by Davida Lynn
Of course there was still time for intimidation in mind games. Jack Savage was a great driver, but that failed in comparison to his ability to piss people off.
Chance didn’t slow down, much preferring the company of his team and his beautiful lady. Just spotting her polishing up Annabelle eased his heart. The car truly looked like a jumbled mess. Four different colored body panels, including a few that were bare carbon fiber. Annabelle was a visual testament to hard work and even harder budgets. The last touch had been added just that morning. As a tribute to Billy, #Annabelle adorned both sides of the car in bright yellow.
“Hey you.” Heather’s voice was like smooth bourbon, and Chance wanted nothing more than to drink her in.
Wrapping his arms around her, Chance forgot the endless stretch of packed grandstands just fifty feet to his left and right. Heather’s hands came up to Chance’s neck, and he could see in her eyes that it was just the two of them.
Her voice was low, but he could hear her words clearly. “Be safe out there. Okay? That’s all I can ask.”
With a nod, Chance said, “I will. I’ll be coming back to you.”
She leaned up and kissed him. His heart soared, faster than during a race.
“The track temperature is climbing, so we’ve dropped your pressures.” She turned to look at Annabelle.
Chance’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me. What did you do with Heather? You’re obviously Kiwi in a wig.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve been busy this past week.” He couldn’t believe how far Heather had come. Speed had gotten a hold of her, and it wasn’t going to let her go.
Heather’s expression soured in the blink of an eye. Chance turned and saw Isla and Jack behind them. Jack’s trendy sunglasses hid his condescending eyes, but Isla’s were dangling between her breasts from a low cut dress. They looked like the kind of couple people threw popcorn at in theatres.
“Jack. Isla.” Chance didn’t bother to hide his contempt. At least he could take a small bit of pleasure in the swelling beneath Jack’s right eye. The door had left a thin red line where it connected. Heather moved directly beside him as he spoke.
Jack broke into a toothy grin, probably ignoring the pain. “If it isn’t Mr. Last Place. Just wanted to wander out to Bum Fuck Nowhere and say hello.”
“Get lost.” Heather snarled at them. Chance beamed.
“Feisty one, ain’t she?” Jack turned back towards the finish line. “Well, we’ve got quite a hike in front of us, so we’d better cut a rug.”
Chance shook his head. “Finally found someone as slimy as you, huh, Isla?”
Chance didn’t expect her to step towards him with a smile on her face, and he most certainly didn’t expect her to kiss him. By the time he realized what was going on, her weaselly tongue was trying to part his lips.
In disgust, he stepped back, shoving her hard toward Jack, who stood laughing at the whole scene.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Chance wiped the sweet lip gloss from him, sickened. He turned to Heather, ready to apologize.
Instead, she stepped forward and planted a hard kiss on Jack. He uncrossed his arms. Before he could put them around her, Heather gave Jack a rough shove, as well.
Chance was incredulous.
“Bloody ace! Now that’s what I’m talking about.” The Aussie broke into a giddy laugh.
Heather faced Isla, who was already staring down Chance’s girl. “See the different reactions? That’s the difference between loyalty and opportunism. Good luck with your opportunist.”
“Just what do you think—“
Isla started to retort, but Heather cut her off. “You don’t intimidate me, bitch.” Chance wanted to take a picture of the deer-in-the-headlights look on Isla’s face. “Now, I think it’s time you two get walking.”
Chance stood frozen as Jack and Isla walked away.
Heather turned. “I’m sorry I kissed him. Oh my god, please forgive me.”
“Forgive you? That was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen! Holy hell, that was amazing, Heather.”
With a casual shrug, Heather said, “Sometimes you’ve just got to put people in their place. By the way, did he have a shiner?”
She had been thinking of some way to shut Chance’s ex down ever since seeing Isla talking to him in the pit lane. Heather wasn’t the jealous type. She saw herself as aggressive about the things that were hers. Chance was hers.
