One Last Hold (5 page)

Four large file cabinets bracketed two small ones, supposedly storing every article ever printed though no one had access to the cabinets and couldn’t test that theory. Blake kept all his secrets behind lock and key.

“Our subscriptions have doubled since your article,” Blake continued. “We’ve received thousands of emails and followers, fans begging for more.”

Caitlyn waited, her posture rigid against the seat’s edge. Blake wasn’t finished.

“But people are begging us for more on Wesley. We’re posting teasers on our blog, but they want more.”

“So? I won’t do it.”

She was still plucking the nettles from her heart at her last visit with Wesley. Did he have to be so cruel? Did he have to pretend what they shared hadn’t been special, at least at that time in their life?

I’m at a different place in my life. I don’t need you trying to pick up things where we left off.

He thought she was after a reunion. Like she was that desperate.

The vinyl chair crackled as Caitlyn settled back and studied her boss. Blake’s chair engulfed him and he sat like a reigning king. Fingers steepled, elbows rested on his massive desk. Light purple drapes and dark-colored wood complimented his imperial but sparse design, a decor Caitlyn considered hideous.

“Should I send Patricia instead?”

Blake used the trick that worked on other employees, resorting to reverse psychology to get them to do what he wanted. If
she
didn’t do it, he’d send someone else. Someone else would receive the fame, the recognition, and may even gain a reward and a raise.

She wasn’t seeking fame or recognition, but she could definitely use the raise he’d promised. Her rent had increased and she hated the thought of moving. The house was near enough to work it didn’t take her an hour to commute. Plus, her gas-guzzling car was eight years old, and Blake was stingy when it came to raises.

This should have been an easy job. Approach Wesley, get an interview, and walk away.

“If you think she can get something none of the other reporters have managed, maybe it’s a good idea.”

“Some men prefer blondes.”

Caitlyn brought a hand to her own coffee colored hair and twisted it into a ponytail, but let it go since she didn’t have a holder to secure it.

Did Wesley prefer blondes? He never had before. “If you say so.” She was accustomed to Blake’s tactics by now. “I’ll give her all the information I know so far and she can go next time.”

“Is that what you really want?” Blake popped an antacid into his mouth.

“Would you stop?” Caitlyn seized the bottle he’d dug out of his desk. “I don’t know why you’re addicted to antacids and I don’t know what’s worse. This,” she shook the bottle in front of him, “or nicotine. You’re going to kill yourself. If you wouldn’t insult people and try to hurt them in the meanest way possible, you might not need these to get you through your day.”

Blake muttered a curse as he replaced the cap and stored the near-empty bottle in his drawer. Sometimes, Caitlyn missed the acrid smell of smoke lacing his office.

“I’m not sending Patricia. I’ve already promised the fans more. You’ll go and you’ll write a story on Wesley after each of his races, no matter what it says. A tweet here, a picture there, minor stories on the blog with longer weekly ones for paid subscribers. Building up to something better, like an exclusive interview from him. We’ll play this by ear for now but I expect it to take a least a month, maybe longer.”

“He wasn’t happy to see me, even told me to stay out of his life. It doesn’t help that I’m a journalist now.”

“Hmm, you should write about that, too. Write about his childhood. Here’s your plane ticket.”

Caitlyn waved it away. “No. No, I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

Blake ignored her pleas and dropped her stack of papers to the desk. “Your press pass and money. Oh, and I’ve made a reservation for you.”

“Where? The Hellacious Inn?”

She’d never told him no. They battled, they talked things over, she gave him her opinion and he listened, and sometimes she convinced him to do something different, but never had he forced her to do an assignment she couldn’t handle.

Until now.

“It isn’t the Hilton, but it’ll do,” Blake said. “I even obtained Wesley’s personal number for you.”

“How’d you manage that?”

He shrugged. “Connections.”

“You have connections yet you can’t use them to get your own story, or to get a better hotel?” Caitlyn rose from the chair. She should quit. Walk out. Find another job that wouldn’t punish her.

“My connections aren’t enough to get me anything other than a phone number. Your job is to get more.”

