On the Move (9 page)

She should have called Brandon.

Just recalling his name amped up the beat of her heart. That’s why she couldn’t call him, and why she’d tried to avoid even
thinking
about him since that day in the kitchen when he’d scooped her up in his arms. Luckily, she had a brief moment of clarity once his lips had left her own, a moment wherein she’d realized that this was it—she was going to bed with Brandon Burke. If the ensuing panic hadn’t ricocheted through her body like a hollow-point bullet, well, she might have brought new meaning to the words
personal attention.

Each minute that passed was agony. By the time it was all said and done, she arrived at the track an hour before the race was due to start. She knew that wasn’t good. She’d been given specific instructions on the use of her Cold Pass, a pass which meant she’d have limited access to the garage. Had she made it to the track on time, she’d have had to vacate the garage one hour before the race started. That was now.

“Damn,” she said, pulling to a stop. The track schematic she’d been overnighted along with her garage and parking pass showed her to be a good distance away. It’d take her at least ten minutes to get there. Crap.

Nagging at the back of her mind was the thought that Brandon hadn’t called. It wasn’t so much that she’d expected him to contact in the three days following their kiss—she wasn’t that unrealistic. It was more that he hadn’t phoned her this morning. She’d told him she’d see him today. Wasn’t he the least bit concerned about her whereabouts?

She ran to the garage, having been pointed toward its entrance by at least a half a dozen people.

“Sorry, can’t go in,” said the security officer guarding the garage area. He pointed to the red light that hung atop a chain-link fence, the lens flickering as though it belonged on an ambulance.

She stood there for half a second, disappointment turning her temporarily speechless.

“But…I’m from SSI. I’m Brandon Burke’s agent. I was supposed to see him before the race.”

“Honey, I can’t let you in. Garage is Hot.”

“Look,” she said. “Is there any way to get a message to him?”

“You’re kidding, right?” the man said. “Forty-five minutes until the green flag drops, and you want me to go deliver a personal message to your favorite driver. Give me a break, lady.” The guard motioned to someone behind her. Another person who wanted in, only
he
had the right pass. Green, she noticed, the word
Hot
emblazoned in reflective foil across the front.

“I don’t mean for you to deliver it personally. Can’t you use a radio or something?” Vicky asked.

He waved another person through. “Lady,” he said. “If you want access to pit road, you’ll have to get there like everyone else does, through the Fan Zone.”

“You mean, I can still get inside with this pass?”

“Fan Zone,” he said impatiently. “That’ll work there. Pit road entrance is straight ahead. But you’ve only got fifteen more minutes before they start clearing it of Cold Passes.” He pointed her toward the industrial-like complex she’d passed earlier, one with race fans streaming in and out of it. It was only a couple hundred yards away. She could make it. Perhaps flag down Brandon before he climbed into his race car….

“Thanks,” she muttered.

She took off running like a champion racehorse. But once she neared the entrance, she had to slow down because a line of people wanted in, too. By the time she crossed beneath a sign proclaiming her inside the Fan Zone, she had barely five minutes left.

“Where’s the entrance to pit road?” she asked someone.

“Straight ahead,” a guy wearing a white T-shirt and shorts said, a camera strung around his neck.

She passed by concession stands, then a stage. “Thank god,” she muttered, passing through a tunnel lined with people on both sides, cameras poised and ready in case their favorite driver walked by, autograph books held in anxious hands, many of them wearing shirts already signed by their heroes.

The speedway was at the end of the road she stood upon, a lane obviously used by the cars currently lined up nose to tail. Beyond the parked vehicles, she could see the track, the black tar seeming to glow as if it held an inch of water. Above it all rose the grandstands. Each seat seeming to be taken, the constant shifting of human bodies making it appear to undulate as if it were alive.

She glanced at her watch. Pit road was about to close and the drivers were obviously not at their cars because most of the cars were still covered. Maybe she could find Brandon hanging out with his pit crew. She’d no idea if drivers actually did that, but she had to try.

“Sorry,” said a man wearing a white uniform, “you can’t go out there.”

Disappointment turned her stomach.

“You can only go through there with that pass.” He pointed to the narrow alleyways that ran alongside the white wall that separated pit road from where the mechanics stored their tools.

“Oh…thanks,” she said, and darted off, only to suddenly draw up short. She could go down the aisle to her left or right. “Do you know where Brandon Burke’s pit place is?”

“Pit
stall?
”

She nodded.

“Don’t have a clue.”

Vicky’s smile fell. “Okay, thanks,” she said, turning away. Which direction to go? She chose left. How long did she have before they started to boot people out? She wondered. Did they give a sign of some sort? A warning bell? Not that she’d hear anything over the roar of the crowd. The constant drone of elevated voices, generators and aircraft overhead was so intense, she didn’t know how people stood it for any length of time.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind.

She turned. A man zoomed by, expertly maneuvering the tires he pushed out in front of him around crates with car parts, spare toolboxes and rolling coolers.

“Excuse me,” she said, rushing up to him.

