Smokin' & Spinnin'

by Miller, Andrea

  His swift gesture takes me by surprise. “Ryan!” I gasp. I instantly lose my breath as my arms instinctively wrap around his neck for support. Our eyes lock for a moment in the dark. My stomach does a backflip. I quickly move my arms down to his shoulders. By the look on his face, I think I may have surprised him with my intimate touch. But why would it? He is accustomed to girls falling all over themselves at his feet. I desperately try to regain my composure, but fail miserably.

  My chest is burning, making it impossible to get any air back into my lungs. My blood is blazing through my veins. Ryan must sense my discomfort because he shakes his head and looks away.

  “Are you always this stubborn?” Ryan tries to change the subject. I guess he must be as uncomfortable as I am.

  I laugh nervously. “Yep, I gotta degree in that too!” I tease, referencing our first standoff in the boardroom. Ryan lets out a throaty laugh, and the atmosphere between us considerably lightens.

  Ryan strides effortlessly with me in his arms through the dark path and into a cleared cutover. He sets me down gently to the grass, and I can just make out the lights from a house that sits on top of the hill. How in the world will I be able to walk that far in these shoes, I wonder.

  “This way.” Ryan touches my arm again softly and leads me over to a golf cart that is parked within a couple feet of us.

  I break the uncomfortable silence and ask him again, “Seriously, shouldn’t you be in Sonoma already?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “Honestly, that race isn’t worth the jet lag!”

  I sit down beside him in the golf cart, and we take off quickly, with a jolt, up the hill to Ryan’s home. There is a chill in the night air, but I don’t know if it’s the weather or prelude of things to come.

  Ryan pulls the golf cart into a huge three-car garage occupied by only two vehicles. In one bay is a pristine white Chevrolet Silverado truck. It looks like an adult version of a little boy’s Tonka truck. It is raised up from its normal frame and has huge tires with flashy chrome wheels. In the next bay, closest to the house, is a sleek black custom Chevrolet Camaro. The paint sparkles under the fluorescent lights in the garage. I want to run my finger down the side, but I don’t dare. As I walk past the gleaming car, I can make out Ryan’s signature and his number, 62, in script just past the driver’s side door.

  “Wow!” I say audibly, but don’t realize it until Ryan responds arrogantly.

  “You like that?”

  It looks like sex on a stick but I don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need any more fuel for his smug fire. “It’s nice,” is all I can manage.

  I follow Ryan a few steps up from the garage into a modern ranch-style house. There is a wonderful aroma wafting throughout the interior. It doesn’t look like your typical bachelor pad. It is immaculately decorated and shockingly clean. He must have a housekeeper. We proceed down a hallway that is lined with various family and racing photos much like the ones in his dad’s museum. I slow to admire a few, hoping that they will give me an insight to Ryan. Surely he can’t be a pompous ass all the time.

  Ryan quietly rounds the corner, and I follow him into a large kitchen that is open to a great room boasting a large flat-screen television and fireplace. He walks over to the counter where a bubbling Crockpot sits.

  I break the silence. “Whatever is in there smells heavenly.”

  Ryan turns back to me, props himself up against the counter, and smiles a gorgeous megawatt smile that I haven’t seen since that fateful day in the elevator. It takes my breath away.

  “My mom is an awesome cook.” He seems relaxed, and even his arrogance has evaporated.

  I watch Ryan intently as he turns back to the Crock-pot, lifts the lid to stir the contents, and switches the dial to off. He opens a cabinet and pulls out two plates.

  “Can I help you do something?” I offer in hopes to quell the weirdness.

  “I got this.” He denies my help, but then asks, “What would you like to drink?”

  “What are my options?” I say flirtingly. Whitney Elaine Parker! What are you doing? I scold myself. Most likely, I know, I am trying to break the awkwardness, but this is definitely not the way to do it. I chastise myself again.

  “Let’s see,” Ryan says as he peers into the fridge. “I have sweetened tea, water, and Bud Light.” Ryan seems to mirror my flirtation as he turns back to me with an eyebrow raised waiting for my response.

