by Davida Lynn
After taking in a long inhale of the stream rising from her cup, Heather could feel herself coming around slowly. She swiped her card and checked her assignment for the day. No different than the three days beforehand. Her feet were sore, her mind a bit dull, but she was getting into the habit of parking car after car. In some ways, the headlights were hypnotic. Heather found it soothing, especially after four years of exhausting college classes and work on top of that.
She caught a glance of Rob when he walked in. Heather ducked her head in an instant, hoping to blend in with all the other workers dressed as bananas. What had begun as innocent flirting had quickly morphed into something Heather was not down with. His words carried more meaning, and his power over her was becoming far more evident.
Avoiding him had become one of her daily tasks along with fishing out her yellow shirt and clocking in. Heather was beginning to think that Robert wasn’t just a harmless guy trying to get his dick wet. He was singling her out. There were other twenty-somethings working at the track. Plenty of them were the party girl type, but Robert had an intense focus on Heather that made her more than uneasy. Was she a challenge? Was she a prize to him?
She turned to head out to her post early, but he spotted her.
“Hey, Heather. Where you off to in such a hurry?” He spoke low, no one else around them tuned in.
She looked to the ground, knowing she couldn’t maneuver around him He blocked the doorway. “Just heading to my post. The coffee’s kicking in, and I can’t sit still.”
His arm was across the door, and she looked up enough to catch a flash of the tattoo around his bicep. She wanted to kick herself for letting his ink hypnotize her so quickly. He had shown his true colors, and luckily Heather had discovered before things had gone too far. Still, a few stolen kisses had made this guy think he owned her. She hated that feeling, but he was her boss, and there wasn’t exactly an HR department in the two car garage that served as Parking Operations’ home base.
He gave a greasy smile. “I’ll walk you.”
“That’s alright.”
“I insist.”
Heather looked around, hoping to find someone she could sidle up to. All the other yellow-shirts were congregating and chatting, cigarette smoke rising from the groups. She hadn’t really made friends with anyone, so there was no one she could get to come along.
Robert wasn’t quite right, and Heather wished that she had realized sooner. There was something off about him. Heather knew she had to find a diplomatic way to let Robert know that nothing was going to happen between them. It wouldn’t be easy, but he was her boss, and she was in a tight spot.
She nodded in response to Robert, trying not to look nearly as worried as she was. The two walked out of the safety of the garage and into the silent darkness.
Heather flinched when he elbowed her, but he didn’t notice. He said, “So, I think you and I have a bit of a problem.” It hadn’t hurt, but it frightened her.
Heather’s heart was racing. She was already on edge, and the tone in his voice didn’t ease anything.
“What’s that?”
“Well, I’m your boss. As much as we’d love to enjoy this naughty workplace romance, I think it’s not good for either of our careers.”
Heather tried not to grimace at his disgusting words. Career? This wasn’t her career, and if it was his, Heather’s impression of him sunk even lower. Robert really hadn’t gotten the picture. She wasn’t interested. Was she going to have to spell it out?
She nodded, choosing her words with care. “I know what you mean. I can’t lose this job, and I’m sure you can’t either.”
“Definitely not. Luckily, for every problem, there’s a solution. I’m all about that, you know? I think there’s nothing that can’t be overcome. You and I have a problem, but only for right now. You and I have a problem, right?”
Heather was walking a fine line. She wanted to let him down easy. Breaking up with boyfriends had always eaten her up, but Rob was hardly her boyfriend. They hadn’t even had sex. Shit, he had only gotten to second base over her shirt. This wasn’t middle school. Heather was twenty-four years old.
“You’re my boss, and that’s a problem.” If she could play up that angle, maybe he would back off. The blame wasn’t on anyone, and she might spare his feelings.
He chuckled. “That is a problem. If I wasn’t your boss, though…” His voice almost danced from word to word.