He turned, the red uniform he wore was nearly the same shade as his sweat-streaked face. He didn’t slow down.

“Do you know where Brandon Burke’s pit stall is?”

He pointed with his chin back the way she’d come.

“Thank you,” she gushed, spinning on her rubber soles. More colors assaulted her senses. Brightly colored plastic chains kept fans away from the mechanics area. The flicker of television screens were embedded in toolboxes. Everywhere she looked, there were crew members in multihued uniforms, some of them rushing to and fro, some of them doing last-minute chores, a few of them reclining on the pit wall, talking to fans.

The opening she’d come through earlier loomed ahead. She needed to cross it to get to the pit stalls on the other side. Was it time to leave? When security saw her pass would they boot her out at last? She decided to brazen her way through, hoping the NASCAR official wouldn’t have time to spot her pass.

She should have known better.

“Ma’am,” a man called to her as she zoomed by. “Gonna have to ask you to leave.”

She pretended not to hear him.

“Ma’am,” he called louder.

She noticed then that there were actually two men acting as guards. One controlled one side, the other controlled the side she’d entered.

The second man turned, blocked her path. “Sorry,” he said. “Gotta leave.”

“But—”

He held up his hands. “No arguing, no begging, no pleading.” He pointed toward the short tunnel she’d crossed through earlier. “Cold time’s over. We’re clearing the pits. Leave.”

Her shoulders must have sunk three inches. Vicky knew it was her own fault. She should have given herself more time to get to the track. Two hours, it would seem, was not enough time to travel twenty miles of city streets when those roads were clogged with race fans.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

She was about to turn away when she looked out past the second guard. There, less than a hundred yards away, she could see Brandon’s car, the car cover mimicking the black paint scheme so the white skull and crossbones on the hood was unmistakable.

Brandon stood next to it. Actually, the whole crew stood next to it, the men lining up arm to arm in a row that reached all the way to their pit stall. She understood why a split second later.

The national anthem was about to be performed.

“Lady,” said the guard impatiently.

“Can I stand here and pay my respects to our flag?” Vicky asked, hoping she sounded sufficiently offended at his suggestion she should move when everyone else suddenly stood.

“Just for the song,” he said, removing his black cap.

Vicky nodded, but she didn’t turn toward the flag—wherever that was—instead she kept her eye on Brandon, hoping he’d look her way. Silently she begged him to glance in her direction. He didn’t. She covered her heart, automatically mouthed the words to the song and wondered what the guard would do if she started to wave her other hand. Probably boot her off pit road, national anthem or not. So she stood there, staring, and the moment the music stopped, she yelled Brandon’s name as loud as she could.

Several heads turned. Half of pit road looked in her direction, including the startled guard. Brandon slowly moved to the side of his car, watching as one of his crew members removed his car’s cover.

“Out,” the guard said. “Now.”

“Fine. I’m leaving. But I’m his agent,” she said. She shook her head, and it was hard to say who she was more mad at—the guard and his snarky attitude, or herself. “I screwed up by leaving too late for the racetrack. I was supposed to see Brandon before the race, only I missed him and now I’m afraid he thinks I stood him up or something.”

The guard smirked. “Sure, honey.”

Vicky gave up, but as she turned away, she shot Brandon one last glance. He’d begun to climb into his car, his legs inside the cockpit, his rear end on the window still. He paused for a moment, his face in profile as he scanned the lineup of cars ahead of him, and something about his expression tugged at her insides. Determination clung to his face, his lips pressed together in a flat line, eyes like an eagle that surveyed its prey. Then he slipped inside the car. He looked like a warrior off to fight another battle.

Alone.

Face it, Burke, you scared her away.

Why he imagined his dad’s voice, he had no idea, except it irritated the hell out of him.

“Testing, one, two, three,” he said after he’d plugged in his earpieces and pulled on his helmet. “Test, test.”

“We got you,” Chad, his crew chief, said.

Brandon didn’t acknowledge him, just pulled on his gloves. Why bother? He hadn’t been exactly chummy with his NASCAR Sprint Cup Series crew. In recent years he’d come to realize it was a total waste of time to get close to anyone. Nine times out of ten, they screwed you. Why be friendly with someone who’d bail on him if they got a better offer with another team?

“Five to go,” Chad said. “You’ll be pushing off in five minutes.”

Brandon lifted a hand before reaching for the steering wheel on the dashboard. He slid it into place, then stared straight ahead. He was starting in sixteenth place—Brandon having outqualified last season’s champ, and his teammate, Todd Peters. That gave him a moment of supreme satisfaction.

There were some familiar cars in front of him, too. After starting in his first race late last season, he’d gotten to know more than a few of the drivers on a personal basis—personal as in their car’s rear end kept crashing into his car’s front nose. How that always happened, he had no idea, but most of the time they blamed him.

Maybe because it really is your fault.

He silenced the voice. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. All that mattered was that these guys knew to give him a wide berth. That was worth its weight in gold when your car carried the yellow rookie stripe.

Rookie, my ass.

“Start it up,” Chad said.

