One Last Hold

Copyright 2014 Angela Smith

Cover Art by Steven Novak

Formatted by
Author’s HQ

Kindle Edition

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the author, Angela Smith, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in the context of reviews.

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To my family, who never gave up on supporting me.

In memory of my mother, Kristina, who may not have had the chance to see her dreams come true, but gave birth to a new generation of dreamers.

Wesley Webb turned his wheel to face the front straight, beginning the last lap of the race.

“You’re looking good,” his spotter, Derrick, affirmed through earplugs that had long-since burned a hole in his head. “Don’t push it. You need a good finish.”

Derrick knew him well enough to know he’d punish himself on the last lap and take chances he shouldn’t take. But a good finish wasn’t what it was about for him. It was about winning, and heading into turn two, Wesley was confident the win was his.

“Watch Armstrong to your left.”

Wesley’s palms sweat as he gripped the wheel. He imagined his car racing through the finish line—first. A few more seconds and that would become reality. His heart pounded and every beat seemed to pull Chad Armstrong closer. He held his breath, his pulse thrummed low as his mind reeled with all the consequences of all possible moves. He quickly exhaled, every exertion an effort to slow his rival’s advance.

“Focus, focus,” Wesley said as he let out a breath and took another one in, this time through his nose. Every nerve ending tingled in adrenaline and anticipation.

He was so ready to get out of this cage.

He bit his lip, concentrating in order to out maneuver Chad’s tricks as Chad nudged him closer to the wall. This game was getting old.

“You’re almost there,” Derrick cued. “Watch the wall.”

“Stay with me,” Wesley said to his car, to his spotter, to God, and to whoever the hell else wanted to listen.

He only needed to maintain the lead a few more seconds.

Derrick’s warning shrill was too late. Chad clipped the left quarter, spinning Wesley’s car out of control. He frantically tried to steer out of the skid. For a moment, control was within reach, until the tire’s sidewalls dug into the soft earth of the infield.

The car flipped.

Over and over.

He skidded to a stop upside down and watched Chad cross the finish line. Something he wouldn’t have a chance to do tonight.

“You okay?” That damned voice in his earplugs again, reminding him people were freaking out because he hadn’t come out of the car.

“Yeah.” No. Fury was a molten hole in his gut, eating its way into his throat.

He crawled out of the cage and pitched his helmet and earplugs to the ground. Firefighters rushed to douse the blaze, and troops surrounded him to assist him and his car out of the infield.

Fisting his gloved hands, he pushed through the men and focused on his main goal: get past that finish line.

Even though he’d be footing it tonight.

Adam, his crew chief, advanced on him. “Do you need an ambulance?”

"No.” He didn’t need an ambulance, he didn’t need sympathy, and he damn sure didn’t need anyone trying to comfort him with words.

Right now, vengeance was his only fuel.

Wesley was fed up with Chad’s selfish moves that endangered fellow racers Tired of the blatant disrespect to the racers and the sport, and tired of Chad looking good in front of the media and making everyone else the bad guy.

Wasn’t hard to make Wesley into the bad guy. He was a blackguard to the media, an easy
bad-guy
target.

As he approached the stands, the merger of boos and applause as Chad was carried from his car joined the ringing in Wesley’s ears.

Chad sneered at Wesley from across the throng of people and hailed a mock salute. Wesley sprung towards him, camera flashes blaring applause. He’d gladly brawl in front of the cameras and take a fine if it meant giving Armstrong a black eye.

Adam planted a fist in Wesley’s chest, stopping him. “Stand back, man. It’s not worth it.”

He retreated and pushed his way past the media circus as the flashes continued. They followed him and thrust their microphones in his direction. The last thing he wanted to do was explain his feelings to them.

“Do you have a comment on what happened tonight?”

“How do you feel about not finishing the race?”

“Do you have something to say to Chad?”

Their badgering continued. Wesley stopped and glared, aiming for a smartass retort, but Adam’s hand against his back pressed him onward. He couldn’t afford to make more enemies of the media.

How in the hell did they think he felt? How would they feel if the situation was reversed?

In times like these, he hated the media, people who didn't recognize or care when someone was in pain, in mourning, and needed to be left alone. Wesley mourned the loss of first place. He'd hoped to gain some much needed points and get a lead on Chad. Instead, Chad kept him from even crossing the finish line.

And for that, he wanted to kill the sonofabitch.

