On the Move (10 page)

It never came.

He didn’t know how he managed to avoid getting hit again. It sure wasn’t through any skill of his own. His car was dead beneath him, like an amusement-park ride that slowly ground to a stop. He heard silence. He tried to start his engine. No such luck. He couldn’t see the damage to his engine compartment—his hood was flat up against his windshield, the skull appearing to laugh at him, but he imagined it must be pretty bad. He could smell coolant, and burned oil—never a good sign.

“You okay?”

The voice came from inside his helmet, and Chad sounded concerned.

“Fine,” Brandon said. Just angry. What the hell had Peters been thinking checking up like that? He’d wrecked them both because of the stupid maneuver.

“How’s the car?” Chad asked.

“Done,” Brandon said. He released the steering wheel, tossed it up on the dashboard. It took him a moment to unclip his safety harness, then his window net. The radio cord tangled in his hand. He jerked it free, wasting no time as he slipped out the driver’s-side window, helmet and all.

“You okay?” someone else asked him.

It was the safety crew. It always amazed him how quickly they arrived. “Fine,” he said with a lift of his hand, although he doubted the guy could hear him. His voice was muffled by his helmet, his words covered up by the sound of a thousand irate fans.

They booed him.

Story of his life. But as he looked up and down the track, he could sort of understand why. Peters wasn’t the only one taken out by the wreck. It looked as if half the field had also been taken out. Cars were scattered everywhere. He counted maybe ten cars in all. Some of the brightest and most-loved NASCAR stars amongst the wreckage. Although some drivers already restarted their cars, it was obvious many would be hard-pressed to finish the race in their damaged state. Tires ripped up the infield grass as the cars took off.

“Sir,” someone else called as Brandon slipped off his helmet. “I’m going to need you to come with me to the Infield Care Center.”

“I’m coming,” Brandon said with a shake of his head. He pulled the tape off his ears, stuffed the tiny speakers into his helmet.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Brandon turned. Todd Peters came at him. Brandon ducked just in time.

“You could have killed us both,” Todd said, swinging again.

Brandon scooted out of the way one more time. “Me?” he yelled right back. “You were the one who checked up.”

“I didn’t check up. You rammed your nose right up my ass.”

“I did not.”

“Hey!” one of the paramedics said, jumping between them. “Knock it off, you two.”

“You’re supposed to be my teammate,” Todd yelled, his dark hair ruffled, brown eyes glaring. “Instead you took us both out.”

Brandon lunged. The rescue worker caught him around the waist. By then someone else had arrived. They tackled Todd just as he lunged, too. Both drivers were swung away from each other. The paramedic whispered, “They’re carrying this on live television. Is this really what you want viewers to see—you beating up Todd?”

“I don’t give a damn what the viewers see.”

The paramedic tightened his grip on Brandon’s arm. “Get in the ambulance before NASCAR fines your sorry butt.”

By now the haze of rage had begun to fade, enough to note that the man speaking to him was older, but not necessarily wiser. He must not have had any idea of who he was dealing with.

“NASCAR’s not going to fine me,” Brandon said, his cheek twitching he was so mad. “They’re going to come down on that jerk.” He’d raised his voice so Todd could hear him. “He’s the one that started it.”

“Let me at ’im,” he heard Todd say.

“In the ambulance,” the paramedic ordered, the grip he had on Brandon’s arm enough to make him wince. “Now.”

She stood outside the single-story building, a growing throng of print and television reporters gathering along with her. With each new arrival, Vicky’s stomach tightened. This didn’t bode well. Brandon and the press had a long, thorny past. He was sure to be in a bad mood when the paramedics let him go.

The red door opened. Brandon, still in his black uniform, emerged.

“Brandon—” someone cried. “What happened out there?”

“Mr. Burke, can you comment on the wreck?”

“Brandon, why’d you take Todd Peters out of the race?”

“Mr. Burke, will not be answering questions,” someone yelled, causing a momentarily lull. Vicky spotted Mrs. Parsons, Brandon’s PR rep, exiting behind him. “We’ll have a statement later.”

“No, we won’t,” Brandon said.

Vicky saw Mrs. Parsons step in front of him. She gave Brandon a look that plainly said, “Keep quiet, young man.”

He didn’t.

Brandon spoke into the nearest microphone. “I did
not
take out Todd Peters,” he said to the tall, lanky reporter who’d accused him of doing exactly that.

Vicky lurched forward, trying to intercept Brandon before he said something rash.

It was too late.

“That idiot, Todd Peters, is responsible,” Brandon added.

The TV reporter scooted closer, his microphone in hand and his cameraman nearby. “Didn’t look that way to me,” he said.

“Watch it again.”

“I will…if you’ll watch it with me,” the reporter replied.

“Brandon,” Mrs. Parsons said in a low, urgent voice. Vicky noticed then that she looked rather harried. Some of her gray hair had escaped out of her bun. Her glasses looked askew, too.

“Don’t need to see it for myself.
I
was out there. Were you?”

“Brandon,” Vicky said, clutching his hand. “Let’s go.”

