Race To The Altar

“Oh, I see,” she said, her teeth also grinding. “Just because I want to meet the man, talk to him, I want to go to bed with him.”

He rolled back out, barely missing her as she quickly jumped out of his way. “Now did I say anything about thinking you want to go to bed with him? Jeez, what’s wrong with you? I just wanted to let you know if you had any notions about flirting with him, he’s not interested.”

“And I’m not interested in him that way.” She was so tempted then and there to introduce herself and then say, By the way, you’re fired. The team no longer needs to swap work for race passes. They can afford to hire good help. Instead, she reminded herself he wasn’t worth getting all steamed up over.

She had not moved far enough away, and, once more, he could see up her skirt. Quite an eyeful, too, and he forced himself to roll back under, lest she see his heat show.

Just who was she, and what did she want with him? He was tempted to end the charade but was too mad—with her, but, most of all, with himself. After all, he had learned his lesson about women in racing. They either couldn’t stand the stress and got hysterical every time he spun out, afterward tearfully begging him to give it up, or they found somebody else while he was traveling all over the country.

He thought of Maggie and twisted the wrench too hard. It slipped and flew back to pinch his finger, and he swore.

Liz heard and teased, “Hey, you were right. I do hear somebody cursing.”

He ignored her and continued to allow memories of Maggie to wash over him, to bathe him in rationale as to why he was not about to let the cute redhead get to him. Maggie had sworn she loved him, sworn she wanted to share his racing life with him. He’d loved her, too, and so they had married.

Then a year later she left him for a guy with a steady job who came home for dinner every night.

After that, Rick promised himself that never again, while he was involved in racing, would he have a serious relationship with a woman. Those he went with just for sex knew that, but lately those times were getting further and further apart. Casual lovemaking had begun to leave him feeling empty and cheated. So instead he worked all the harder, trying to make his dream of becoming a competitive driver on the NASCAR circuit a reality.

Liz leaned in the car window on the driver’s side to examine the seat. “How come there’s a hole in the bottom?”

Rick did feel a teeny bit guilty when he brazenly asked, “Well, where do you think a driver goes to the bathroom when he’s on the track four, maybe five, hours at a time?”

Once again Liz felt her cheeks flame. “I…I hadn’t thought about that,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, they say NASA is interested in using the same type of toilet for the astronauts.”

“Well, that’s great.” She saw there was no ignition for a key to turn. “What starts the car?”

“See that button?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when the signal is given for the race to start, the driver pushes the button. That signals the control room, and another button is pushed there that starts the engine.”

That sounded strange, even to a novice like Liz. “Why go to all that trouble? Why not just turn a key like in regular cars?”

“Well, the officials want to make sure all cars start at exactly the same time so everybody gets a fair chance.”

Liz wondered if he was jerking her around. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. That’s what I’m under here doing now—making sure the wires to the button are hooked up like they’re supposed to be.”

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had time to eat lunch. “Where do the rookie drivers eat since they aren’t given garage stalls near the concessions stands?”

Rick blinked, sure he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“When I was asking where Rick’s garage area was, someone said he wouldn’t be near the hot dogs, because he’s a rookie. So I was wondering where there is to eat around here? I’m awfully hungry.”

He choked back a laugh. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back up front, because they told you right. Rookies don’t get space near the hot dogs. That has to be earned.”

Though he was silently laughing at how gullible she was, he began to feel mean. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking about those long, shapely legs and where they had ended the last time he accidentally got a glance up her skirt. But he couldn’t let her get to him. Not that way. The best thing to do was really get her hackles up so she’d leave. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you? I told you—Rick has a girlfriend. You’re wasting your time.”

“Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not some bimbo groupie chasing after him.”

“Then what do you want with him?”

“That’s between him and me.” Just then she saw the photographer she’d hired approaching and quickly ran to meet him lest he give her away. “The driver isn’t here, and I don’t know whether or not he will be. We may have to postpone this till tomorrow.”

He looked as disappointed as Liz felt. “Can’t do it then. I’ve got three shoots lined up before the first qualifying race. Everybody is wanting photos the first race of the season. There’s a drivers’ meeting pretty soon. Maybe he’ll show for that.”

She had forgotten about the meeting in her annoyance with the smart-mouthed mechanic. “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find him there.”

“Okay. I’ll hang around outside and look for you. Good luck.”

She returned to the car, planning to ask the mechanic to tell Rick Castles if he did return that she was looking for him. “Excuse me?”

From beneath, Rick saw her shoes and groaned. Whatever she wanted, he wasn’t interested. Maybe she was good-looking, but after his marriage had broken up because his wife couldn’t handle racing, he wasn’t looking for girlfriends at race tracks.

Just then someone called, and Liz turned to see several men, all dressed alike in blue pants and red T-shirts, rolling tires along as they came toward her.

Rick had not heard them and did not know anyone else was around as he came sliding out from under the car, face cold with fury. “You’re getting on my nerves, lady.”

He fell silent to see his crew chief, Mack Pressley. “See if you can get rid of her,” he snapped and disappeared under the car. “I’m sure as hell not having any luck.”

“Hi,” Mack held his hand out to Liz. “I’m the crew chief—Mack Pressley. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I—” She was about to introduce herself when she saw the tires they were rolling had no tread left, just like the ones already on the car. “What are you going to do with those?”

Mack exchanged grins with the other crew members, who, like himself, were intrigued by the pretty young woman wearing a media badge. “Well, you can be sure we aren’t going to tie them to a rope and swing from a tree. We just bought them, and we’re going to put them on the car.”

She was stunned. “But they’re no better than the ones already on there.”

Mack blinked, equally bewildered. “They certainly are. The others are almost ready to blow. That’s why Rick hasn’t taken the car out to practice. We had to go get these. We’ve got a new sponsor, and we just got the money from them today to buy the right kind of tires for qualifying.”

Beneath the car, Rick grimaced. If Mack kept talking to her, being nice to her, she’d never leave, damn it. And if she didn’t, she’d find out he’d been putting her on.

Liz continued to stare, not understanding about the tires.

Mack set the tire down and pulled a rag from his hip pocket to wipe his hands. “Like I said, I’m Mack, the crew chief.” He gestured to the others. “Bobby, Weyland and Jake. We’ve got to get these tires on, but if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them. We’re just so pleased for this sponsorship we’ve got with Big Boy’s Pizza, and it’d be nice if you could work their name into your article.

“Who are you with, by the way?” he asked over his shoulder as he bent down next to the car.

“Well, I’m not a reporter, I’m—”

She was drowned out by the noise of the jack lifting the car, followed by the whine of air wrenches removing the tire’s lug nuts.

“Sorry,” Mack said when it was quiet again. “Go ahead. What paper did you say you’re with?”