by A. M. Mahler
I was fangirling. Dear Lord, he was going to think I was a loser.
I could feel Porter looking at me and resisted the urge to either squirm or look back at him. If I did, his awesomeness might make me cry, and I’d be completely deballed. I didn’t care about getting deballed in front of Laurie, the hot chick, but I wouldn’t be able to handle it in front of my baseball hero—my boys’ hero. Zach had a clean image, no drug busts, no hard partying, no racy women. Intensely private, he did his job, interacted with fans, but otherwise kept his head down.
And now he was scowling at me. Hard.
Lifting my hand, I picked up my beer, took a guzzle, replaced it back on the bar, and blew out a quiet belch before replacing my hand where it locked with the other one.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Porter asked.
Oh, shit. He directly addressed me. Clenching my hands tighter, I turned to look at him. I could do this. I could be cool. I was just having a conversation with some dude about baseball, right?
I said nothing. Also, it should be noted that technically he wasn’t from around here either.
Thankfully, the silence didn’t get the opportunity to stretch on because Laurie, bless her heart, jumped in and saved me. She must have seen this reaction before.
“He is now,” she said, tipping her head at me. “He’s your brother’s new web designer.” How did she know that? I never told her that. Gossip in small towns never ceased to amaze me.
“Shit, really?” Zach asked. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
Zach Porter, baseball deity, had been meaning to call me.
Me!
“Yeah?” I spoke. I said a word. It came out as a croak and admittedly sounded a little desperate and probably stalkerish, but I said something. I’d never met a celebrity before. Not a single one. Never even saw one in person at a distance. I hadn’t led too sheltered of a life. I’d been to big cities, been to France, been to Canada, went to college. I’d just never encountered a famous person in any of my travels.
“Yeah, me and my wife, actually. She owns the art gallery in town. We wanted to update our websites—actually we’re thinking of creating a brand for our charity work.”
My throat and mouth dried up. Zach Porter wanted me to create his brand?
Devon was going to shit his pants.
I nodded. I was resembling a bobble-head doll again. And I knew for a fact that the bobble-head version of this man existed because my nephews had it. I cleared my throat and finally found some steady words. “I can totally do that.” Totally. When did I become an 80s valley girl exactly?
“Excellent!” Zach said. “Do you have a card?”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my wallet and handed over my business card with all my contact information on it. “Call me anytime.” I finally sounded normal—maybe because the conversation drifted into my expertise and away from baseball, which I do consider myself an expert in, but, well, did I mention I was speaking with Zach Porter?
A burger and fries slid in front of my face, and I looked up to Laurie. “I didn’t order this.”
She arched a brow—sass and attitude, this one. “Not technically, no, but I figure that’s just because you were too busy fawning over our local celebrity.” My eyes flashed to Zach, who was back to being absorbed by the game as he mindlessly shoveled fries into his face.
“Okay, but what if I wanted something different?”
She laughed—actually threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t, and you know it. You’ll soon learn that I know all my customers and what they want and don’t want.”
“She’s not lying,” Zach said, still transfixed on the television screen. It was true. I was going to order the burger and fries. I’ll even admit it ... to myself.
Laurie pointed to Zach without looking over at him. “That one wants wings. Endless wings. The hotter, the better. His wife will literally eat anything you put in her face. His sister, Jackie, wants the pretzel, cheese, and meat plate. Her husband, Chief Danny, wants a burger, still mooing. His brother Ethan wants the chili so hot you’ll lose your voice. Dr. Stuart likes the mild chili. I could go on. I could tell you the entire town. You, you’ve been in here seven times in as many days. You’ve gotten three different dishes and one kind of beer. Four of those meals were the cheeseburger, medium-well, no onions, extra pickles and roasted garlic mayo. That one stuck out at me because it’s the exact same way Maggie Dalton likes hers.”
I was speechless. Anyone who thought that this girl was just a bartender was wildly stupid. She was a gem, and she knew her business well. Picking up my burger, I took a large bite. She won this round, point, set, match.
Maggie
C
olton Donavan would be here within the week, and I was almost done freaking out about it. The car specs were perfect. I designed a beautiful machine—well within the stock car guidelines but pushing just a little where it counted. I thought Colton would appreciate that approach. He liked to push and break the rules. I did my research on our client—not that I needed to do all that much more than I already knew. The car incorporated the HANS safety device CDE Enterprises patented. Colton was all about safety, even more so since his catastrophic wreck a few years ago that almost killed him. Of course, stock cars were safer than Indy cars. That’s just fact. I still didn’t know whether Colton would actually be racing this car himself or not, but regardless, he’d still want only the safest car. And that I delivered.
The prototype was loaded onto the flatbed, under the careful watch of my brother, to be taken over to the track for its test run. I was going be the driver today. No one knew this car better than me, and only I could sense the slightest hint of an issue. When Colton got behind the wheel of this, he’d push the car to its limits. Then he’d push it past them. Once he was fully satisfied with its performance, he’d put Beckett, his crew chief, behind the wheel. They’d look for weaknesses. They wouldn’t find any. I was not the most sought-after engineer in my field for nothing.
