One Last Hold (2 page)

Who the hell cared about the damn engine, anyway? They had more where that one came from. It was Adam’s way of trying to lessen their frustration level. Plus, Adam liked to tinker with things, which made him one hell of a crew chief.

“You okay?” Chad approached and slapped Wesley on the back like they were old friends.

His hackles rose at the familiar voice, and he tightened his grip on the mangled frame. Of course Chad wanted to rub his nose in the win. Just like him.

“No thanks to you.” He ignored the handshake Chad offered and focused his attention on the car. A safer route than doing what he really wanted, which was to wipe that smug smile off Chad’s face and beat the holy shit out of him.

He couldn’t afford another fine. He couldn’t afford another damaging news article. Like it or not, he had to play nice.

When he felt like this, the best thing to do was ignore the cause and focus on the car—the means of his escape. The car was his catalyst, the ignition for the release of anger, dread, fear, depression. Its magic had worked for years whether he worked on it or inside it.

“I’m sorry about what happened.” Chad’s arrogant face displayed a smirk larger than the track at Talladega.

Being sorry meant regretting what happened and wishing for the possibility to change it. Despite all the warnings, Chad continued to take excessive risks in order to win, and that was unforgivable. Wesley doubted Chad felt sorrow for anything he did.

“That was one hell of a wreck though, wasn’t it?” Chad needled. “It’ll give YouTube viewers enough fodder for days. Hell, it probably has thousands of views already. I’ve watched it a dozen times myself.”

Enough was enough. Hands cranked, Wesley turned and aimed his glare on Chad, cracked his knuckles as he stepped toward him. Every muscle in his body ached at the long hours spent in his car. Landing a few punches in Chad’s face might help stretch out the kinks in his body.

Chad retreated and held up his hands. “Yo, hey, you trying to make the news again, or what?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I mean no harm. This’ll probably make you famous and have fans screaming your name. Speaking of fans, I met an old friend of yours earlier.”

“Come on Wes.” Adam grabbed him by the elbow.

God, he hated to withdraw, but he hated to be fined or banned from next week’s race even more. Chad would gladly flaunt an injury for the crowds and show everyone what a bad guy Wesley was. Last month’s article after a bitter public dispute made him look like a sore-loser-asshole. His sponsors urged him to make better choices. Landing a bruise on Chad’s face was definitely not the better choice.

“This chick said she went to school with you. She was hot. Dark hair, blue eyes. She asked about you.”

Whatever.
He grew tired of his games and wouldn’t give him the pleasure of reacting. That’s exactly what Chad wanted. He returned his attention to the car, but the engine swam in front of him.

Plenty of women asked about Wesley. Women with dark hair and blue eyes. Anyone could change their hair color, but he usually avoided all women with blue eyes because they reminded him of a woman he’d spent ten years trying to forget.

“That girl was hot,” Chad repeated. “Wish I’d gone to school with you, bud.” Chad whacked Wesley on the back, laughed, and stepped away. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

Wesley pocketed his fists and leaned against the car lift’s post. “Stop cheating to win.”

“What? I hope you don’t think it was intentional.”

“Yeah, right. The only way you can win is to cause your opponents to crash. Typical dirty takedown.”

“It was an accident.”

“Those
accidents
are happening more and more frequently. This time, I’m reporting it to the officials.”

“You go ahead.” Chad landed a stream of spit near Wesley’s feet. “You wouldn’t have won anyway.”

*

The dim glow of a nightlight shadowed the walls of the RV. He slithered his way through the rooms in search of the documents. Find them and make a hasty departure. That was his mission. But the thrill of being in the trailer surpassed the need to escape before the owner arrived.

He stroked the marble-lined counters, his gloved hands making the texture indistinguishable. But it still turned him on. Everything about this turned him on.

The owner had eaten bacon for breakfast. The smell lingered and made him long for his mother’s home-cooked meals. But she had been gone for years now and he couldn’t boil water, much less fry bacon.

He opened the stove and microwave to see if any bacon remained. No such luck, though a plate lined in bacon-greased paper towels was left out. He didn’t bother checking the refrigerator.

