Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (20 page)

His eyes, those piercing green ones that screamed sexy, scanned my body again.

“Sorry. It’s just been a while.” Before I could say anything, he swam to the other end of the pool.

We could hear Spencer snoring from inside the room. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing,” he began glaring toward the room. “The fact they can sleep through
that
or that we have to spend the next five months with it.”

“This is going to suck.”

“Yeah well, I just may kill him or Emma by the end of this.”

“You just concentrate on racing. Ignore them.”

He smiled from across the pool. “They’re a little hard to ignore.”

I swan closer when he held up his hand and chuckled.

“You better stay down there.”

“Still having problems?”

“Yes.”

We spent about an hour out there in the pool before we fell asleep in a pair of lounge chairs next to the pool.

When we woke up, he was still having issues so I suggested a cold shower, which he took me up on. He tried to get me to join him but eventually he took it
alone
to bleed his pressure valve as Jimi called it.

“What’s with him?” Emma asked when we were eating breakfast that morning.

“Spencer snored all night.”

“I didn’t hear anything.” She smiled. “I slept great.”

“Figures,” I muttered taking a drink of my orange juice.

Jameson plopped down beside me in the booth while Spencer and Alley, I assume, made use of some alone time in the room.

When we finished eating, we walked the mile back to the hotel room hoping Spencer and Alley were done. The thought wasn’t lost on me that this might have something to do with Jameson’s anger. His brother was getting some and well, he wasn’t.

“I’m thinking of getting my nipples pierced,” Emma said to no one in particular.

Jameson started coughing loudly.

I smacked his back.

“Emma
...
” I glared in her direction as she skipped along the sidewalk, pleased with making her brother uncomfortable.

Jameson pulled his cell phone out from his jeans.

“What are you doing?” I didn’t need to ask, but I did.

These last few days if Emma did anything to annoy him, he called home to try and convince Jimi that Emma needed to come home.

“I’m not going to deal with this shit.” He grumbled.

Emma being Emma, reached for his cell phone, retrieved it, and chucked it across the busy street.

“I’m sorry,” she offered when a truck smashed it.

“Listen to me,” Jameson growled at her while I held him back. “I let you come with us
...
I won’t feel bad about killing you.”

“I said I was sorry. You don’t have to be such an asshole all the time.”

“Emma,” I interrupted. “I would quit while you’re ahead.”

She didn’t. Emma never did. I think she lived for the moment when Jameson blew up and that he did.

The race in Chico was cancelled due to a rain out and that did nothing to help his anger. Then to top it off, Bucky called and wanted him in Indianapolis for a Silver Crown race in four days.

He was already scheduled for a World of Outlaws race that same day in Grand Forks, North Dakota at Rivers City Speedway.

With the way the schedule was this summer, he was racing three times a week
and
on Saturday nights.

I wasn’t sure how long he could keep up with it but judging by his temper flaring in front of me, the outlook was not positive.

“Jameson, calm down.” I urged when he started loading everything into his truck to leave.

He was slamming doors, throwing parts
...
just being the usual hotheaded Jameson.

“Calm down? Do you realize what you’re saying?” his voice had that same sour edge it did the first night.

“Since Bucky is paying you, just skip the Outlaw race.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this.” He ranted ignoring me. “I don’t want to be their goddamn puppet. I just want to race.”

“I know but you can’t back out of it now.”

“I realize that, Sway.”

“Well if you do, why are you throwing such a fit?”

Jameson hurled another bag in the back of his truck. It made a loud thud as it hit the bed.

“Just get in the truck. We don’t have time for this shit.” He huffed throwing another one over his right shoulder. “Where the fuck is everyone?”

Anyone who knew Jameson knew to stay away when his temper was surging. They were safely in the hotel room. “They’re in the room.” Without another word, I climbed inside the truck.

“Get out here! We need to go!” Jameson yelled at the room. “We have two days of driving.”

I got back out of the truck when he turned over the toolbox spraying tools throughout the parking lot.

A jet would be nice right about now.
I told myself but then focused on the bigger picture, getting Jameson to calm down.

For one, I was not riding next to this crazed asshole for two days and two,
well,
I didn’t have a number two. I just knew I wasn’t going to put up with his shit tonight.

“Jameson!” I grabbed his arm shoving him up against the truck. His hard eyes looked anywhere but me but eventually focused on mine. “Remember why you’re doing this.”

When his breathing had returned to normal, I knew the pressure release hadn’t been discharged nearly enough. This was only the beginning.

Yes, there were times when I wanted to punch Jameson for his outbursts; his lashing out at track owners; the temper tantrums in the hauler
...
I wanted to remind him how lucky he was just to have these opportunities because not everyone can race, but I never did.

Why?

Because he knew.
He knew because those same outbursts, the lashing out and the temper tantrums were
why
he was doing what he loved. It was because he believed so strongly in what he was meant to do that if he was black flagged, he took it personally. If he was wrecked by another driver, he questioned them. And if he didn’t win, he took it hard. All that emotion molded him to what he was becoming
...
the greatest driver he could be. That emotion made him real but more importantly
...
it made him Jameson Anthony Riley.

10.
      
Adhesion – Jameson

Adhesion – The “stick” between two touching objects. Adhesion implies a static condition, while traction implies a dynamic (moving) condition.