Caitlyn stopped and eyed a crooked picture. “You’ve placed me in an impossible situation. How do you expect me to do this?”

“You’ll do like you always do,” Blake replied. “Nobody has ever denied you before.”

“Yeah, well most people enjoy the spotlight. He doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s up to you to find out why.”

*

Caitlyn unlocked her apartment and stepped inside, dumping her keys and purse on the table beside the door. She’d prematurely ended her date with her best friend, Rayma, to prepare for her trip.

Besides, she didn’t want to sit there like a third wheel with Rayma and her newest boyfriend, Keegan. And who wanted to watch them bump noses and kiss all night while whispering to each other? Not her.

Although, she really needed a friend to talk to right now. Rayma would understand her anxiety and urge her to go for it. Rayma would pick up the phone, dial the number, and hand it to Caitlyn.

Rayma wouldn’t give her a choice.

Forewarning might help his attitude. She’d never dare show up out of the blue and ask for an interview with anyone else, so why do it to him? She always called her subject to arrange a meeting over the telephone so both parties were prepared.

Caitlyn bit down on her breath, exhaled, and dialed Wesley’s number, pressing send before she had a chance to back out.

Her pulse pounded as she questioned what she’d say.

“Hello,” he answered.

Hesitating, she swiped a sweaty palm on her thigh and prayed her voice would not shake. “Wesley?”

*

Wesley knew who it was the moment he heard her voice. Smooth like tequila going down but with an aftertaste that bit you in the ass. It wasn’t her voice that was hard to endure, but its effect on him.

No woman ever caused his heart to sink so far, so fast. “Yes?” he answered.

“It’s Caitlyn. I hope I didn’t disturb you.” She paused, and he imagined her drumming her fingers together, one of her quirks despite her grit. Then, he imagined her drumming her fingers across his chest. “Damn,” he muttered, then realizing he spoke aloud, said, “How did you get this number?”

“I was wondering if we could meet up sometime after your race on Sunday, or Monday if it’d be better.”

“How’d you get this number?” he asked again. This was his private number, reserved only for his team.

Caitlyn ignored him and ploughed on like she was reading a speech she’d written and rehearsed. “This is strictly professional. The magazine I work for is a weekly entertainment magazine based in Austin and the surrounding areas. Every few months, we focus on at least one, sometimes two, major celebrities and usually a mainstream personality also. Sometimes we join them in their daily schedule and write about it. If not, then we join them in whatever function they will allow us and they grant us an interview on their day-to-day living.”

She paused, and he detected a note of hesitancy in her voice. He didn’t mean to make this hard on her, but what did she expect? Wesley didn’t know what to think of Caitlyn and her sudden arrival in his life at the most inopportune time. And she’d threatened to write the story that could destroy him. How did he know she hadn’t already?

Maybe she and Chad were involved with each other and were going to blackmail Wesley. He had no secrets from her since she’d been such a big part of his life. She could have shared them with Chad even knowing how important it was to keep those secrets just that—a secret.

No, Stupid.
He knew Caitlyn better than that. Didn’t he? Sometimes, things changed. People changed.

He’d have to ask Adam if he’d given Caitlyn his number. If not, maybe Chad had it and gave it to her before he died.

“So which one am I?” Wesley asked. He couldn’t imagine Caitlyn harnessed enough evil to kill. He didn’t imagine her popping up ten years later, out of the blue, with a motive other than what she described.

Unless it was true about a woman being scorned. And if it was, shouldn’t he find out?

“Do what?” she asked.

“Am I major or mainstream?”

Judging by the websites out there, you’re pretty major.”

“Don’t think that just because we know each other that I’ll give you information I haven’t given the other journalists.”

“It’s not hard for anyone to find out anything about you if they truly wanted to. The thing is, with such little information out there, it’s easier for people to make up stories about you.”

“You know talking with the paparazzi causes made up stories.”

“I’m hardly the paparazzi.”

Wesley didn’t reply. Caitlyn knew his deepest, darkest secrets. She should understand why he was afraid and thanks to Chad’s antics before his death, the media generally hated him.

