Slide Job (Cameron Motorsports)

Cover Copy

Two people driven to succeed. One love decides the winner.

Sprint car driver Morgan Blade is willing to do anything to help save her critically ill father, even become a contestant on the new racing reality show. Once cameras start rolling, she realizes the cost of the prize money. Her most heartbreaking secrets will be revealed to a worldwide audience.

Secrets are Tyler Dalton’s business. Forced into producing one more reality show to fulfill his contract, he can’t wait to get the show over with and get on with his life. Controversy means ratings, and with one female contestant who isn’t afraid to give as good as she gets, there’s no doubt it’ll be a hit.

Tyler knows Morgan is holding out on him. When he begins to unveil what lies beneath her fiery facade, his duty to his job wars with his desire for the woman who has become more than just another contestant.

Cameron Motorsports Book One

Sutton Fox

First and always to Michael. Thank you for providing constant, unwavering

love and support, endless patience, and most of all for being my hero. And to

my son, a hero-in-training.

Secondly, to dirt racers everywhere. Around the country, week after week,

you never quit and you never give up. Watching the discipline, sacrifice and

passion with which you pursue the sport of racing is truly amazing. You are

my inspiration.

Chapter 1

Winning this might keep him alive. No, it will. Focus.
Morgan Blade brought the sprint car to a sliding stop, raised a blinding cloud of dust with the rear wheels, and hit the kill switch for the engine. Through the haze she watched her brother Damon run to the back of the car, fuel jug in hand. His girlfriend followed less quickly, tottering on her high heels, and carrying the red plastic refueling funnel.

Gloved hands on the wheel, Morgan waited impatiently for the fueling to be completed. Temper claimed her as she thought about how slow this fuel stop would be with Damon’s young girlfriend
helping
. There wasn’t time for this. She slammed her fists against the hard rubber in frustration. She needed to get back out on the track.

The car surged forward.
Whoa!
Pressing harder on the brake pedal to hold the car in place, she turned her head as far as she could with the restraints tight.
What is going on back there?
It felt like something hit the rear end of the car. The red funnel flew past her window opening to nose dive into the dirt. Even with her helmet on she could smell the fuel.

In the next moment, the familiar icy cold splash of methanol soaked through the back of her fire suit. Just as she realized what happened, a nest of hornets sprung to life across her shoulders. A thousand simultaneous stings of heat against her skin crawled down her spine, and had her waving her arms and screaming.

“I’m on fire! Oh shit, I’m on fire!” She jerked the catch on her safety harness, hoisted herself out of the car, and threw herself down on the ground away from the car. Panic seized her as she rolled from side to side in the dirt, arms and legs flailing, trying to put out the invisible fire.

“Get it out! I can’t breathe.” She gasped for air, clawed at her helmet, at the burning sensation on her back. “Oh God, I can’t get hurt, not now, not like this.” Intense heat between her shoulders made her roll over, squeeze her eyes shut and force herself harder into the dirt. Her arms thrashed wildly. Pain viciously bit her elbows to numbness. She pounded both fists and feet on the ground.

Strong hands gripped her, rolled her and sprayed her with a fire extinguisher. Fine halon particles seeped through the air ducts in her helmet. Fumes stopped her from rolling and made her cough. The hands no longer held her, so she opened her eyes.

Wait. Reason diluted the dark haze of fear. Her throat burned, but her back didn’t feel as hot as it had a moment ago. The fire was out. Relief swamped her and made every muscle weak. Covered shoulder-to-foot in the dry, hot Kansas summer dust, she lay on her stomach and tried to catch her breath.

She forced herself to her shaking knees and swallowed the nausea that thrust its way to the back of her tongue as she dropped back on her heels. She ripped off her driving gloves, feeling as if they were smothering her hands, constricting the blood flow to her fingertips. She released the buckle on her helmet, whipped it off and tossed it aside as she sucked fresh air into her starved lungs. It landed upside down in the dirt like a fire-engine-red turtle shell. Her throat burned from bile and chemicals. Tears ran down her cheeks and she swiped at them with trembling hands.

The coughing subsided as she eyed the crowd of people who had rushed to the rescue.

“Damon,
what
were you thinking?” she snarled at her younger brother, standing wide eyed, just out of reach. He was in charge of refueling the car. How had it gone wrong? She’d always joked that he would be the death of her; now it wasn’t funny.