A floor lamp illuminated the bedroom. Blue velvet on the bed, and he’d bet on satin sheets underneath. The guy was proud of this room, if rumor had it right.

He didn’t see any frills to indicate a woman, but his curiosity got the best of him. He turned down the comforter. The sheets weren’t satin. What a disappointment. Regular cotton sheets but, judging from the stains on them, either the guy jerked off or he had a girl visit from time to time.

He’d bet on both.

He approached the closet door, wide open, and rummaged through a plastic file bin. Ahh, there it was, exactly what he was searching for. He took it but didn’t leave. Not yet. If there was anything else he could nab while he was here, he would.

He heard a key in the lock and the door clicked open. Frozen in the shadows, he touched the knife he carried. He hadn’t necessarily planned on killing, but when he saw the owner, intense loathing charged him. He wanted the guy dead. He could try to escape, or exact revenge.

But God didn’t allow him to choose an option. The owner noticed him before he could slip away and think on his decision.

“What the hell?” the owner muttered. Realizing what the intruder came for would not be pretty, the guy turned to run. It was too late.

The blade sank into the man’s ribs. The smell of blood fed the killer’s senses and caused his own blood to pulse in his gonads.

Ah, it’d been a long time, but the sensation of a kill hadn’t changed.

Caitlyn was brushing her teeth and preparing for bed when Chad Armstrong’s name on the television caught her attention. She scrambled into the narrow hotel room and peered at the TV, curious to know what the news would report about his win tonight. Her article had been written and submitted, but using all avenues of the press to spread social media was another aspect of her job on assignment.

Police lights flashed across the screen. Caitlyn bolted to the bathroom, spat out her toothpaste, and rushed back to the TV.

“The police are investigating a possible homicide of Chad “Strong Arm” Armstrong. Armstrong was found dead—”

“What?” She grabbed her phone as words scrolled across the screen, depicting tonight’s events. Chad Armstrong, stabbed while entering his RV.

“Oh God. Oh God,” Caitlyn muttered. All she could think of was Wesley. Was he okay?

She punched in Blake’s number. She didn’t know Chad Armstrong, barely knew anything about him or the sport, but this was crazy. Although most of the press seemed to eat up his words, she considered him a self-absorbed jerk.

When Blake learned Caitlyn had gone to school with Wesley, he hadn’t listened to all the arguments of why she shouldn’t be assigned to this story. She knew nothing about racing. Wesley didn’t consider her a friend. But Blake hadn’t wanted to assign Patricia, and Caitlyn stopped fighting. Patricia wasn’t right for the job. Why? Jealousy maybe, but mostly because Patricia wouldn’t let up until she had the story Blake wanted. Sure, the story could make her famous, but she wanted to protect Wesley from Patricia’s type.

She
wanted to be the one to write Wesley’s story.

Caitlyn paced the room and dreaded each ring. “Come on, Blake, answer.” This was big news, and she needed to know how he wanted her to handle it.

“Hello?” Blake’s groggy voice shook Caitlyn. He’d obviously been sleeping and hadn’t seen the news. She’d have to be the one to tell him.

She asked anyway. “Have you seen the news?”

“What? No. What time is it?”

“Chad Armstrong has been murdered.”

*

“Damn, damn, damn, this shouldn’t be happening.”

Wesley kicked gravel as he paced the grounds and listened to the murmur of his companions. It was almost his turn to talk to the cops, but he had no idea what he’d tell them.

As much as he disliked Chad, Wesley wouldn’t wish this on anyone. The fact that Chad was stabbed as he entered his RV scared the shit out of the people who stayed on the grounds. The park, where most of the racers and their families stayed, was considered safe, monitored by security guards, and no one else could get past the entrance.

Most racers disliked Chad. Wesley had imagined terrible scenarios that would put Chad out of racing for good. But murder?

Never.

And now he felt guilty about wanting the S.O.B. dead.

“I brought you something to drink.” Adam handed Wesley a cup of steaming coffee and Wesley nodded his thanks. He sat next to him, on the steps of a nearby trailer where everyone clustered.