  Not good, Whitney!

  “Bud Light,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t drink because I have to drive home shortly. However, I do need something to calm my nerves and take the edge off. Being with Ryan in this setting is intimidating to say the least. He is acting like a completely different person. It’s actually hard to swallow. How can someone be such an ass, then flip the switch to…? How is he acting? Nice? Hospitable? I shake my head at my thoughts because I am clueless.

  “Whitney!” Ryan exclaims, breaking me from reverie.

  I jump instinctively as Ryan narrows his eyes at me, then continues to set the table for us. With his back to me, he says, “I don’t want you at the office that late anymore. Do you understand me?”

  I really don’t understand. “What’s the big deal?”

  Ryan stops what he is doing and turns to face me. “Security leaves at eight p.m., and there have been a few incidents in the past with obsessed fans and paparazzi and such.”

  Whoa! What kind of incidents?

  “Do you understand me, Whitney?”

  I nod my head in agreement but am suddenly a little freaked out too. Warning duly noted.

  Ryan watches me carefully as he motions for me to take a seat at the barstool under the center island in the middle of the kitchen. He raises an eyebrow at me. “What is it?” Suddenly, I am very aware that he is watching my every move. He sets a plate of steaming roast beef with vegetables on the granite countertop in front of me.

  “Nothing…it…” I shift on the barstool. “The way you’re acting is different, which is taking some readjustment on my part,” I mutter.

  He raises his eyebrows but says nothing. We sit in silence as we both eat. I take a bite of this classic southern dish, and it tastes as divine as it smells. I realize it has been a while since I have had home cooking. It makes me long for my mother.

  “Is something wrong, Whitney?” Ryan asks again, breaking me from my reverie. He is very in tune to my mood, which makes me shift uncomfortably again in my seat.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I feel the need to apologize because he has had to ask me this question twice. “This is just really good. It makes me miss my mother.”

  He gives me a sympathetic smile and puts down his fork. “Why did you move to Charlotte?” His question is unsettling. I have a hard time admitting it to myself much less to him.

  I shrug ambiguously as I put my own fork down on my plate. Suddenly, I have lost my appetite. “I just wanted a new start after college, new place, new people, I guess,” I lie, and Ryan immediately calls me on it.

  “Sounds like bullshit to me. What, or should I say who, were you running away from?”

  His statement surprises me. How could he know?

  “Since when have you become Dr. Phil?” I snap. I am not having this conversation with you of all people. Unwelcome tears spring to my eyes, and I instinctively look down to avoid his inquisition. I fight back the tears. I look back up at him directly and raise my eyebrows ambiguously, giving nothing away But, I falter. I can’t maintain eye contact with him, because this moment is way too intense. I roll my eyes and look away.

  I can feel his eyes on me, and it burns me internally. It is a feeling that I have never felt nor can describe. It is time for me to get the hell out of here.

  I stand up in defense to clear my plate, but Ryan jumps up and blocks my move, taking my plate from me. I don’t make eye contact with him. I follow him to the sink and prepare to make my exit.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I say with all southern politeness. “I probably wouldn’t have eate
n otherwise.” I finish.

  Ryan turns back from the sink and says over his shoulder, “I figured as much.”

  Instead of bolting for the door, I mistakenly ask, “Is this your way of apologizing?”

  Ryan abruptly stops what he is doing looks back at me sharply. “Apologize?” he exclaims. “What the hell would I apologize for?”

  I quickly snap back at him, “For acting like a complete ass and humiliating me in Michigan, not to mention the fiasco in the office this week!”

  Ryan drops the utensils in his hand into the stainless steel sink, and it makes a loud clanging noise almost like the ring of a bell that signals the start of a boxing match. And the look on his face tells me we are, in fact, about to go another round. He shuts off the water faucet, grabs a dish towel to dry his hands, and slowly turns back to face me. Let’s get ready to rumble!

  “First of all,” Ryan begins, holding up two fingers, “there are two things you need to get straight. Number one, I don’t apologize! Period. Not ever! Not for anything!” Oh no! Here we go again…Mr. Shit Ass has returned.