Morgan unzipped her red fire suit and fought the rage that packed the holes where fear had been. She took a deep breath, filling her chest with much needed oxygen, and tried to calm herself. Inhale, exhale, one more time; okay, it wasn’t working. What else was new? Anger and frustration seemed to be her constant companions these days. If the car was ruined, she couldn’t afford to replace it anyway. They could never finish the series with only the spare chassis. She so didn’t need this right now. To get a head start on the rest of the contestants, she had to win this first race.

With her suit peeled down to her waist, she pulled off her Nomex undershirt, exposing her white sports bra to the gathering crowd. Other than the camera crew, the faces were familiar. She’d raced most of them at different tracks around the country for ten years or more. They’d seen her in less; they were like family.

“I’m sorry, Morgan. Kristi was holding the funnel, she lost her balance and—”

“What do you mean, Kristi was holding the funnel?” Morgan glared at the slim, half-dressed teenaged girl who balanced precariously on stiletto heels at Damon’s side, looking guilty. “Kristi is not, I repeat
not
, part of this pit crew!”

“I know. She just wanted to help.”

“Help what, you moron? Help get me killed?” Morgan got to her feet, spurred on by adrenaline, desperately wanting to hit something or someone. It wasn’t fair to take her anger out on some walking hormone of a teenager, but
damn it!

“Hey,” Lynn spoke up quickly. “Let me take a peek at your back.”

“Okay, give me a second.” Morgan glanced at her good friend of only two years and marveled at how Lynn could be such a constant peacemaker. It must have been a trait she picked up in nursing school, right along with patient care.

Morgan looked at Jack, her crew chief, standing there holding the fire extinguisher, relief evident in his eyes and his voice. “You okay, kid?” He’d worked for her dad as crew chief on one racecar or another for as long as she could remember. He was a fixture in her life, one of the few constants in her ever-changing world.

She nodded at him. “What went on, Jack? I pulled in for fuel and next thing I know, I’m a barbeque.”

“Sorry about that. I heard you roll in. Damon was pouring the fuel, and Kristi was holding the funnel in the opening. Then she fell off her high-heel, turned her ankle or something. Next thing I know, she pitches forward and lands smack-dab on the back end of the car, sending the funnel flying before I could reach her. Fuel went everywhere, and some must have spilled down onto the hot brake rotor. It lit up. Then I ran to get the extinguisher.”

“Thanks for saving my butt one more time.” She turned to address the crowd gathered around them and spoke to the circle of onlookers directly. “It’s all right, everybody. It was a flashover, a fuel spill. It’s all out now. I’m okay.”

The group, made up mostly of drivers and other pit crew members with work of their own to do, left quickly once they realized the danger of the fire spreading to their pit stalls was over.

Blinded by the white-hot sun, hanging low and merciless in the vivid blue sky, she shook her head and walked the few steps over to Jack, her eyes still watery. “Thank heavens it was only hot laps. We’ll just have to skip the last session. Check out the car. If it’s got problems, haul out the back-up. We’ve still got the heat races and a main event to get through.”

He moved closer, handed her a clean white handkerchief to wipe her eyes, and put his arm around her shoulders affectionately. “Are you sure you want to go through with this craziness?”

For just a moment, she leaned on him. Even covered in grease, Jack always had a clean white handkerchief to hand her. When she’d been a little girl, it had seemed like a magic trick. It still did. She rested her head on his shoulder and smiled.

She was tempted to crumble, to break under the pressure.
To run.
Run fast, and far away. But she wouldn’t do that this time. Never again. Her family needed her, now more than ever.

She reached deep inside, found her own strength, and straightened. “No, I really don’t want go through with it, but I’m the one who signed the papers.” She stepped back and looked him in the eye.

“What the hell was I thinking, Jack? I’ve committed the team to eight races and myself to all the bullshit that goes with it. I won’t go back on my word. Short of robbing a bank or identity theft, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears. Until then, this is all we’ve got.”

“Your dad is gonna be fine.” He tried to soothe her, stroking her shoulder. She gritted her teeth and tried not to wince at the pressure on her tender skin.

The last thing Morgan wanted to talk about was her father’s illness. It was no one’s business but family. They desperately needed the money; his treatments cost a small fortune, but nobody else had to know that. Hell, her dad didn’t even know. He thought the insurance paid for all of it.

