Page 9 of Happy Hour

Kyle joined Riley Simplex Racing around the same time as Jameson so it took a few races for them to get into a groove together. The turning point came when Kyle made the right call in Rockingham—that led to the victory.

Jameson respected him and you needed that in a crew chief. And let’s face it; Jameson rarely respected anyone besides his parents.

“Oh, you know. Still the same moody asshole he’s always been.” Kyle placed his arm around my shoulder leaning into me. “Although, once he found out you were coming, the boy was in a surprisinglygoodmood.” He hinted with a grin and a waggle to his brow.

Everyone on his team, and other teams for that matter, thought something was going on with Jameson and me since Daytona. Even though I wanted that, I denied the accusations, as did Jameson.

Annoyed at the invasion into his personal life, he would usually bark something along the lines of, “Fuck off, mind your own business.”

Our relationship did appear relatively strange. We hugged, held hands from time to time. Hell, we’d even made out on some occasions but it was always held to friend standards, for the most part.

Don’t get me wrong, there were times when Jameson and I explored with each other growing up but clothing always remained intact most of the time.

I say most of the time because there were times when my memory was a little faded due to alcohol consumption.

So from the outside, wecouldlook likemorethan friends. Either that or they saw right through my tough exterior and saw that I was madly in love with this man.

After the drivers meeting, I watched as a news reporter from ESPN approached Jameson after he finished up with Fox Sports.

“Hey Jameson, you got the pole. Do you think you have a chance at winning?”

“I think we have a chance.” His eyes dropped tipping his sunglasses down. “This No. 9 Simplex Ford is running great. Both practices we were up front. I would expect to see us stay up front.” He said leaning against the side of his hauler.

His weight shifted to one side appearing relaxed, his eyes told another story, which was why he slid the sunglasses down. There seemed to be an emptiness about him or maybe that was the defining edge of who he was and who he wasn’t in a sport that constantly tried to mold a triangle to fit within a circle. Since his first race, I witnessed this side emerging through interviews.

Some thought Jameson was just another cocky rookie trying to prove himself. The way he regarded other drivers and reporters, basically, anyone outside of his circle, wasn’t from arrogance but vulnerability.

Vulnerability uncharacteristic for a racer with his hasty clout.

“Now let’s talk about this hefty fine handed down this morning by NASCAR...”

Jameson hung his head, a slow shake revealed his aggravation. Just as the shifting of the wind, the tension crept over him. His left hand reached across his body running the backside of his hand down his jaw. In a gesture that seemed straightforward as maybe satisfying an itch, I knew the weight behind it.

“I don’t really have much to say about it.” He told them, his voice taking on a throaty rasp from all the interviews today.

The reporter continued to ask questions. Jameson snuck a drink of water running before his hand through his hair with a contemplative tug, his gaze focused past the reporter on the track.

He hated doing interviews, absolutely hated it. So it was easy to see the frustration as one reporter after another hounded him for interviews. I guess you had to keep in mind how quickly he went to a household name to understand his frustration with the constant media attention.

Growing up racing on dirt, he’d been measured one of the local boys even though his dad held royalty status among the racers.

Even when Jameson raced USAC (United States Auto Club), it was nothing compared to the attention he received once he was thrown into the Winston Cup series. When he won his second race at Rockingham, his lifestyle became just as fast as his driving. It was unbelievable the following he now had.

With the way NASCAR had evolved over the years, these guys were hounded like rock stars.

Watching him was also bringing out the pit lizard in me who was slobbering over every move he made, every wink he gave me, every tug of his hair, every crooked grin.

Let’s just say my rev limiter was working on overdrive trying to control my engine from exceeding its maximum rotational speed and exploding. I had it bad. But all things considering, I was okay with that—for tonight anyways.

The rest of the afternoon, we hung around in Jameson’s motor coach waiting for driver introductions to begin and catching up with everyone that I hadn’t seen since Daytona in February. Though just getting to the motor coach was a task.

To give you an idea of the following Jameson had now—it took about fifteen minutes just to make it to his motor coach with all the garage groupies wanting his autograph.

Let me take a moment here and explain the difference between a garage groupie and a pit lizard. A garage groupie is a teenage fan who knows nothing about NASCAR or even who’s leading the point’s battle, and usually only cares about the younger drivers. Now, a pit lizard is woman who hangs around the pit area, has a certain driver in mind and will do anything in their power to sleep with them.

Since I was twenty-two, knew everything there was to know about racing and only had one driver in mind—I fit the pit lizard category, sadly. The difference here was I wasn’t interested in just a one-time bearing assessment. I was looking for forever.Wedeserved forever.

When the garage groupies attacked Jameson on the way to the motor coach, he laughed nervously trying to sign everything they shoved at him and posed for a few pictures. When some fourteen-year old asked him to sign her stomach, I snickered beside him. He politely declined telling her she a little young for that sort of thing.

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