  I cringe and close my eyes.

  “And number two, if you are going to continue to work with me in this sport, you need to get your shit together.”

  Oh hell!

  “And NASCAR for Dummies ain’t gonna help you!” he finishes with a flourish, catching his breath.

  How in the heck does he know about that? I roll my eyes directly at him.

  “Now…humiliation, you say?” Ryan fires away. “Let’s talk humiliation. Why don’t you try being the one and only son of legendary NASCAR driver Garrett Ryan Carter Sr.” He takes a ragged breath. “Everything I do is under constant scrutiny of media and the NASCAR organization. Nothing I do is good enough. I am constantly in his shadow. If I win, the question is, how did your dad help you to win? If I lose, how is your dad going to handle your finish today? What would your dad have done differently? When are you going to win a championship, Ryan? Do you know that your dad had already won two championships at your age? And on and on and on. I am so sick of the bullshit! And this season has been the worst by far.”

  Ryan is furious but also dismayed. He runs his hands through his sandy brown hair, exasperated at his own tirade. I want to reach out and run my hands through it to comfort him. Damn it! No, you don’t! I chastise myself.

  “Well…it’s probably your fault because you are trying to be a NASCAR driver turned Hollywood celebrity. You need to a make a choice! If you can’t cut it in your dad’s world, maybe Hollywood would be the right call for you! You certainly have the attitude for it!” I exclaim.

  Ryan gives me another cold stare and mutters through gritted teeth, “Go to hell!”

  Ooh! I hit a nerve!

  I flush and look down at my feet because that phrase hurt. Thank God there isn’t anyone here to witness this one. I quickly regain my composure from the anger that is welling up inside me.

  “Why do you have to be such an arrogant son of a bitch?” I don’t hold anything back. My tone and choice of words evoke a range of emotions across his beautiful face.

  Ryan raises an eyebrow at me. “Arrogance is my best form of defense. Haven’t you figured that out already?”

  Huh? Defense against what?

  The dumbfounded look on my face causes him to change tact immediately. Ryan himself has a defeated look on his face that makes me think that he slipped and said too much. I don’t understand his emotions, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity to think it through.

  “Well…let’s see!” Ryan starts. “As you so eloquently put it in the boardroom, my job is to drive the race car. I don’t like to get caught up in the day-to-day bullshit that involves running a race team. It’s not my thing. My focus is driving my car to win races and to win championships. Everything else should fall into place. However, lately, my support team is failing me, which is why I have to come into the office to make sure everyone is doing their job. And I don’t like it. It makes me ill and, as you say, arrogant.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but Ryan lifts his hand, signaling me to stop. “I am not about to apologize to you, or anyone else, for that matter, for the way I am. I am who I am. That is why I am a hell of a race car driver. And, yes, I need an excellent support team at all times to guide me with the little things like sponsorship commitments, appearances, and such. All I know is driving the car, so I need someone that I don’t have to babysit. Got it?”

  I don’t respond, but I don’t break eye contact with him either.

  “Look, Whitney,” Ryan explains, a little calmer, “you don’t understand this. But I was born into this…into this sport. It is in my blood. Stock car racing is all I know. I need someone who understands that. I need someone on my team that has grown up in NASCAR and that can relate to how it operates. I don’t need someone that has never even watched a damned race on television. Do you understand?”

  He finally gives me an opportunity to respond. Words finally come to me with his last statement. “Oh! You also need someone that is fuckable, too, right? Don’t forget that requirement! And I guess I don’t fit that bill either.”

  Ryan furrows his brow. “Annalise?”

  I nod.

  “Not that it is any of your damn business, but that was my mistake.”

  I rebound again. “Mistake? Hell, from what I hear, you have made several of those since the new season started.”

  Ryan paces the kitchen floor. “Yes, I crossed the line with her, only because I knew it wasn’t working out.”

  What!

  “I have to have someone who I can trust to guide me each weekend to get me through the extracurricular activities that accompany my sport. I don’t have the time or the luxury to wrap my head around those things. I only want to drive my car. And I just haven’t found that right person this season. I thought Annalise would be a good fit.”