Embarrassed by the brief moment of public tenderness, she glared at the camera crew, left behind like skunks at a picnic and about as welcome. She growled, “Not now, Jack. Let’s get on with it.”

Morgan motioned Lynn to follow her and stalked to the big shiny white hauler with a
For Sale
sign taped to the door. She swiped at the sign with her hand as she entered, and stood back for Lynn to pass. Quickly she stepped forward to block the entrance of the camera crew.

Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that they were just trying to do their job. She did her best to smile at them, but it felt more like baring her teeth. “I need a moment, boys. Contrary to popular opinion, my bare
backside doesn’t belong on prime time TV.”

Closing the door in their surprised faces, she moved around to sit on the edge of an overturned five gallon bucket and began untying her red suede driving shoes. “I could strangle that little twit!”

“Which twit, Damon or Kristi?” Lynn looked at Morgan with raised eyebrows.

Morgan pointed to the first aid kit hung on the wall next to a row of gleaming white cabinets. She watched Lynn rummage around in the kit and pull out two sterile gauze packages and a bottle of eye and skin wash solution.

“Kristi was only trying to help.” Morgan mimicked, batting her eyelashes and cocking her head to the side. “Help, my butt. I don’t even want to think about what else she helps him with. Did you see those stilettos, that mini skirt? Does she get that this is the pit area of a racetrack? A dirt racetrack, no less! The two of them can’t have a brain between them.”

“They’re eighteen. I don’t imagine brains enter into it. Stand up, turn around and get that bra off so I can take a look at your back.”

Morgan stood, grasped the lower edge of her sweaty sports bra and tried to work it over her chest. The back side quickly rolled up tight under her shoulders. “Give me a hand with this thing, will you? I can’t get it over my boobs.”

“This is a three ring circus. Let’s move on to the center ring. She drives a race car and can’t undress herself.” Lynn laughed, took hold of the sides of Morgan’s bra and worked it first over one breast, then the other. “How can you mash your boobs like that? Doesn’t it hurt? You should buy a bigger bra.”

“If I don’t mash my boobs, they get in my way in the car. Around here they also get in the way of conversation. Some day I want to have ears sewn on the front of my fire suit.”

“Look on the bright side: I don’t think they expect them to answer back, either. Feel free to ignore the idiots,” Lynn quipped as she wiped Morgan’s back clean with skin wash on a gauze pad. “Your back looks fine, it’s just red and a little irritated from the chemicals. No serious burns. I don’t suppose there’s a shower around here, is there? You really could use one to get cleaned off properly. You know, risk of infection and all that.”

Morgan did her best to ignore the cool sting on her tender flesh. She only flinched a little and hissed a breath out between her teeth. “There is one, but there’s no time to shower. Not if I’m going to make the main event. Sorry, your kind ministrations will have to do. We need to get out of here before the safety crew gets wind of this and starts crawling all over me. I’ve still got to race tonight. I can’t afford to miss a race—”

The ringing of her cell phone cut off whatever she had been about to say. She searched around in her gear bag to find her phone. She looked at the number appearing on the small screen. “Hello, my handsome father.” She smiled as she answered.

“Hello, darlin’. How’s my best girl? I’m missing her something fierce.”

“I’m good. I miss you too, Dad.” She did miss him being by her side, where he’d always been. Until…It didn’t matter. Things were different now.

“Good luck out there tonight. Hold your temper and you’ll kick their hind-ends all over the track. Afterwards, you bring Lynn to dinner, alright? We’ll wait for you down front.”

Although not as hearty as it used to be, his voice held command more than invitation
. “As soon as I’m done, we’ll be there. Thanks, Dad.”

She looked at Lynn, her eyes watering for the second time today. Now she had to be strong for him. She would be strong for him. “He called to wish me luck. They’re in the stands down front. They want us to meet them with the rest of the crew for dinner when we’re done.”

“How did he sound?”

“He sounded like a very tired and weak version of himself. He’s gone through six months of treatments. Shouldn’t he be better by now?” Frustrated again, Morgan dug through her bag for her extra fire retardant undershirt and a clean sport bra; angry all over again at the curve ball fate had tossed into her lap.

“I’m sorry, Morgan. We really are doing everything we can. He’s gotten well enough to make the trip here.”