*

Caitlyn Daniels was stuck in traffic so thick, it hadn't moved once in the past fifteen minutes. Thankful for the solitude within the confines of her car, she didn't care if it took a lot longer to escape this cluster.

Her pen scratched against paper to the whims of her thoughts and if she stopped now, all would be lost.

Glancing up long enough to check her surroundings, she once again focused on her writing, giving Wesley the credit he deserved while remaining neutral in her words and in her feelings.

Neutrality was hard to accomplish. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hug him or kill him.

The wipers scrawled against the windshield and jolted her from her writing. The rain had come in an icy cold gush as soon as the race ended, but it was now a drizzle, the temperatures barely high enough to keep it from freezing.

Caitlyn switched off the wipers. She wished it was as easy to turn off her memories. Like the memory of seeing Wesley, his car flipping and flipping. The fear of witnessing his almost-death. And the oh-so-long-ago memories of them together.

Her cell phone rang. The crazy song reserved for her boss grated on her nerves. She made a mental note to change Beethoven’s Fugue to something more soothing, especially because talking to Blake was enough to rattle her.

“Did you get anything good?” Blake Rogers never wasted time. Foregoing niceties and useless chatter, he struck right to the point.

“No luck with an interview on Wesley this time.” Caitlyn rubbed the knot of tension in her neck and remembered standing with the other media who longed to get a comment from Wesley. He only glared and turned away and since she stood near the back, covered from head to toe to keep warm, he wouldn’t have recognized her.

“Did you speak with Chad?” Blake asked.

“I did. He had no remorse for what he did.”

“He didn't do anything wrong.”

“He almost killed Wesley.”

“Wrecks happen all the time in racing. It wasn’t Chad’s fault. What did he give you?”

“If Wesley is as talkative as that man, I’ll have his whole life story in one interview. Chad told me things I didn't need to know.” Caitlyn didn’t bother telling her boss that wasn’t about to happen. Wesley didn’t like to share ten years ago. He damn sure didn’t like to share now.

“Anything that might prove beneficial to our story?”

“Only if you want a story on Chad,” she said.

“Not unless you have anything new. There are already plenty of stories on Chad.”

“We knew this wouldn’t be easy. Wesley isn't as friendly with journalists as most of the other guys. You know that.”

“You'll have to try harder.”

An ongoing battle between Caitlyn and her boss. Wesley, despite his celebrity status, liked to stay below the spotlight and when it did fall on him, the media reports were rarely nice. He came across as surly and antagonistic. Blake hoped that since she grew up with Wesley, she’d be able to convince him to grant her an in-depth interview, something he’d never granted any reporter.

“I expect something good in my email come morning.” With that, Blake ended the call.

She closed her eyes and leaned back on the headrest. She pictured Wesley’s face, his deep green eyes, the warmth that used to linger when he looked at her. Then the wreck, the car flipping, flipping, flipping as she watched in horror and waited for him to emerge. Collapsing relief when he did emerge.
Alive.

Yet, she might as well have been dead to him.

Her eyes opened, darkness surrounding her as a mix of rain and sleet fell again, rapping against her windshield.

She’d have something to Blake by morning. Her article was already good. But she’d have to rewrite it, take out her emotion at seeing him again—even if it was only from a distance—yet still stir her readers with emotion.

Caitlyn grabbed her phone and checked social media.

She’d worked for Blake before graduating from college, just as he got his magazine business off the ground. When digital took over, his magazine had remained successful, in part because his employees used social media and blogs to track their current stories, and in part because Blake was good at what he did.

Blake had bragged about how he created it all on his own with merely a few dollars to his name. A weekly entertainment magazine focused on everyday people, with a touch of famous. A ‘how-to’, a ‘hot- off- the- press’, a ‘rumor mill’ containing ideas on entertaining people, oneself, hobbies, and exclusive biographical interviews by some of the most exceptional people.

Wesley Joel Webb defined exceptional. A handsome stock-car racer with a license to practice law. A shaded past most people could only speculate.

Except for Caitlyn, because she had been there.

*

“I think the engine is salvageable.”

Adam wiped his greasy hands on a towel while Wesley continued to stare into the abyss of the garage shop, gripping what was left of his car’s frame to stand upright. Vertigo dominated his thought process as he saw himself sliding across the track, this time from a spectator’s perspective and not a participant.

The scent of burnt metal left an acrid taste in Wesley’s mouth that not even two quarts of water could ease. The taste lingered, making his tongue thick, corroding his gut.

“The guys and I will have to check it over, but I think we can save a few things,” Adam said.