by Chelle Bliss
“Memorize the tiny moments. The sound of the car roaring at your side, the feel of the car as she rumbles underneath you, and the feeling of freedom as everything around you falls away except for the road in front of you.”
I push myself off the car and straighten my back as I roll my neck to work out the kinks. I shouldn’t have spent so long hunched over, but I couldn’t stop looking at the car. My car. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Listen, tonight Mrs. Ridley is having a family dinner. It’s tradition. Normally it’s just the four of us, but since you’re one of us now, you are family too.” Using two fingers, he strokes his beard and lowers his chin as he looks at me. “I’ve been told to relay the message that she’s expecting your presence this evening.”
“I’d be honored to come to dinner tonight,” I say without any hesitation.
“Seven o’clock. Don’t be late, or there will be hell to pay.”
“I’m going to stick around here for a little bit longer. Then I’ll shower and head over.”
“Where are you staying anyway, Brooks?”
“Down by the tracks at Palm Court.”
He draws his eyebrows down. “At the RV place?”
“Yeah, that’s where I parked my rig.” Rig makes the half-rusted hunk of metal sound fancy compared to the reality of what I own. The inside smells like dirt and sweat, but it is the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had.
“Why don’t you bring a bag? You can stay the night with us.”
I rub the back of my neck. The idea does sound nice, but I can’t. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I appreciate the offer, but I’m more than happy in my slice of heaven.”
“I get it. There’s no place like home.” He starts to walk away but stops and turns. “And Brooks.”
I lift my gaze, meeting his eyes. “Yeah?”
“I’m happy you’re here, son,” he says, his cheekbones rising as he gives me his signature toothy smile.
I rock backward, unable to speak for a minute. Mr. Ridley stands across the way, staring at me and waiting for some sort of reply, and somehow, I pull myself together long enough to say, “Thank you, Mr. Ridley.”
He nods before closing the door.
“Damn,” I mutter. He called me son.
I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. Who else can say they came from nowhere, without so much as a pot to piss in, and is handed a race car, sponsorship, and just about everything to make their dreams come true? No one except me. The small-town boy who came from the most humble beginnings imaginable finally has a chance to change his destiny and make something of himself.
For the first time in my life, I feel part of something bigger than myself. Mr. Ridley hasn’t treated me like a punk kid he plucked from the streets but like a family member. I stare down at the ground and grin.
The man’s been good to me. The Faith embargo that I’ve been under for the last week has to stay firmly in place. Not just for her sake but for Mr. Ridley’s.
FAITH
Roscoe’s stretched out on the floor in his usual spot in front of the television. He’s watching a recording of last season’s final race. I’ve never known anyone so consumed with their own success as much as my brother. He’s already watched the same race more than a dozen times, hollering at the screen when Jim Bo Fisher crashes into the wall, obliterating his car.
“Can we watch something else?” I groan, plopping down on the couch behind him. “Anything but this.”
“What’s better than this?” He doesn’t bother turning around. “I mean, look.”
I cross my arms over my chest and pout, wishing I could snatch the remote out of his hands.
My father’s in the kitchen helping with the final dinner preparations. I stare at the clock, wondering where Brooks is, because he’s about to be late. There’s nothing worse in my mother’s book than tardiness.
Where are you?
As soon as the message is delivered it immediately says read.
In the driveway.
I turn toward the front windows but only see darkness.
It’s almost 7.
I need a minute.
For what?
There’s a long pause, and I start to stand.
I’m processing.
I collapse back onto the couch. Processing? What the hell does that even mean? Men, especially Brooks, do the weirdest shit, and I don’t think I’ll ever understand what goes on in their heads.
Are you losing it?
No, but this is kind of a big deal.
It’s dinner. You’re not meeting the president.
It’s a family dinner. I’ve never had one, Faith.
My fingers hover over the buttons, but I can’t figure out what to say. My heart hurts for Brooks and the shitty childhood he had. I spend so much time bitching about Roscoe that sometimes I know I sound ungrateful, but I can’t imagine not being surrounded by the three people in this room.
One minute. No pressure or anything.
I try to make light of the situation, hoping he’ll relax. I’m off the couch, heading toward the door, before he has a chance to knock.
“He’s almost late,” my mother says.
“He’ll be on time, darling,” Dad tells her as Brooks’s feet touch the landing.
“He’s here!” I yell out just as the grandfather clock in the foyer starts to chime.
I step backward, swinging the door open, and stare at him. “You okay?” I ask quickly.
He glances down and walks in without so much as a smile. “I’m fine,” he says and doesn’t make eye contact.
“But you…”
He finally looks me in the eyes, but there’s no hint of the playful guy I started crushing on. “I’m okay, Faith, really.”
My gaze drifts down his body. “You look nice tonight.” He’s wearing one of the new outfits I picked out, which makes me unbelievably happy. The man looks damn good in a cashmere sweater and blue jeans.
