Page 11 of Black Flag

“I know you do.”

The days followingJameson’s surgery for his wrist were for lack of a better description, acluster fuck.

It was now Wednesdayand the decision needed to be made who would step in for Jameson during theIndianapolis race. Jameson wanted Justin West to step in. The only problem wasJustin could only make Indy without interfering with the World of Outlawsschedule.

The doctors indicated thehole in his lung was healing, which meant the air escaping was slowlydecreasing but he still wasn’t healed. This meant he needed to find a driverfor Michigan and possibly Bristol before he could pass the physical NASCARrequired.

His room was constantlyfilled with doctors, the pussycat doll, reporters, and police detectives.Melissa and Marcus, representatives with Simplex Shocks andSprings,his sponsor in the cup series, made a visit to see how their driver was doing.Hell even Randy, Jameson’s uncle even came by to check on his nephew.

All of this pissedJameson off. You’d think he would be happy all these people were there to seehim, but no, all my dirty heathen could think about was sex...and more importantly...sex with me.

Every time someone leftthe room, he was back to molesting me with lingering touches, inappropriatekisses, and constantly whispering all the naughty things he wanted to do to me.

I was in pigizzleheaven. I was where a pigizzle went to die a blissful death, surrounded by mydirty heathen.

I was afraid he wasgoing to hurt himself with the way he would pull me against him but that neverstopped him.

At one point, I eventried threatening him. “I’ll call the nurse and have you sedated if you can’tsettle down.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” hechallenged looking toward my finger wavering over the call button.

“Behave then.”

Jameson groaneddragging his hand through his hair. “Fuck Sway...it’s been two goddamn weeks since I had any sort ofstimulation down there. Three if you count anything other than my own hand.”His eyes showed panic. “I’m going to go insane.”

I giggled. “You’readorable.”

“Shut up.” He snappedand continued to pout picking at his cast. “I’d settle for some micro polishing...?” he suggested south with a lazy nod,letting his voice get that particular drawl to it that he knew would leave meweak.

“Jameson, no...you’reinjured...badly.” I objected with a slight smile.“There’s no way I’m doing anything besides kiss you while you’re in thishospital.”

“So...no chance of bleeding my pressure valveeither...?” he gave me the sadpuppy dog eyes attempting to seal the deal.

“JesusChrist...no!”

“This is ridiculous.I’m injured.” He roughly pointed this out as though I didn’t know. “You shouldbe taking care of me.”

I made a firm rule thathe needed to be discharged from the hospital before we had sex. To say I washorny as well was a fucking understatement. My surplus hormones were out ofcontrol, I had an oil leak that needed a new filter, desperately. Don’t think Iwasn’t ready to ask nurse pussycat for a shot of valium, because I was.

I was also moments awayfrom climbing on top of him and riding the shit out of him, despite the brokenribs and punctured lung.

What was satisfiedimmensely was when Jameson showed absolutely no interest in the pussycat dollor any other nurse that snuck in to try their luck with him. And there weremany.

Tommy however, wasmadly in love with pussycat and asked her to marry him on more than oneoccasional. She thought he was adorable and actually gave him her number.Crazy lunatic.She must have liked orange heads and men withthe mental maturity of an eight-year old.

Jameson was a crankyjerk by the time Sunday rolled around and he was forced to watch the race ontelevision—something he’d never doneuntilnow.

I actually had to leavethe room a couple times and beg the nurses to sedate him, or me, when he wasyelling so profusely at the reporters that I honestly thought he was going togive himself a heart attack.

Everyone in the NASCARgarage knew exactly what happened and that Darrin intended on killing Jamesonthat day in Pocono but the media painted a very different picture.

They went through everypossible scenario from maybe he was testing something out on his car; maybe hedidn’t realize Jameson was on the track; to maybe Jameson shouldn’t have stillbeen on the track.

Bullshit...all of it bullshit.

Darrin Torres knewexactly what he was doing when he pulled off pit lane and hit Jameson’s car atapproximately one hundred and seventy miles per hour.

That was not a goddamnfluke. It was intentional.

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