A crowd gathered around the car. Everyone knew who it was for. Everyone knew I worked morning, noon, and night on it, building and tweaking most of it on my own. The car was painted entirely in a glistening red, its sleek lines sexy. Colton probably owned more cars than Jay Leno, but his favorite was a perfect cherry-red Ferrari that probably purred like a newborn kitten. I understood that particular car had a lot of sentimental value to him, so I painstakingly painted this car the exact color. I might have had no clue what a man wanted in a woman, but I knew what he wanted in a machine—fast and hot. I could give that to Colton. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
A flash of light drew my attention away from the car. Simon clicked away with his camera, documenting the whole process for the website and social media. He didn’t go anywhere without that thing. He took pictures of all of us, both candid and formal headshots. He asked endless questions of each employee, their job, their likes and dislikes, their background. When I asked Ryan what Simon was going to do with all this information, the boss just shrugged and said Simon, like WRR’s engineering employees, had carte blanche. Ryan didn’t stifle us. He let us have us our space to create. Of course, he had final say in what we created, but he didn’t interrupt our creative process.
I rolled my eyes as the camera zeroed in on me. Since I was only interested in how the car looked today, I imagined I resembled a train wreck—again. I didn’t even try to make sense out of my hair. I just shoved it in my beloved Jimmy Reilly hat that hasn’t been washed since he dropped it on my head all those years ago. It probably still had the man’s sweat in it. It may even smell. I once considered giving it to Jackie, Jimmy’s daughter, but then I realized she got everything of his, so I kept this little piece of legend for me.
When the car was loaded and secured, my brother climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck and I scrambled into the passenger seat. Everyone knew this about me now. I didn’t care who drove the truck to the track, but I
was the one in shotgun—at least when they were client commissioned cars on the flatbed. And this one was special.
I reviewed some final notes on my tablet as my brother drove. “This car is going to fucking fly.”
“She should be fast.”
“I want you to reconsider letting me drive her today.”
“Not a chance in hell.” Jesse knew I wouldn’t budge, but he was going to push anyway. I saw Ryan salivating over her, too, but everyone knew the first test was always mine. Always. I needed to know how my vision came together. I needed to hear it, feel it, experience it. Would the car become one with me or would we be disconnected? I knew this car so well, but did it know me? Did it understand me the way I understood it? Would it talk to me the way I talked to it? We were about to find out.
The caravan pulled into the parking lot of the track and through the gates as Jesse drove onto the infield and over to pit row. The familiar tingling began to blossom in my chest as my body anticipated the rush to come. Nothing felt like starting up that engine for the first test. I readied myself as the car was off-loaded, stepping into my fire suit and taking off my cherished hat. I could feel Simon watching my every move, and I realized some of the adrenalin coursing through my body right now was because I knew I’d have his full attention. He wasn’t looking at the car like everybody else. He was looking at me. The thrill I got from that knowledge was foreign to me, but not unwelcomed.
I took a minute to study him from behind the protection of my sunglasses as I pulled the suit’s arms over mine. He wore faded jeans and a navy-blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves, aviators over his eyes and that sexy five o’clock shadow he always had. Delicious was the word that popped into my mind. I shook my head before pulling on the helmet. The car. I had to focus on the car now.
Throwing my legs through the driver’s window, I slid down into the seat. My brother handed me my gloves and connected my helmet to the car. I favored the open face helmet, so I pulled down the goggles to protect my eyes. There wasn’t going to be anyone else on the track with me, so I didn’t really need my peripheral vision, but I liked to see what was going on around me all the same. My brother strapped me in tight to the HANS, which came up to either side of my head and neck for protection. I was packed in there real tight. My body wouldn’t budge, and my helmet would protect my head from being jostled around. After confirming my brother’s radio check, I gave the signal, and everyone stepped back behind the wall. I knew Ryan would go up into the crew stand and my brother likely would too. Would Simon? Would he take more pictures?
110-octane of leaded gasoline was pumped into the car. When I saw the pit crew move away, I took a deep breath and started the machine. The wild thunder of the engine filled my body, and I could hear the guys outside cheer. Revving the engine, I let the vibration of the car sink into me. The 90-degree pushrod V8 purred like a lion after a kill. Eight hundred fifty untamed stallions were under this hood, and if that didn’t turn a person on then I felt sorry for them.
“All right, you’ve given all the guys an erection. Let’s get this going.” Ryan’s voice came over the headset. I was glad he couldn’t see me because my face flamed at that thought. I didn’t think of the men’s reaction to the car, only my own. Did Simon feel the excitement, too? Could he sense the lust in the air?
Putting the car into gear, I eased out of pit road and onto the track. She was a smooth ride. As I started some warmup laps, I listened to my creation and envisioned all the moving parts under the hood. I knew what they looked like working together. I ran this engine before it ever got put into the car. Slowly, I began to gather more speed and listen to the car, feel it, worship it. So far so good. As I came out of turn four, I shifted and pushed my foot to the floor. The car thrust forward as my body slammed back into the seat. Everything around me went by faster and faster until it was all a blur and just me, the car, and the track. This oval wasn’t big enough to get up to two hundred miles an hour, but with no other cars on the track, it could be pushed more.
