Page 88 of Black Flag

Looking back on thatcomment, I was sure that didn’t include this. I was positive it didn’t and he’dsee my side to it.

Turns out, I was wrong.Who knew?

Kyle displayed a grim expressionstanding outside the hauler when I returned from the meeting with Gordon, a fewthousand dollars in fines poorer for my language and behavior toward theofficial.

“Your dad is gonna haveyour ass and a few choice words.”

My mood hadn’t improvedand I replied with, “Fuck you. How’s that for choice words?”

“Alwaysa pleasure.”He chortled walking out.

I thought Jimi wouldstorm in screaming and blowing a gasket but no, he said, “Do you want this? I’mnot going to keep fighting this battle if I don’t think you’re in it too?”

“I want what I’vealways wanted.”

And that’s all we saidto each other.

It was times like thiswhere I missed the days when nothing mattered but the next checkered flag. Now,well, it wasn’t so easy. Every decision held implications.

Dry Slick – Sway

With Jameson, thepossibility of verbal shrapnel wasn’t his concern. Racing was his concern.That’s the only way I could describe that race in Atlanta.

I must have, once again,bit off most of my nails waiting for him to come out of the NASCAR hauler.

My pit lizard dad,who’d been kicked out of the garage and then media center, strolled by with hispartner in crime, grandpa Casten. They didn’t pay much attention to Alley andme because they were focused on the beer garden.

“What’s with thosetwo?” Alley asked leaning against the side of the golf cart Kyle pulled up in.

“Charlie wanted to be apit lizard.” She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Don’t ask.”

Before I could explain,Jameson came out and tipped his head for us to get inside the golf cart. On theway to the media center for the contender’s conference, he said nothing untilwe got out.

Standing outside thelarge sliding doors, Jameson gathered my hands bringing them to his lips.“Let’s hope I make it out of here alive.”

The adrenaline, theemotion, and the disappointment were hard to control at times. Jameson knewthat well. I only wished the media saw that too.

The media asked theirstandard questions, how the car ran, how the drivers felt about their finishes,everything they usual asked in the post-race press conference of the top threedrivers. Then they opened the questions to the other reporters.

That’s when theconversations shifted to the fines and Jameson’s remarks to the official andreporter that got in his face. Gordon, the Director of Competition smiled whenhe sensed the turn. It seemed Gordon had just as much hate from Jameson thesedays as he had for him and enjoyed the feuds, usually fueling them.

No doubt, he was behindtheofficialscalls today on pit road.

The silence lengthenedas Jameson shook his head crossing his arms over his chest. Oblivious andunforgiving, these people surrounding us were seeing what they wanted to see; abeleaguered rookie’s temper tantrums.

Jameson remainedsteady. A faraway look angled his features. He didn’t offer the media muchinformation, but he spoke with passion of a sport that consumed his everythought. “I don’t race because it’s my job. I race because it’s my life. So yeah,I take these fines seriously and when someone makes a whim call on pit roadthat can ruin our day out there, yeah, I take that personally.”

“Daddy gonna bail youout of this one too?” The same reporter that called him a child asked.

The crowd in attendance,including me and Alley, froze and stared at the audacity of the reporter.

Jimi, who was standingnext to Tracy Burke, another cup team owner who’d taken Riley Racing under hiswing lately, shook his head in disbelief. His gaze darkened toward the reporter.

Jameson leaned forwardgiving the reporter a hard glance, his brow pulled together. “What was that?”

He followed up thisI’m-a-complete-douche-move by saying, “Well...I...uh,”when he removed his foot from his mouth.

Jameson said nothing morebut angled his gaze toward the door. The reporter knew he’d crossed the line.

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