Heather stumbled through a depression in the grass. Robert’s hand snapped out in a flash to steady her. She had to actively stop herself from recoiling. She didn’t need a man to take care of her. Robert thought he was some kind of white knight.
“Yeah…it’s too bad, really.”
He perked up. “Like I said. There’s a solution to every problem. You like parking operations?”
Heather didn’t like where the conversation was going. “The hours aren’t great, but I’ll survive.”
“What if you didn’t have to?”
Heather laughed, probably giving away her nerves. “That would be great, but—“
Robert cut her off. “Problem solved. I got you transferred.”
She stopped, her mind at once blank and spinning out of control. “What? You did what?”
Robert turned, and in the dim light cast from a faraway floodlight, she saw that he was beaming. “I pulled some strings and got you moved to gate duty near pit lane. The hours are gonna clash a little bit, but we’ll manage.”
“Clash with what?” Heather was still drowning in disbelief.
“With you and me.”
Her nostrils flared. Heather’s vision became laser-focused on Robert, not wanting anything to be misconstrued. Heather had to be as clear and harsh as possible.
“Rob, I can’t fathom how you think any of this is alright. There is no ‘you and me.’ We made out a few times, and they weren’t that great. As soon as I found out you were my boss, I should have been very clear, but you kinda took me by surprise. We can’t do this, and I tried to make that clear. Now you’re fucking with my work because you still think you have a shot? Dude, you need to learn to read the signs. You can’t just transfer me. I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve to be moved around like an inanimate object to satisfy your whims. How incredibly disrespectful.”
Heather knew that any more time near Robert would cause her to say something far worse. She huffed away, her heart pounding. She shook her head, mumbling to herself about “…being such a fool.”
The early morning work passed slowly, barely at the front of Heather’s mind. Even two hours in, she was still reeling from the audacity of Robert’s actions. At least he had been smart enough to give her a wide berth during the shift. He didn’t come anywhere near Heather, and she was thankful for that.
Heather waved vehicle after vehicle into the grassy parking area. Race fans of all ages, colors, and creeds poured into the speedway. Heather didn’t get it. She’d never understood motor racing, and there was no way in hell she could understand getting to a racetrack an hour before dawn. It wasn’t even the race. There were still two weeks until the green flag would drop. She decided every car she parked must have been full of crazies. There were the die hard crazies, who drove in the moment the gates opened at four. The ones who didn’t need their headlights were only slightly saner. All crazies, though.
By the time her shift ended, she could hear the monstrous roar of the cars on track just a few hundred feet from her. The sound didn’t mean much to her except to agitate her throbbing headache. She left the track the minute her shift ended, eager to dodge her boss.
All Heather wanted was to fall into bed. The worry of Robert kept her awake, though. She was out of the frying pan and into the fire with that one.
Maybe the transfer would be a good thing. It got her on a different schedule than Robert, and there would be no more 3AM alarm clocks. She figured the odds of having a boss that wasn’t going to make a pass at her were worth it.
Her f
ears had eased some, and Heather finally fell into a sleep that lasted well into the evening.
“There's no difference between today and your last run. On your out lap, I want you to feel for that vibration. If you feel anything, bring it back in. We'd rather swap out the gearbox and get you out this afternoon." Chance worked to hide the awkward tone in his voice. He was used to speaking on the radio from inside the car, not on top of the war wagon.
What started out as a large toolbox the size of a compact car, the war wagon unfolded and expanded like an RV. Both long sides folded down, three stools locked into place on each side. The whole thing was electrified, had wi-fi, and carried compressed air for the pit crew. A large Swiss Army knife on wheels, the war wagon had everything a team would need in pit lane.
In front of him sat an array of laptops and flat screens. Some techies were pouring over the endless stream of data from the race car.
He looked over and saw Billy nod from the cockpit. Then over the radio, the driver responded, "I just want to get the 200 mile an hour test done. Chance, this is humiliating.”