His eyes swiveled to hers. For a split second, she thought she saw relief in his blue gaze, but it disappeared quickly.

“Finally decided to show up, huh?” he said, anger once again simmering in his gaze.

Vicky looked at the reporters nervously. Mrs. Parsons shot her a look. “Mr. Burke won’t be giving any more statements,” Mrs. Parsons said.

“Mr. Burke can answer all the questions he wants,” Brandon contradicted, turning back to the press. “And y’all can tell Todd Peters to kiss my—”

“Brandon,” Vicky cried, at the same time Mrs. Parsons grabbed Brandon by the ear.

“Ouch,” he yelled. “Let go of me, you uptight old biddy.”

“This old biddy is spry enough to kick you in the you-know-what,” she answered back.

Vicky heard laughter. “Let him go,” she told Mrs. Parsons.

“Not until he learns some manners.”

Brandon wrenched away, but he cried out in pain as he did so. “Damn.” He clutched at his ear.

The film crew caught it all on tape.

“Knight Enterprises will no longer tolerate your outbursts, Mr. Burke,” Mrs. Parsons said. “I’ve been given permission to do whatever I deem necessary to keep you in hand.”

“Are you saying he’s under a gag order?” someone asked.

Brandon swung toward the older man. Vicky tried to stay him with her hand.

“No one’s gagging me,” he all but snarled, pulling away from her. He faced the nearly bald man. “She can grab my other ear for all I care, but it won’t stop me from saying what I want to say. Todd Peters caused the wreck. Obviously, he needs to go back to NASCAR driving school. Either that or move over when a better driver tries to pass.”

“So you’re claiming that you, as a rookie, are a better driver than Todd Peters, a ten-year veteran of the circuit,” the man said.

“I’ve been driving a long time, too,” Brandon said, eyes as hard as the steel structure behind them.

“But not in the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series,” the reporter said.

“What’re you inferring—”

“That’s it,” Vicky called, sliding between Brandon and the reporter. “No more questions.”

“I’m not finished,” Brandon responded.

“Oh, yes, you are.” She leaned toward his ear. “And if you don’t shut up, your career will be over, too.”

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it?”

If she’d been taller and less intimidated by all those cameras, she’d have grabbed him by the ear, too. Bully for Mrs. Parsons for having the courage to do exactly that. Luckily, Vicky had other weapons in her arsenal.

“If you say another word,” she said in a low voice, “I will announce to the world what you’ve tried so hard to hide over the years.”

“What’s that?”

“A, b, c, d, e, f, g,” she sang, the familiar song filling the space between them.

It took him a moment to catch her drift, and then he drew back. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She cocked her head, and said, “Try me.”

He gave her a look that could have melted ice. He shot the same look at Mrs. Parsons. “Fine.”

He stormed past the two of them. Reporters took off after him.

“I don’t know how you can tolerate that young man,” Mrs. Parsons said, arms crossed in front of her.

“There’s more to him than meets the eye,” Vicky replied.

“I should hope so, else I’d have to wonder why it is you defend him.”

Vicky’s cheeks warmed like a witness caught lying on the stand. “It’s not like that.”

“No?”

Vicky shook her head, looking toward Brandon. The throng of reporters had begun to draw back, clearly giving up on him.

“There are reasons why he is the way he is. You have to trust me on that.”

“Perhaps so. But it remains to be seen if those reasons can be kept in hand. Mr. Knight wants him on a very short leash.”

“I know. But don’t give up on him yet, Mrs. Parsons. Really. Brandon’s a good guy.”

“I suppose time will tell.”

“Please tell Mr. Knight everything will work out. I promise.”

“And if it doesn’t, Miss VanCleef, what then? Because you know what we’ll have to do if you can’t keep him in line.”

Yes, Vicky knew.

Brandon would get fired.

People were lined up against a chain-link fence, but at least he’d ditched the media behind him. He couldn’t believe what a big deal the press—and the fans—made out of a little bumping and nudging. Now, NASCAR’s irritation he could understand. They’d called him into their trailer for a stern lecture where he’d been told to expect a fine. Well, so be it.

“Boo,” cried a woman. “Get out of here. Go on home.”

“Yeah, go back to Indy,” someone else said.

“Hey…wait up,” a woman said.

Brandon recognized that voice. He glanced back just to make certain it was Vicky. Sure enough, she rushed to catch up to him.

He sped up.

But Vicky’s footfalls drew closer. “Brandon,” she said, right as he reached the exit. “Slow down.”

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“No,” she said right back.

They crossed a road. Out on the track Brandon heard the sound of cars picking up speed. Going back to green. Through a maze of RVs, he glimpsed the backstretch, a long distance off, but not so far away that he couldn’t make out a herd of cars. He should be out there with them. Would be, too, if not for that Todd Peters.

Up ahead loomed the entrance to the private parking area. “Mr. Burke,” the security officer said. “Hup, hup,” he said to Vicky. “Need to see your pass.”

Here, at last, was Brandon’s chance for peace and quiet. He continued walking, but heard Vicky say to security, “I’m with him.”

“Sure you are, honey,” the man said.