The expression on his face was priceless. Maybe it was being around the racing, but Heather felt even more daring than usual. When was the last time she had kissed a complete stranger? When was the last time she had done it sober? Probably never.
“Can you beat him?” The playfulness fell from her voice. “Is it possible?”
Chance didn’t speak right away, like he was really pondering the question. “Anything’s possible. It’s possible I could win. Is it likely? No, I don’t think it’s likely.”
Heather sidled up to him. “If you could do that for me, I’d really, really appreciate it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He laughed and kissed her. “I’ll need all the luck I can get.”
Heather put a hand on either side of Chance’s face. He felt hot to the touch, already, and he wasn’t even in the car, yet. The sun was beating down, and Heather wasn’t thrilled with that fact. “I’ve got all the luck you need right here.” She kissed him again, keeping him close to her.
The soft groan from Chance was so peaceful amid the chaos around them. Heather couldn’t wait for the race to be through. She wanted some quiet time with Chance, and they hadn’t even come close to truly being alone in two weeks.
DJ put a hand between the two, spacing them out. “Alright, you two. Knock it off. I don’t wanna see that shit. Chance, get your ass in that car. Heather, get your ass back to the war wagon.”
Heather might have been afraid, if not for the knowing grin on DJ’s round face. With a nod to both men, she turned and headed across the track towards the pits.
Heather’s foot tapped on the concrete. The first of four pace laps was underway, and she had no idea how everyone else was so calm. Kiwi was leaning against the war wagon eyes closed. How in the hell could anyone sleep at a time like this? Her heart was in her throat, and he was snoozing?
Frank was on his phone, tweeting, texting, or playing some dumb game. Wayne was eating a sandwich. Everyone on the wagon had their eyes glued to the computer screens. Heather looked to the north end of the race track as the thirty-three race cars slowly made their way past. Slowly wasn’t exactly accurate.
They felt slow after seeing them shoot by at over two hundred and thirty miles an hour, but Heather knew they were pacing at sixty miles an hour.
One of the new tire changers sat down on the wall, facing the action.
Leaning over, Heather asked, “Exciting, right?”
“Sure is something. Greatest spectacle in racing.”
“Huh?”
He pointed up to the massive, modern pagoda, which housed timing and scoring, the announcers, all the media, and the wealthy elite who paid for the best view. “That’s what they call it. The greatest spectacle in racing.”
Heather could see why. The crowd was incredible. She kept spinning around, searching for an empty seat in the grandstands but seeing none.
The pace laps came and went, and Heather watched as the green flag fell. The thirty-three engines came to life, louder than anything she had heard at the track. A rumble shook her chest, taking her by surprise. The whole experience was unbelievable. She had lived her whole life missing this race, and Heather didn’t know if she could again.
She threw her headphones on, listening to the radio traffic between the team and Chance. DJ was coaxing him to take it easy, but Heather couldn’t understand why.
Lap after lap, he was giving Chance delta times, whatever the hell those were. They had talked through fuel calculations with Heather, but she didn’t know how any of that connect
ed with delta times.
By lap ten, Chance was up to twenty-ninth place. Jack Savage had a healthy lead. One car limped down the pit lane past All-American, a foul smell leaking form the back.
“Alright, we’re on lap twenty seven, Chance. Still green.” Derek’s voice was so calm and cool. “You’re up six spots. Deltas are good. The field is gonna come in on lap thirty. You’re coming in on thirty two.”
“Copy. Tires feel good. Could use a touch of front wing on our stop.”
“Can do.”
Derek waved Heather over. Her eyes went wide as she jumped up from the wall. She stepped with care over all of the air hoses, toolboxes, and miscellaneous racing equipment carefully placed in the small area.
As Heather came up to the wagon, Derek pulled his headphones off. He leaned down from the stool. “Let’s drop the pressure half a pound in front.”