I cheered into the headset. “It’s perfect! This machine is fucking perfect. I’m a god-damn genius!”
My boss laughed and said, “She’s even prettier on the outside. Colton’s going to love her.”
“You’re damn right he is!”
Everything went silent as I soared around the track. My movements were all muscle memory. I thought of that moment so long ago in Jimmy Reilly’s garage. I didn’t know if the memory was accurate or if I altered it in my mind over time, but I remembered squinting up as Jimmy came into view, the soft glow of the setting sun illuminating around him, making him look like an angel. He would be killed in a wreck during the very next race, and I would be devastated.
If he was up there looking down, did he remember that little girl? Would he be proud of her? Did he know how he changed her life?
As I came out of turn two, I slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel. The car spun and spun, thankfully going away from the wall and towards the infield. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t freaking out. Ryan wasn’t yelling in my ear. This was why I got the car first. How did it handle when the unexpected happened? It took mere seconds for me to get it under control. My heart was racing and pounding in my ears despite the fact that I knew that was going to happen. It’s a hundred times worse when it’s caused by somebody else—or so I’m told.
Coming out of the skid, I pushed on the gas and brought the car back up to speed. Perfect. It was sheer perfection.
“Well, your brother is white as a ghost, and I think Simon threw up,” Ryan said in my ear. He knew I was going to do that. I always do. But not everybody was at the track for the first test. This car was special. Everyone knew it.
I was about to make a snarky remark about the wimpiness of my brother when I realized what Ryan said. I think Simon threw up. Why? Yeah, I could understand my brother’s reaction. That was his baby sister careening out of control. But Simon’s? I remembered from our conversation at lunch that he didn’t know anything about racing, so maybe he thought it was real.
Real or not, my body was still shaking, but riding high on the adrenalin, the speed surging through my body. I made this machine. I gave birth to this devil that tempted men to danger. I was a goddess.
Everyone crowded around whooping and hollering when I pulled onto pit road and rolled to a stop, killing the engine.
“You’re lucky mama doesn’t see you pull that shit. You’d give her a fucking heart attack!”
Jesse pulled the netting out of the window and smacked my helmet. Of course, I couldn’t feel it given all the protection in the state-of-the-art piece of equipment, but I heard it, so I knew he did it. I pulled my helmet off, handed it through the window, and somebody took it away.
“It’s all part of the process, Jess.” Next, I popped off the steering wheel and handed that out the window, too.
“That doesn’t mean I like it.”
Removing my gloves next, the same hand that took my helmet and steering wheel emerged to take my gloves. Jesse passed my hat through the window, and I twisted my knotted hair up and shoved it in my cap, pulling the brim low. Then I grabbed onto the roof with both hands and pulled myself up and out of the car.
Jesse was still rambling on about the recklessness of my test skid as I unzipped my fire suit and peeled the arms off, tying them at my waist. I reached back into the car and grabbed my water bottle, squeezing most of the contents down my throat. Those fire suits were hot as Hades. It’s easy to get dehydrated wearing them for an extended period of time, and I was only in mine for half an hour.
The pit crew started prepping the car to load it back onto the flatbed. I searched around me until my eyes landed on Simon. He was sitting on the second row of the bleachers with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. A different kind of energy flowed through me as I watched him. Then my body moved on its own.
Simon
A
nytime Maggie was near me and I had my camera, she became my favorite
subject. I had taken dozens of pictures of her—maybe close to a hundred—far more than I had taken of anyone else. It sounded creepy, but I liked to watch her. The way she studied the car as it was being loaded onto the flatbed to head to the track was captivating to me. All her attention focused on the machine as she looked for any visual imperfections of her baby. Before yesterday, the car wasn’t much to look at. But then she painted it this cherry red and everyone in the room was drooling.
It was a damn fine-looking car. Ryan motioned for me to ride with him and Jamie as Maggie scurried up into the passenger seat of the truck with Jesse at the wheel. Lucky son-of-a-bitch.
The process at the garage happened in reverse after we arrived at the track and pulled onto a little sort of side street of the track, which I was informed was called pit road. It was really past time I sat down and watched a race, listened to the commentators, and learned about this sport. Not only was it my job, but it was in Maggie’s blood. And I wanted to know more about anything Maggie had a passion about.
After the truck pulled away and the car was on the track, I took more pictures then pulled out my phone and busted off a few shots for the boys. They didn’t follow racing, but they’d still go nuts for the car. I planned to take some video of it on the track for them too. I snapped some pictures of the pit crew readying the car and then—
What the fuck?
Maggie is going to drive that thing?
Ryan was standing next to me with Jamie, and I involuntarily clutched his forearm. He looked down at my hand and back up at me. “Maggie is driving that?”
“Of course. It’s her car,” Ryan said. He looked back down at where I was grasping his arm, and I quickly released him. “She built it; she drives it on the tests. But I gotta admit I nearly pulled rank to get my hands on that beauty first.” He dropped his hands to his hips, and we looked back over to Maggie.