Brandon glanced back at Vicky. The look of humiliation on her face was his undoing. “She’s with me,” he called.

“There. See,” she said to the security guy before running to catch up with him again.

He kept on walking. Maybe she wouldn’t catch him. He could only hope.

“Brandon, wait.”

He ducked between his black motor home and the bright blue-and-gold motor home sitting next to his. He pressed the keypad to his motor home, the buttons chiming in his wake—2-4-90. The day he’d won his first race. He’d been eight years old and it’d been one of the best times of his life.

His door hissed open with a whistle of hydraulic pressure.

“Hey,” she said, diving for the door.

“Vicky, now’s not a good time.” He stepped back.

She squeezed her way through somehow. He stepped away in surprise. She moved fast for a petite woman.

“We need to talk.”

“Not right now,” he said, pulling on his uniform’s Velcro catches.

“We need to come up with a statement. Something we can feed to the media that will, hopefully, forestall the headlines coming our way.”

“Later,” he said, jerking the uniform down his shoulder. He wore a white tank beneath.

“The sooner we do it, the better. You can bet Mrs. Parsons is speaking to Mr. Knight right now. If we beat him to the punch—Brandon!”

He’d pulled off his shirt, was in the midst of pulling the uniform off all the way, exposing his Jockey shorts beneath. Suddenly he found himself on the verge of laughing. She’d spun away so fast she looked like a flamenco dancer.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Never seen a naked man before?”

Maybe it was good he’d let her in, after all. Nothing like a woman to keep his mind off things, and that kiss they’d shared a few days ago proved they had chemistry.

“Not in a long,
long
while,” he heard her mutter.

Really? Well, he just might be in a position to remedy that situation.

“Come on,” he said softly, coming up behind her. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Excuse me?” she said, whirling toward him.

“Don’t you
want
me?”

“No!”

He reached out and touched the side of her neck. He heard her gasp. “You did the other day.” He dropped his head next to her ear and whispered, “Come on, Vicky. Nobody has to know.”

“
I
would know,” she gasped.

His hand had drifted lower, to her collarbone. He enjoyed teasing her and for a not so nice reason—he
wanted
to drive her crazy.

“Sometimes, Vicky, doing something wrong can feel very,
very
right.”

He nudged up against her, pressing himself against her body.

“Brandon,” he heard her whisper. When he glanced down, she had her eyes closed. “You are one bad, bad boy,” she said. Then she started to shake her head. “I can’t let you seduce me.”

That’s right, he thought. Because to her he was just a way to make money. She was just like everyone around him.
Damn her.
She hadn’t even bothered to find him before the race today. Hadn’t even taken the time to wish him luck. She’d come around afterward—when it was all said and done—and he’d done something to damage his “image.” Well, he’d give her a new image to remember.

He pulled her to him.

“Brandon,” she gasped.

His kiss wasn’t sweet. It was hard and rough and angry. He wanted to prove that she did want him. Brandon, the man…not the client.

She could have pulled back or stepped away, but she didn’t. Their tongues met, slid against each other, entwined.

She was leaning into him, pressing her body against all the right places, and Brandon felt a high unlike any other because he knew then—right at that
very
moment—that if he’d wanted her, he could’ve had her. He could have made her beg and plead and moan and groan and she would have never, ever confused Brandon Burke the client with Brandon Burke the man.

Only he let her go.

She staggered back. Her rear made contact with the passenger seat of his motor home. She wilted against it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her white shirt pulled from her waist, lips raw from his kiss. She had a mark on her neck, too. He’d branded her with his mouth.

“Proving something to myself.”

“What’s that?”

“None of your business.”

He turned away, suddenly more angry than he could ever remember being. He reached down, picked up his uniform, headed for his bedroom door. “You can show yourself out.”

“What?”

“There’s a button to the left of the entryway. Use it.”

He closed the door behind him, then leaned against it. In the mirror above the bed he could see himself standing there, the uniform held in his hands, a look of intense anger on his face.

To hell with it. To hell with her. To hell with Mr. Knight, too. He didn’t need anybody. Never had. Never would. Just look at how he’d walked away from Vicky.

“Brandon.”

He stiffened.

She knocked on the door. “Let me in.” He heard her finger the handle.

“Vicky, no,” he ordered, turning to close it.

“Oh, Brandon,” she said softly. “You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here for you. Yes, I’m your agent, but I’ve told you before, I also want to be your friend.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just go away.”

“No,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m not going anywhere. You can try and scare me away. You can be cruel to me all you want. But I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”

His hand dropped. “You must really need money to say something like that.”

“This isn’t about money. This is about being human. It’s about helping someone who needs help. You, more than anyone, should understand what that’s like—it’s why you want to open your boys’ ranch.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t protested about that. After all, the ranch might just take me away from other obligations, obligations that would make you and Scott more money.”

“Will you stop that! It’s not like that. I’m not going to take your money and run. I’m not going to abandon you if the money stops flowing, either.” She closed the distance between them, cupped his left check with her hand, her fingers brushing against his sideburns. “I’m not cruel and heartless and selfish, Brandon.
I’m not your dad.
”