“No, it's not. You've gotta walk before you run, at least according to the officials. It’s their game, so we play ball.” Billy’s pent-up energy worried Chance, so he tried to dose the kid with a little humility. “You ever been on a boat, Billy?"
“Fishing, once or twice."
“A few summers ago, I got the chance to race hydroplanes. 150 mile an hour death boats. Open tops, triple motors. I mean these things were insane. Second day of the weekend, and the wind is a little higher, and by higher, I mean like five miles an hour. In boat racing, that might as well be a hurricane.
“Anyway, I caught a bad wave, and over I went. There’s no seat belts in these boats, so you just fall down into the water. You ever belly flop at one hundred miles an hour?”
“No.” Billy laughed, his head bobbing inside the cockpit.
Chance stifled his own laughter. “Well, I have, and it hurts. That water might as well be concrete when you’re at speed. Now, I tell you all of this to impart a lesson. May you be smarter than me.”
“I’m not following, Chance. I mean, if you don’t want me to take up boat racing, you’ve got me convinced.”
Looking over the pit wall, Chance saw one of the mechanics bringing the external starter toward the rear of the race car. It was almost time to begin the last round of rookie laps.
“I tell you all of this because if water feels like concrete at one hundred miles an hour, imagine what concrete feels like at two hundred plus. Ease into it. Feel for that vibration and watch out for Katayama. He’s been all over the track. If you have to pass him, do it on the back stretch, and give him plenty of room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chance looked around. DJ hadn’t made it to the pit lane, yet. Lowering his voice, Chance said, “You’re the best rookie out there, but you’ve still got your learner’s permit. Keep a level head on your shoulders. DJ isn’t looking for a win. He’s looking to keep the team afloat. Fisher’s would be sorely disappointed if their logo didn’t finish the race.”
The lead engineer circled his fingers at the front of the car, and the mechanic fired up the starter.
“Alright, Billy. Time to go to work.”
The engine caught, and down the pitlane, the other rookies’ cars fired up. After a few warm-up laps, race control would let the new entrants up their speed gradually until they cleared the two hundred mile an hour barrier. Once cleared, the rookies were free to practice and qualify for the Indy 500.
One of the engineers came over the radio, almost shouting over the engine, blaring even at idle. “Gearbox looking solid. No warnings on anything so far.”
An IndyCar official waved Billy forward, and his crew chief said, “Green, green, green. Go get ‘em, kid.”
Hearing that tore at Chance. He wanted to be in that seat more than anything else. Maybe if he had been a little more professional, or maybe if he’d made better connections, Chance would be making his laps. Life was a roll of the dice, and his life had been coming up snake eyes lately.
He cued up his headset. “Like I said, ease it up and keep an eye on the tranny. The numbers are looking good, but your hands and your ass are the best sensors we’ve got.”
More than once, Chance had felt a problem developing long before it showed up on the computer screens. Vibration in the seat? Something wrong in the rear. Vibration in the steering wheel? Something wrong up front.
“Get some heat into the tires, kid.” Chance had minimized all of the screens on the laptop except for a few, and tire pressure and temperature took up most of the screen. Billy was chewing through new tires like they were free, and he’d never stay on the lead lap without some help.
Ten laps progressed, and the officials allowed the drivers to cross into the two hundred mile speeds. Lap times were dipping below forty-five seconds, screaming down the front straight in a blur of motion. The Fisher’s Home Improvement car was a streak of black and yellow, an angry hornet darting down the asphalt.
“Damn good, kid. Anything feel off?” Chance leaned over to see if anything on the engine telemetry was spiking into the red. He didn’t spot anything.
Billy came back over the radio, his voice about an octave higher. “Hell, no. Annabelle is running like a dream. Tell Kiwi I owe him a beer.”
Chance laughed. “You think he’ll be satisfied with one?”
The time had come to talk Billy through his tire issues. The kid had a tendency to flick the wheel to the left instead of easing into it. The G forces were enough to put undue strain on the tires. The same hard steering input four times a lap would mean Billy’s tires would last two laps less than everyone else.