She nodded, ready to do her part for Chance and the team. For a brief moment, she considered how the month of May had started for her. She was waking up in the middle of the night to park cars outside the race track. Less than a month later, she was working for a race team, just feet from the race track. All that, besides the fact that she was sleeping with one the drivers.
Heather made her way over to the four tires set to go on Chance’s car during the first pit stop. She checked, then rechecked the pressures. Heather knew that even the slightest change could have a massive impact on how the car drove.
She never would have guessed driving fast and turning left could be so complicated.
As if on cue, cars started to idle their way down the pit lane. One stopped just before Chance’s pit, and Heather watched the team go to work. In just ten seconds, the car was filled with fuel, all the tires were changed, and someone made an adjustment to the front wing. It was seamless, with all the mechanics and crew members working in perfect harmony to get the car in and out in the shortest time possible.
On track, a car could gain maybe two tenths of a second during a lap. A pit stop could gain nearly a full second. It could also cost someone the race if things went wrong.
The black and white machine with Chance behind the wheel streaked past, moving up several positions. He’d lose them when he came into the pits, but if he could manage to do one less stop than everyone else, that would gain him nearly thirty seconds of time on track.
Seeing the first pit stop was wild. Heather made sure she was far out of the way when Frank, Kiwi, Wayne, and the boys went to work. It was over in a flash, and to her untrained eyes it looked like a fast stop.
Chance’s voice came over the radio. “Good job, boys. Nice and smooth. Where are we?”
“Twenty-eighth. Pietro Llamas had to take his car behind the wall. I think it was a brake failure. Slow and steady. Hit your fuel marks. If anyone wants to try and overtake, you gotta let them.”
Before Chance had made it back around for the thirty-fifth lap, Heather had already checked the temperatures and pressures on the tires that had come off of the car. She handed her small slip of paper up to one of the engineers, who scanned over them after giving her a nod.
Heather turned back to the crew, only to see them hallway through some chicken salad sandwiches. Kiwi was drinking a Gatorade in one go.
“You boys don’t mess around, do you?” She grabbed a small water from a cooler and sat on a tire.
Kiwi waited until the entire bottle of red liquid was gone. “Don’t have time to dilly-dally. If a caution comes out, we’ll bring him back in to top off the fuel. He might have an issue and come in without us knowing. Gotta be ready to go all the time, so you gotta cram the food down.”
“Sure, sure.” Heather’s voice was filled with sarcasm.
Kiwi raised his eyebrows. “Better do the same. Never know.”
Heather laughed at first, but she saw everyone around her chowing down. Grabbing a sandwich from the tray, she pulled off the plastic wrap and went to town. She liked the guys, and they accepted her as a teammate, despite her lack of knowledge. That respect pushed her to do her absolute best for DJ, Chance, and the boys.
She felt at home with them all in a way that Heather never would have expected. They were men’s men; the kind that farted, told off-color jokes, and had dirty hands. Not the usual crowd Heather associated with in the past, but damn, were they good, kind people. She would miss them after the race.
Shaking away the lump forming in her throat, Heather tossed the wrapper into the trash and got back to work. Frank stacked the used set of tires, and they were carted away. Firestone would pull off the old rubber and set new tires on the metal wheels in a matter of minutes. All-American Pro had thirteen sets of rubber, but only four sets of wheels to take them through the whole race.
Checking off the set from her list, Heather set about hunting down the next four tires to go on Chance’s car. Each tire had five different sets of numbers. Some from Firestone, some from IndyCar, and some from the All-American Pro Racing Team. At first, the numbers had just looked like gibberish to Heather, but after a few solid days working with them, she understood the codes.
“Frank!” Heather called to him at just the wrong time. A parade of screaming horses shot down the front straight, and her voice was drowned out to nothing. “Frank!”
Heather rolled her eyes, resorting to a swift kick in the ass. The large man spun around, more confused than angry. His face lightened when he saw that Heather had been the cause. She pointed to the next set of tires to be laid out for Chance’s pit stop. Hurry up and wait. That was the order of the day.