He may have been burning up earlier, but now Wesley was literally freezing his balls off. He clenched his coat tight and held the cup close to his lips to inhale the steam and absorb the heat from the drink into his body. The buzz of conversation around him intensified as people wondered who it could have been and what would happen next. They waited as, one-by-one, they were questioned by the cops.

He considered calling an attorney. He was the one who had the most motivation, at least tonight, but everyone was being questioned and to call on an attorney would only make him appear guilty.

“Wesley Webb?” an officer called.

“Here.” Wesley set his cup on the steps and stood as an officer approached.

“We need to speak with you now.” The officer spun around, expecting Wesley to follow. Wesley winked at Adam before following, a sign between his crew that all was fine.

The cop appeared to be in his late forties. He hobbled as if he’d practiced the heel-to-toe test one too many times, or his coveted baton was stuck up his ass. A black beanie hid most of his face.

The officer stopped at a makeshift room designed to question people and didn’t turn to face him or introduce himself. The wind shifted and shook the barriers of the canopy tent-room, which was still exposed to the elements and onlookers, but cordoned off by anyone who might attempt to sneak in. Thankfully, the media was not allowed within the confines of the RV Park without permission.

“How long have you known Mr. Armstrong?”

The officer could at least introduce himself, but his gaze was bonded to a pint-sized notebook. He didn’t look up, not even when Wesley chose to wait a few breaths before answering. Call it rebellion, but Wesley didn’t like the cop’s attitude. Respect was a two-way street.

He’d play their game for now.

“We’ve worked together awhile now,” Wesley replied. “I’d say…four years.”

“Do you know anyone who would want him dead?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Would
you
?” The officer finally looked up and leered, his voice rising in a vain attempt to expose his sarcasm.

The name Landers imprinted his name badge.

“No, Officer Landers, I would not.”

“He gave you a motive tonight, didn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t call that a motive,” Wesley retorted, never breaking contact with those smug-filled eyes. “If it was, then every damned racer in this field would have a motive against each other.”

“Weren’t you angry at Chad? You blamed him for what happened. He caused you to wreck. Caused a lot of damage to your car, and you didn’t finish the race.”

“Happens all the time.” The anticipation still lingered within him on the final turn, when he tasted victory.

“You were furious with Chad for what he did. That alone gives you motive.”

This guy already pegged him a killer. “I was mad, yeah, but when that kind of shit happens, you have to deal with it next week, on the track.”

“You didn’t deal with it last time, did you? With that public display?”

“We had an argument that some of the press caught. It was nothing.”

“Do you have an alibi for where you were when Chad Armstrong was murdered?”

*

Caitlyn felt hung over the next morning, but she hadn’t had an ounce to drink. Probably would have helped her sleep if she had. Blake’s early morning phone call annoyed her. She needed coffee before she dealt with her boss. Her head pounded, but the cheap motel offered no in-room coffeepot. The lobby’s promise of coffee didn’t entice her either. The entire hotel smelled foul, she could only imagine the coffee tasted no better.

Every time she’d tried to sleep, Wesley’s car flipped over and over in her mind. His smoldering green eyes watched her from the background, abating into smoke when she’d finally managed to latch her gaze onto his. His gaze was the only way to keep her grounded, to keep her from imagining him trapped in the burning car. She dreamed of cars wrecking and burning so much last night that she’d actually smelled smoke.

“I want you to meet with someone this morning,” Blake said. “He works for Wesley and can get you in to see him.”

She swung her legs to the floor. “You have someone on the inside and you want
me
to do a story?”

“His name is Adam. He’s Wesley’s crew chief. He’ll take you to your interview with Wesley.”

She pressed a hand into her stomach and gulped. Wesley had agreed to an interview with her? Wesley was expecting her? Was he just as nervous?

Oh God, could she do this?

She chugged in a silent breath and slowly exhaled as old insecurities came rushing back. They’d been so close at one time, but she’d spent the last ten years with a huge hole in her heart.

Wesley. She was going to see Wesley.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “But you’ve got to find me a better hotel.”

After a quick shower in a grimy tub, she checked out of her room with the intention of sleeping at the airport if she had to and found a Starbucks where she ordered a tall caffeine laden cappuccino laced with cinnamon, sugar, and cream.