“Because of you.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You wanna talk about what’s bothering you?”
He stiffens. “No.”
I reach for his hand, but he pulls away and my stomach drops. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Boy,” my dad yells from the kitchen, “get your ass in here!”
Brooks stares at me. He steps forward, and I think he’s going to touch me. Not in a sexual way, but maybe he’s going to touch my hand or brush his fingers against my face. I hold my breath, waiting for whatever is about to happen. The butterflies are back. They’re doing acrobatics in my stomach, fluttering around like it’s the first bit of sunshine after a rainy day. I lean forward, figuring I’d make it easier on him and letting him know I want the contact. Just when I think he’s about to touch me, he moves to the side and walks away.
I spin around with my mouth hanging open as he enters the kitchen. Every bit of air whooshes out of me, and the butterflies crumple into a tight knot. I thought we were having a moment.
Things have been tense between us, but we’ve at least been cordial to one another. His actions aren’t cruel, but I was expecting something…different.
“Thank you for coming, Brooks,” Mamma says as I stand in the foyer, watching as he kisses her cheek.
“I’m honored to be here, ma’am. I brought you these as a thank-you.” He hands her a bouquet of red roses.
“They’re beautiful, Brooks.” She touches his arm with one hand as she takes the flowers from him. “Mimi, please.”
“Mimi.” He smiles.
I stalk into the living room with my hands balled into tight fists and plop onto the couch. Roscoe glances backward and makes a face. I raise an eyebrow, challenging him to say something. He doesn’t.
“Hey, asswad!” Roscoe yells from the floor, not bothering to get up because he can’t tear his eyes away from his impending victory.
“Roscoe,” Brooks replies.
“It’s good you made it,” Dad s
ays, whipping potatoes into paste in the blender because he refuses to do them by hand.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Brooks says loudly, trying to be heard over the electric mixer.
I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes on the back of Roscoe’s head, and my mom places her hand on my shoulder. Maybe she senses my hostility. It’s not like I’m hiding how I feel, even though I should.
“Bubba,” Mamma says.
I laugh as Roscoe drops his head because he hates that nickname.
“It’s time to eat, and we need some help getting everything to the table.”
“I’ll help, Mimi,” Brooks says quickly.
When Roscoe doesn’t move, Mamma releases her grip on my shoulder and moves toward him. “Bubba, I ain’t gonna say it again.”
As soon as he hears the click of her heels coming toward him, he pops up and marches toward the kitchen without making eye contact with her. He can act all tough and even be an asshole, but even the big, bad Roscoe is afraid of my mother. We all are. She’s sweet as a peach, but when she’s mad, she’s liable to beat the tar out of anyone with the heel of her fancy shoe.
I push myself upward and follow Roscoe to the kitchen.
Mamma places the salad bowl in my hands. “What’s wrong?” she leans in and whispers.
“Nothing. I’m great.” I don’t know why I bother to lie. She knows me better than anyone. To make matters worse, she knows that Brooks and I had a thing, but she doesn’t know everything.
“Trouble with?” She jerks her head backward toward Brooks.
“There’s nothing going on, Mamma. I’m just tired.”
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I figured one of you would get hurt.”
I grip the salad bowl tighter. “Not now, Mamma. Please,” I tell her before marching toward the dining room.
Brooks is standing over the table holding the macaroni and cheese. “Wow,” he says and shakes his head.
The table is completely decked out with the gold-trimmed white china, a linen tablecloth covered in twigs and pine cones, and more candles than I have fingers. “She doesn’t do anything small,” I tell him as I set the salad in front of my father’s seat and take my usual place.
“Where do I sit?” he asks, but I don’t answer.
“Sit next to me,” Roscoe says as he slides the mashed potatoes and fried okra onto the table.
I roll my eyes. When did they become best friends?
My dad’s staring into the bowl he’s carrying when he walks in with my mother. “This is a little excessive.”
She laughs. “I got a little carried away.”
“I’d say so, but the coleslaw looks delicious, darling.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. Everyone’s chipper and in a good mood except for me. Maybe Brooks too, but he’s masking it well, putting on a good face in front of my parents. My dad sweeps my mom into his arms and plants a kiss on her lips. They look like something out of a movie. I expect her leg to sweep off the ground as he tightens his grip. My eyes drift to Brooks. He’s watching them as they lock lips and put on a display, one that would earn me a stiff talking to about public displays of affection if the roles were reversed.
I want their kind of love. My father would move heaven and earth if it meant making my mother happy. I won’t settle for anything less except the be-all kind of love they have even to this day.
As my parents sit down, Roscoe grabs the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Put the bowl down, Roscoe. We haven’t said grace yet,” my mother tells him.
“I’m starving, though,” he whines.
She gives him a pinched expression, and he quickly places the bowl back on the table.
“Hands,” my dad says and nudges Roscoe.