He was about to remind Billy about staying mindful of his cornering force, but an engineer broke over the radio. “We’re getting a warning from the gearbox. Did you have any issues upshifting?”
As Billy shot down the front straight, he replied. “None.”
Chance leaned over to try and decipher the warning. Most of the numbers and abbreviations were over his head.
The engineer tapped at the screen. “I’m not liking your fluid temps. Ease it down a bit, Bill.”
There was no response on the radio, so after a few seconds, Chance queued his mic up. “Better listen to him, Billy. This isn’t a qualifying run, no need to push it.”
“I need ten laps over two hundred.”
“And you’ll have plenty of time to get them this afternoon.” Chance tried to keep his voice calm.
“There’s no vibration, just let me get my laps in.”
A few of the engineers looked to Chance. The engines were so finely tuned that a small warning could ruin every moving part in a matter of seconds. They couldn’t afford to risk it.
Chance put more force behind his words. “Billy, this isn’t a request. Bring the car in. Pit this lap.”
The radio was silent. The car rocketed down the front straight, and Chance craned his neck to follow the car as it dove into turn one. The engine didn’t sound right. Billy wasn’t letting off the gas at all, but there was a low grumble mixed in with the high-revving engine notes that didn’t blend.
Again, he ordered Billy to come in. “Shut the engine off and coast in, Billy. Don’t give DJ cause to fire you.”
Chance knew that if Billy did get the axe, he’d be in a prime spot to take over the car, and that was a knife in his heart. Billy was a good kid just working toward a solid racing career. He was young, fast, and had years ahead of him. Chance, on the other hand, was looking for one last shot. He knew that no one would let him drive the next year. The two had been teammates, and Chance was doing his best to keep Billy in the seat, even if it meant he was stuck on the pit wall because of that.
The hornet-colored car streaked past, again. That unsettling note was still echoing off the concrete walls of the racetrack. Chance saw a few more boxes turn yellow on the engineer’s screen.
Yanking off his headset, he threw hi
s feet over the pit wall and darted across the two lanes. Only one other car was on track, idling on a cool down lap. After it passed, Chance began to wave his arms to the infield of the track, indicating to come in. Billy’s car came off of the final turn and passed Chance in a blur. It sounded wounded.
Shaking his head, Chance listened as the car entered turn one, through the short shoot that led to turn two. The undertone was still evident as the car made its way down the back stretch. A grating noise grew for just a second, then there was silence.
Chance stared in the direction of turn three, though he couldn’t see beyond the grandstands. His eyes moved to turn four. Visible from the pit, he’d be able to see Billy coasting around the final corner to the pit lane. Nothing. The engineers and mechanics in Billy’s pit were scrambling, then Chance saw the lights flashing yellow.
Silence was never a good thing. If the engine gave up the ghost, he would have coasted back. Darting back to the war wagon, Chance feared the worst.
“What happened?”
Kiwi was standing on the two foot concrete wall that separated the pit box where the car came to a stop and where the mechanics and engineers were located. “Something broke, he went in backwards. No word form him on the radio, yet.”
If anything near the back end of the car failed, it was almost sure to turn backwards and slam hard into the outside wall.
As long as the driver was conscious, they always radioed to the team, even if hurt. Worry and doubt were growing fast in Chance’s mind. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. His heart sped. He threw his headset on.
“Billy, come back. Let us know you’re alright. Put up your visor for the rescue crews.”
Nothing.
“Billy. Come on, kid. Give us something.”
Still, nothing.
Seconds passed that felt interminable, then static. “Billy Moore. My name is Billy Moore.” The voice that came through the headphones was groggy and disconnected. Still, it was better than nothing.
“Thank Christ.” Chance’s heart was squeezing past his ribs on its way out of his chest. “Hang in there, Billy. The rescue crew is gonna be there in seconds.”