It hadn’t taken much to find out about her. She’d never been married, never had kids. It appeared her career was her life. Maybe his story was the spike in her career she was searching for. He’d be damn if he allowed his past mistakes known, no matter how much he owed her, and he feared that would happen.

Wesley shifted and pulled the phone a fraction from his burning ear. Her breath fluttered through the line. He shut his eyes, imagining her breath on his skin, and swallowed.

“Humor me, Wesley,” Caitlyn demanded. “I’ll come to every race for the next few weeks to appease my boss. You couldn’t prevent that from happening anyway. Then you promise to meet me sometime afterward to give me a short interview, so you can prevent the wrong information from being printed.”

*

Wesley thrust his right leg into the driver’s side window of his black and yellow racecar, pulled his other leg through and guided his body into the cockpit.

Everyone had shared a heartrending moment of silence in respect to Chad. Colorful banners displaying ‘Strong Arm’ flew across the stadium in tribute.

With Adam’s help, Wesley fastened his safety harness, tugging on it a few times to make sure it was as unforgiving as possible. He reached for his helmet, hooked up his fresh air blower, connected his earplugs and put on his gloves—all a customary procedure by now but one done with careful precision. His crewmembers’ diligence outside ensured nothing went wrong.

Wesley closed his eyes and shook off the images of Caitlyn, Chad, his past life, his fears, and a murderer on the loose. Now was no time to allow interferences.

He opened his eyes and petted the steering wheel. “Come on, baby.”

A disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker. “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

Wesley flipped the ignition and his 750 horsepower engine roared to life. The hum of the motor rumbled his gut and the odor of the engines plugged the air. A protective cocoon enshrouded him and he pulled on his safety harness one last time.

As he followed the pace car around the warm up lap, he held onto a deep breath, willing all his anxieties out with its release. The next few hours would be rough. If he didn’t get thoughts of Chad and Caitlyn out of his head, things could get dangerous inside his cage.
Shake it off. You got this.

His fans would expect a victory tonight, and he was going to give them what they wanted. And what he needed.

The green flag dropped and he stomped on the accelerator with full force. The track whizzed by. He paid careful attention to the turns, other cars gaining force on him, the track, and his spotter speaking to him through his earplugs. Despite everything he had to concentrate on, Caitlyn’s image skittered into his head again. She was out there today, watching him race.

Racing was the love of his life. He always wanted to win. With Caitlyn, his first love, out there watching him, his eagerness to win soared.

He wanted to prove to her that he was doing just fine without her.

Caitlyn snaked her way through a throng of people who’d braved cold weather to watch the race. The cars whizzed by on the track, muffled by her earplugs but reverberating low in her stomach. Whiffs of concession food blubber, mustard, and vinegar mingled with grease from the track, making her queasy. Even if she had been hungry, the thought of seeing Wesley after the race left her too anxious.

She returned to her seat and watched Wesley’s car. When he was in the pit stop, she zoomed in her camera’s lens and snapped pictures. When the white flag was raised, she stood along with the rest of the crowd, her bag with notebook forgotten.

After talking to racing aficionados and taking notes, she had a great idea for her next article from a fan’s perspective. She’d write a piece on the excitement in the air, the buoyancy from hoping the fan favorite won, the choking stench of burning rubber, the importance of at least cotton balls in the ears, and the people who braved the wind, cold, traffic and crowds.

The yells of the fans intensified during the last lap. Caitlyn stood with the crowd, screaming Wesley’s name as his car flew past the finish line.

First place.

To her own surprise, she jumped up and down and hugged the two people next to her. Obvious fans of Wesley judging by the signs they carried. Pride infused her as she snapped photos of him performing his victory lap.

Oh God, this was going to be harder than she thought. She longed for the right to say “that’s my man,” but that right had long since passed. This wasn’t just some stranger; this was the man she used to love.

Caitlyn flashed her press pass to enter the press box and was milled through the crowd. She was tiny in comparison to some of the people who vied for his attention, but was somehow thrust close enough that his presence assailed her. Colorful confetti rained down, but was soon drenched with champagne as Wesley’s crew sprayed first him, then the crowd.