My mother takes my hand in hers and glances across the table at Brooks. He gives me a blank stare as I slide the back of my hand across the table. I wiggle my fingers as a silent clue for him to give me his hand so my father can say a prayer. His gaze dips as his lips press together into a flat line before he slowly slides his warm callused palm against mine.
My father bows his head as I close my fingers around Brooks’s hand. “Lord”—he pauses as the rest of us bow our heads—“we’re thankful for the blessings you’ve bestowed upon us. We’re blessed for a new season and family dinner. We’re lucky to have a new face with us, dear Lord, and honored to have him sit amongst us. Please keep the boys safe on the track and watch over them during the season.”
There’s a long pause. Without lifting my head, I peer at Brooks, and he’s staring at my father. I squeeze his fingers. He glances in my direction as I lift my head just an inch so he can see my eyes.
“And Lord…”
Brooks immediately shuts his eyes, dropping his face forward.
“Watch over my girls, the loves of my life. Keep them safe from harm because without them, we are nothing, and all of this is for naught. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone says in unison.
My father, for all his manly eloquence and public speaking skills, doesn’t do well with prayers. He tries. Lord, how he tries, but there’s always something awkward about the entire thing.
Brooks releases my hand far too quickly and pulls his arm back to his side of the table. “Everything smells delicious, Mimi,” he says with the brightest smile.
There’s a dull ache in my chest, and I remind myself we were a fling…nothing more.
Chapter Ten
Brooks
My eyes pop open when the music in the entertainment tent starts, which I learn is exactly at seven. Way too early for partying in most places around the country, but this isn’t just any city on any given day… This is Buxton, and it’s race day.
I’m brushing my teeth when someone pounds on the door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. When I push the door open, Faith’s standing there with her arms crossed. She’s tapping her foot. Her eyes rake across my naked chest, and her tongue darts out, sweeping across her bottom lip and doing nothing to ease my morning wood.
She’s dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans with a yellow and blue V-neck Ridley Racing T-shirt. The peaks of her breasts are clearly visible and glistening in the morning sunlight. I swear the woman is on this planet just to torture me and make me pay for some unspeakable crime I have no recollection of committing.
She finally looks at my face, and her eyes narrow because I’m smiling, soaking up the sight of her. “Why don’t you put some clothes on? We’re late.”
“Want to come in?”
“No.” Her tone’s clipped, and I can tell she’s still pissed at me about last night.
Faith tried more than once to get me to open up, but I couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand the enormity of her father calling me son. No one could ever understand unless they grew up the way I did. Instead of trying to explain how I felt, I pulled back and kept everything locked inside.
I wanted to explain everything to her, but Faith made it perfectly clear that keeping our distance would be best, and I couldn’t argue with her decision.
“Please.” I take a step back, motioning for her to follow. “We need to talk.”
She glances around, smiling at the anxious fans as they walk by. “We don’t have time.”
I rest my hands on the doorframe and lean forward, hoping at least my body can entice her in. “I have something to say.”
“Go, Brooks,” a woman says, fist pumping the air as she passes by.
I give the nice lady a smile with a playful wink. Sally’s her name. She is a part-time resident at the RV park but lives for this weekend and claims to be the biggest Ridley Racing fan in the small town.
Faith glares at the woman’s back and waves her hand. “So, say it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want me to say whatever I’m going to say in front of all these people?” She purses her lips as I raise an eyebrow. “I have no problem putting our business…”
I don’t get the rest of the sen
tence out before Faith’s body lurches forward. Her hand collides with my chest, pushing me inside the trailer as she slams the door behind her. “Shut up! Just shut your face.”
Staying away from Faith, pretending that nothing happened between us, has been the hardest damn thing I’ve had to do in my entire life. I can’t take another minute without her in my arms, pressing my lips against hers and stealing her sweet breath. Every ounce of restraint I’ve shown slips as I grab her wrist, pull her against my body, and cover her lips with mine.
She pushes against my chest as she tries to pull away. I slide one arm around her back, refusing to let her go so easily. “Don’t,” I murmur against her lips, loving how she feels pressed against my body.
She slides her tongue across my bottom lip with a soft moan, kissing me back and making my heart beat faster. When her hands slide up my arms and tangle in my hair, I tighten my hold and close the last bit of space between us. My head spins as our tongues tangle together, as if I’m almost drunk on the taste of her. I’m teasing myself. No, torturing is more fitting to describe the way her breasts press against my chest as she moans into my mouth.
The kiss isn’t enough, and yet, it’s everything.
I release her wrist and place my palm against her cheek, resting my thumb where our mouths have become one. With each passing second, I know I’m running out of time to tell her what I need to in order to have my head in the race.
Slowly, I pull my lips away from hers and open my eyes. “Faith,” I whisper against her mouth. “We have to talk about us.”
I’m ready for her to hit me. Prepared for her to storm out of the trailer without so much as a backward glance. Faith doesn’t do either.
She drops her head, rests her forehead against my lips, and breathes heavily. “I can’t, Brooks.”