow?”
She uses her napkin to wipe her mouth before replying. “Oh, uh, we haven’t really discussed it,” she says, glancing my way.
No, we haven’t really discussed it, but I realize how badly I want her there. “She’ll be there.” Our eyes meet, but I can’t read what she’s thinking. It’s unnerving.
“You ready for the shitshow when the press finds out about Oliver?” Coop asks. I can tell he’s already concerned about my state of mind behind the wheel. Not that I blame him. I mean, it is his job, after all.
“Ready. I was thinking they could come to qualifying tomorrow. Maybe everything will blow over by race time,” I offer, though I know that won’t happen. The press will be like rabid dogs with a new bone. They’ll start digging into my past, into Renee’s, and quite possibly even Lena’s.
Coop, sensing where my mind is at offers, “Why don’t we do an interview? Then it’s out on your terms. We can do it before or after qualifying, whichever you prefer, but to be honest, I’d prefer after. I want your mind fully vested in our laps.”
“Agreed. Let’s do that,” I reply, hating talking to the press, but knowing it’s such a big part of the business. Sponsors pay top dollar for their name to be blasted, not only on the car, but by the teams as well.
“That’s why the suit is here, isn’t it?” Lena asks, recalling the extra passenger on the flight. I figured what was up the moment I saw him, but no one said anything. Maybe they were just waiting for me to join the party.
“Abbott’ll want to speak to you before,” Coop adds, basically answering Lena’s question without actually answering her.
“I figured. Tell him to be here before qualifying, and we’ll get the details ironed out,” I reply to my crew chief. I have no problem talking about this shit in front of my team. We all know way too much about each other; nothing is kept secret for very long. Like how Chief dated this girl from Europe last year and was constantly doing those video chats while jacking off. No one wanted to get anywhere near his bunk. Or how Fish’s ex-wife is trying to keep him on a leash, dangling shit he wants from the house in front of his face, just to fuck with his head.
“You ready to be front page national news?” Jones asks, but when I glance at him, he’s not actually looking at me. He’s watching Lena.
“Me?” she asks, seemingly startled by his question.
“Yeah, you. As soon as they hear the golden boy over there has a baby, they’re going to be all over it,” he states. I hate it because I know it’s true.
“Oh, ain’t that the truth. Cruz can’t even take a dump without a photographer waving a camera in his face,” Chief adds, making us all pull a face.
“Jesus, Chief, that’s nasty. And so untrue,” I reply, shaking my head. I turn to Lena. “But they have a point. You need t
o be prepared to be photographed. Everyone is going to want to grab the first photo of Oliver. They’ll be all over you both.”
Lena lifts a shoulder. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been hounded at the track. After my mom died, those first few races, the press practically followed me everywhere. Even after my dad did a press conference before a race and asked them to give us privacy, they still wanted to capture their precious photos.”
Everyone is silent for a few seconds. Noise filters in around us as the other teams enjoy the early evening night, the smells of their grills penetrating our camp area.
“I remember that photo,” Coop says, his eyes full of sympathy. “It was everywhere.”
Lena toys with her potato salad before scooping some on her fork. “It was.” That photo is framed on Jim’s wall. It’s the most heartrending photo I’ve ever seen. A young Lena standing next to her father. He has his hand on her shoulder, their right hands covering their hearts. They did a moment of silence right before the national anthem in honor of Jim’s wife. Tears stream down Lena’s dirty face, making dark track marks on her fair skin, as she looks up at the flag. It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful photograph that won the photographer an award of some sort. “So, don’t worry about me, but I want to make sure Oliver is protected.” Her gaze is fierce.
That’s the woman I love.
Wait. What?
That’s just crazy talk right there. No way do I still love her. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other. Hell, we’ve barely touched in the nearly two weeks she’s been staying with me. Besides, she’s here for Oliver, and even though I would love for her to stay, I’m just not sure that’s realistic.
“Me too,” I reply, my eyes meeting hers.
“All of us do,” Coop says, looking down at the sleeping infant in his lap. His left leg is thrown up so his ankle is resting on his right thigh. The position creates a triangle, which is perfect to hold Oliver, who seems as content as ever sleeping on my crew chief’s lap.