The race may have been eventful, but not for Chance or All-American Pro. Laps fifty-five and seventy-three saw the caution come out for crashes. Every car dove into the pits, including Chance. He was steadily moving up the field. By the halfway point, Chance had risen to the sixteenth position.
Heather’s pulse seemed to match the laps. She tried to calm herself, but how in the hell could anyone? Chance was climbing higher and higher. The radio traffic was minimal. He loved the handling of the car, so there was little to do except put his head down and drive.
She watched the black and white machine streak past lap after lap, her hand grasping onto the clipboard like it might launch into space if not for her death grip.
“Fifty laps to go, kid. You’re hitting the marks. Fourteenth place.”
Chance waited until the car was straightened out on the back stretch before answering. “Copy. Car’s feeling great. What times are the leaders doing?”
“Doesn’t matter.” DJ was harsh as ever. “Run your race, not theirs.”
Despite the exhaustion creeping into Chance’s body, he smiled. DJ was one hell of a strategist. Nearing the top ten, Chance never would have guessed he could climb that high.
Despite running lean on fuel, Chance was gaining on thirteenth place in front of him. The slipstream on each straight allowed his car to inch ever nearer. It was all the encouragement he needed.
The neon strips on the rear of the car in front let Chance know that the next car was a rookie. They were the racing equivalent of a “Student Driver” bumper sticker. Annabelle had her own set of neon indicators, but Chance didn’t think about his own designation. Mentally, he looked for anything to give him the edge over the next car in line. Rookie? Easy pass. Braking early? Easy pass. Damaged car? Easy pass.
Thirteenth place was just a few car lengths ahead as they dove down into turn one. Chance would pass him on the front straight the next time around.
Derek’s voice crackled over the radio. “Fuel and tire save.”
“Why? I thought we were on target. I’m about to take the next place.”
“Negative. There’s a large gap to twelfth, and Cummins is having issues in sixth. I want you to partner up with Katayama for the next few laps. We’re betting on the yellow coming out.”
Try and tell a bird not to fly. Try and tell a band not to rock. Try and tell a racer not to push it to the limit. Chance hated hearing that, but he knew he had to play the long gam
e. Three quarters of the two hundred laps were in the books, and he was knocking on the door of the top ten.
Each position he gained earned the team about fifty thousand dollars more in prize money. He had to silence the voice inside his head screaming to push the car for all it was worth. The last thing the team needed was for a mechanical issue or a wreck to drop them down the order.
“Copy.” Orders were orders. Chance knew what happened when he chose not to listen. He could drive a car with the best of them, but Derek and DJ knew strategy like no one else. He knew the smart thing to do was listen.
Katayama pulled to the low end of the track on the back straight, indicating that he would be diving for the pits. Together, he and Chance had gained one and a half seconds on the leaders by drafting.
“One more lap, then I want you to box. We’re looking great on fuel.”
Chance replied, “Copy on the box. Where’s the yellow you promised me?”
“Cummins is limping around. We’re rolling the dice, but either way, we’re looking damn good. Any changes?”
Chance checked his mirrors, anticipating the slow down before the mandatory sixty mile an hour speed limit in pit lane. He was clear behind and feeling very confident. In a race with infinite variables, it was all shuffling out in favor of them.
The next car in line was coming up much faster than Chance was used to. It must have been Cummins with whatever problem plagued the brakes.
At the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the drivers simply let off the gas going into the turns. Brakes were only used for pit stops and emergencies, so Cummins must have had his brakes rubbing and slowing him down without even touching the pedal.
Easing off so that Chance wouldn’t catch the next car in the middle of the corner, he noticed a wobble as the driver turned in for the third corner. Something about the movement of the back end of the car looked very unnatural. Then Chance saw it. The piece of debris was tiny, but he caught sight of it flying off the back of the car, just on the edge of his periphery.