“Give me that.”

“No
...
I had it first.”

“I don’t care, it’s my truck
...
give it to me.” I barked and ripped the last energy drink from Emma’s hands.

“God, you’re such an asshole.”

We were only two days into the road trip and I wanted to kill myself. Emma sent me to epic levels of madness with her constant talking and stealing my shit. Alley was acting like my mother. Spencer on more than one occasion, made a wrong turn and Sway, well my dick was only the part of me that was annoyed with her.

We had to make it to Indianapolis by Wednesday so Spencer drove. If they would have allowed me to drive, we would be there already but I’d also probably be jail for speeding.

I spent a lot of the time with my headphones on so I didn’t have to listen to Spencer and Alley arguing. They got along fine most of the time but you put them in a car inches from each other for fifteen hours a day, you wouldn’t act normal either.

Sway and I slept a great deal—most of the time on each other. We took my truck, a 4-door Ford F250 so there was plenty of room in the back for us to sprawl out, until you account for Emma but we usually forced her to ride up front with Spencer and Alley.

Sleeping on Sway was doing nothing for my self-control, nothing at all. On top of that, I couldn’t do a goddamn thing about the constant hard on I had for the simple fact that everyone was around, all the time. When we stopped in hotel rooms, they were there.

I had a feeling Sway sensed this when she curled up in my lap for a nap before we reached Indianapolis and she felt the rock hard bulge under her head.

She giggled as always, “I think I should sit in my own seat.”

I groaned pulling a pillow on my lap and stared out the window. She was just wearing just a flimsy black tank top. Her bra was showing and this didn’t help.

“Good idea.” I mumbled refusing to make eye contact with her.

Eradicating Sway’s body out of my mind was a challenge that night but once I pulled into the pits, the smells of methanol and dirt calmed me and I was able to focus on the bigger picture and not think with my dick.

I wanted to ask Sway so badly if we could just have sex. Maybe that would subdue the need for her but then again what in the hell would that solve besides complicate things.

That night I raced in Indianapolis at the Lucas Oil Speedway, which is a 2/3 mile asphalt track. It had been a while since I had raced a Silver crown car so it took a few hot laps to get the hang of it. There was always a learning curve when you switched divisions but the good drivers adapted quickly. You had to or you had no business switching it up.

The biggest difference was the weight and the way that weight changed during the hundred-lap race. When you loaded the cars up with fuel to make it the entire feature, you had seventy-five gallons of fuel that wasn’t there at the end of the race.

Another difference was that a Silver crown car has a two-speed gearbox and an Indy style handheld starter. In order to fire it up, one of your crew members would start the car after you’re buckled in and then you’re on your way. If you stall in the race, you have to be pushed off.

Along with being heavier, they have smaller engines, a larger wheelbase and never run on a track smaller than a half mile. 

They took some getting used to. Not only did you struggle to push around a heavier car, you usually had to do this for a hundred laps. I was used to racing forty-lap features so I had some conditioning to do.

As soon as I pulled onto the track, everything felt right and that was a good feeling to have after the last few weeks. I was prepared both mentally and physically. I was unstoppable.

During hot laps, I was smooth, my lines were perfect and I knew I made fast time without even hearing it. When I slowed to a dawdling pace and made my way in the pits, I overheard the announcer.

“Ladies and gentleman, with a lap of 11.918, your new track record was just set by a kid who has never seen this place before, Jameson Riley driving the 9R Bowman Oil car.”

I grinned as did Sway and Spencer who met me at the trailer.

That was about the only good thing that happened that night. In the heat, I blew a tire. Fixed that but in the main, a driver from California, Alex Reed, kept pushing against me and eventually just drove me straight into the wall with eight laps remaining.

I had nowhere to go and ended up getting tangled with Ryder Christiansen and Cody Bowman (his uncle Walter owned Bowman Oil, my sponsor, but wouldn’t sponsor him), two guys who were also competing in all three USAC divisions for a chance at the Triple Crown, the champion in all three divisions.

After ninety-two laps of leading, I was beyond irritated with this guy.

I was pissed by the time I made it back to the pits, my thoughts raging and uncontrollable. I had a wicked temper and this wasn’t helping.

I didn’t even want to look at the car when I got out, knowing damn well there was a lot of shit broken. I had no idea what I was going to tell Bucky or Bowman Oil. First car they provide for us and it was junk now.

Having dreamt about this for years and now that I was starting out, I go and destroy my car on the first night. Well I didn’t, this Reed fucker did.

Pushing a USAC official out of my way and throwing my helmet at him was not the brightest move of the evening but neither was shoving Alex when I found him standing next to his car.

Next thing I knew, we were in an all-out pit brawl and I still didn’t feel any better.

Alex wasn’t much bigger than me but I got a couple good hits in before the officials separated us.

Sway and Spencer were in my face immediately.

“Jameson, calm down!” Spencer shouted pushing me back away from Reed and to our hauler.

“You’ll never be the driver Jimi is you little shit!” was Reed’s attempt at defusing the situation.

This only pissed me off because I was tired of hearing that goddamn it.

“I seem to remember being in front of you asshole before you took me out!” I knew I would have won that goddamn race if it wasn’t for him.