Two seconds later, the car came to life around him. Red needles twitched like hyperactive Geiger counters. Fuel pressure. Check. Oil pressure. Check. Amps. Check. Everything looked good.

“They’re rolling,” Chad said, referring to the front of the line.

Brandon revved his motor, his hands suddenly clenching the wheel, his chest cavity reverberating from the force of his heartbeat.

Careful, Burke. Calm down.

He pressed down on the accelerator as the car in front of him—the red-and-green car of Paul Donovan—smoothly accelerated.

“Remember, Brandon, you’ll be at 2,500 rpms when rolling down pit road.”

“I know that, Chad,” Brandon said, trying to stay calm even though he was certain his crew chief’s words were meant to remind him that at his last race in Texas, he’d blown it when he’d come down pit road. He’d been chasing after Lance Cooper who’d just about wrecked him when he’d raced by him a little too close. Too bad NASCAR hadn’t accepted that as an excuse. They’d clocked him doing twenty miles over the speed limit and sat him down for a lap. It’d taken Brandon half the race to catch up to Cooper. When he’d finally done it, he’d been so angry, he’d spun Cooper out without a second thought. It was probably not one of Brandon’s better moments, but it’d sure felt good.

“All right, one more lap when you come to the line,” Chad said. “They’re calling for green with one more to go.”

“Roger.”

The field began to accelerate. Brandon adjusted his grip on the wheel.

Why hadn’t she shown up?

Quit thinking about her.

He imagined his dad’s voice again, and it pissed him off so bad, he pressed his accelerator harder than he intended. He nudged the driver in front of him. “Oops,” Brandon said, but of course he didn’t mean it. Truth was, he loved this part of racing. He loved the way his pulse quickened when his front bumper made contact with other cars. He thrived on the rivalry between himself and other drivers. Most of all, he loved the way he could close his mind, focusing only on the track in front of him, and forgetting the stress and hassle of day-to-day life.

Forgetting about his father.

Forgetting about Vicky.

“Looks as if we’re going green,” Bart, his spotter, said.

Sure enough, the field sped up even more. Turn Three loomed ahead, skid marks intersecting the smooth asphalt. The catch fence lost its gridlike appearance, seeming to turn into a solid-looking wall.

“Green, green, green,” his spotter said.

Brandon ducked low.

Donovan tried to block him.

“Inside high,” Bart told him.

“Bah-bye,” Brandon said. He rode the yellow line, passing Donovan in mere seconds.

“Clear.”

That’s the way to get it done, he thought to himself. The crowd might boo him, the press might despise him, but they couldn’t take away from the fact that Brandon Burke could drive.

“You’re going down next, buddy,” he said to the car in front of him. Tucking his front bumper snug against the guy’s rear end, Brandon assessed the competition. The guy’s end jumped all around. Too loose? Too tight? Or was he squirrelly because of turbulence? It was hard to tell.

“There’s a car coming up on you,” Bart said.

Donovan again, Brandon thought. But, no. That wasn’t Donovan. That was…

Todd Peters.

Damn. Where’d he come from?

“Coming high,” Bart announced.

Brandon didn’t need to hear that. He’d seen Peters’s bumper swoop to the right. They were in Turn Three now, and Brandon knew from practice that his car handled better in the high groove. Right where Peters now rode.

Damn. His steering wheel vibrated, a sure sign his car wasn’t happy. His foot lifted off the accelerator. That was exactly what Peters had been hoping for and it pissed Brandon off.

The No. 82 on the side of his competitor’s car was nothing more than a blur as Todd zoomed by. So much for gaining a spot.

“Clear high.”

The moment Brandon shot up the track, clean air settled his car like a soothing hand. Better. No one rode where he did. Everyone was lower. When he glanced at Peters, he saw he could gain on him as long as he kept the high line.

You’re going down, buddy.

Teammate or not, veteran driver or no, Brandon didn’t care. He knew he had the talent and skill to beat the guy. He just needed to stay in his lane.

He inched closer.

“Outside low,” Bart said.

Brandon glanced to the left. His window net vibrated, obscuring his vision, but he could still see Peters down there. His car began to level out as they crossed over the black-and-white start/finish line yet again. Brandon pushed his car to go even faster.

“Take it easy out there,” Chad said. “Still a lot of laps to go.”

Yeah, but he might not get another chance to pass Todd. Anything could go wrong at any second. Someone could wreck. He could pop a tire. Blow an engine. He didn’t want to wait when he could do it now.

“Brandon?” Chad said his name as if he wasn’t sure Brandon could hear him. He could, but he ignored him. Black edged closer to red, Brandon’s front bumper drawing nearer to the No. 82 car’s rear end. He was just to the right of him, still following the high line, but that would change soon. Once he exited the corner, he’d move behind Peters, and with any luck, take the air off the guy’s spoiler just before he dodged to the inside.

Just a little closer.

Brandon could feel his pulse pound, the foam in his helmet pressing against his temple. He seemed to chant along with the rhythm. Closer. Closer. Closer.

One second he was five feet away, the next…
BAM.

Both he and Peters began to spin.