  I snort at Ryan as he continues his explanation while rolling his eyes at me.

  “Her family roots run deep in NASCAR, and we had a good working relationship until I crossed the line and complicated things. In the end, I knew she couldn’t be trusted.”

  Why? I wonder.

  Ryan runs his hands through his brown hair again. “I don’t know how to explain this to you. You just can’t understand this, Whitney, because you don’t know me or my sport!”

  I take my eyes off his and look down. I don’t want him to see the hurt look wash across my face, but I am too late. I am sincerely trying to do my best, but I don’t think that will ever be good enough for him, no matter how much I learn.

  Ryan immediately stops his tirade. “Damn it, Whitney! Don’t look at me like that. God! You make me feel like such an ass.”

  “You are!” I shout back, crestfallen. Tears spring to my eyes again, but I push them back before they can fall. Even though Ryan is a complete bastard, I have a hard time when people don’t like me, especially for no reason. “I really am trying. Just give me a chance.”

  Ryan sighs, dejected himself. “This sport is not something to try. Yes, there are things that you can learn, but you have to feel it here”—Ryan points to his heart—“and be addicted to the adrenaline rush that pulses through your veins every week to really know this sport.”

  Sadly, I finally realize what point he is trying to get across to me. I don’t know what those feelings are like because I have never experienced them.

  I look up at Ryan. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t understand. But if you give me some time and guide me, help me to understand, I know I will get it. I am not going to give up, no matter how much you hate me.”

  Ryan looks up at me, shocked. “I don’t hate you, Whitney.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I say sadly and shrug my shoulders.

  Ryan growls low in his throat, no doubt frustrated by me. It is so hot. No, it’s not. Asshole alert, Whitney! Then, suddenly I realize that I like pissing him off.

  “I am not the heartless bastard that you make me out to be. And I do
n’t hate you.” Ryan sighs loudly as if defeated. “Come on.”

  He turns to me and takes the beer from my hand that I didn’t even realize I was still holding. I think he is about to usher me out the door, but instead he intimately grabs my hand and interlocks his fingers with mine. His touch is like a lighted match that explodes from the tips of my fingers throughout my body. I almost have to gasp from the sensation. Hmmm…I wonder if that is what an adrenaline rush feels like. I look up at Ryan, and he has a surprised look on his face. Did he feel that too? He quickly drops my hand. Then several shades of what looks to be regret wash over his beautiful face. He appears to be conflicted somehow, but I am not sure.

  Ryan walks into the great room, and I follow behind him. I can barely make out soft music that flows throughout the space, but I like what I can hear. “Who is this?” I ask as I point to the open air.

  Ryan looks up like he is tuning his ears in to the soft music. “It’s…Adam, I think?”

  Adam!

  “Maroon 5,” he says in answer to my unspoken question.

  “You say that like you know him,” I say.

  Ryan shoots me a look that basically says, “No shit,” and instantly I know that they must be friends. I listen closely as Adam sings sultrily about secrets, a song that I have never heard before, but which now speaks volumes about my life. I make a mental note to download it onto my iPod.

  Ryan gives me another confused look, then motions for me to sit down on the sofa as he makes his way over to the ginormous home theater system. Immediately, his demeanor changes to excited, like he just had the most brilliant idea. I almost want to giggle at his expression.

  “This will be an unusual way to get an insight into my sport, but at least it’ll be fun.” He opens a cabinet under the television and produces two game controllers. He tosses one at me. “Here, sit on the far right side of couch.”

  I reach out to grab the controller from the air and slide down to the end of the couch. Ryan walks over purposefully and leans into where I am sitting. He runs his hand down inside of the couch arm. We are in extremely close proximity. I can feel the fire rekindle in my chest and ignite throughout my body. What the hell is he doing? I can feel his hot breath on my neck, and I can smell his scent. It’s an invigorating mix. He presses a small lever, and the couch transforms suddenly into a recliner. A footrest pops out from below and immediately reclines my body backward.