Page 175 of Trading Paint

The group of people beside us cheered and clapped, their eyes engrossed on the five televisions spread over the walls of the bar, all of them broadcasting the Richmond race, with Jameson leading. There were about five laps remaining, withheand Darrin all over each other.

“He’s not going to win.” Neil mumbled.

“Yes he will.” I finished the last of my beer and slammed the glass on the bar. I wanted it to make a loud noise to show how annoyed I was but with all the screaming, it didn’t make a sound.

With one lap to go, Jameson and Darrinwereside-by-side coming out of four when Darrin bumped him. I know Jameson’s dexterity, I know that ordinarily this would not have caused him to wreck, but he did.

The crowd went hysterical booing and some cheering. It was insane.

This wasn’t good, I sensed.

I just stood there staring at the screen in disbelief, anger rising within me creating airlessness. My first thought was pissed at this douche Neil for knocking my boy, listen to me,boy. I sound like I’m a fourteen-year old.

My second thought as I watched Jameson hoist himself on the window ledge was commiseration as was he was about to do something stupid.

The camera shot to him while he sat there on the edge of his window, his head hunched forward resting against the roof. Though his helmet was still on, I knew exactly what he was feeling. Particularly when his fist slammed down on the roof a few times before he threw his legs over the side, making his way toward the infield, his helmet still on.

As I said many times, I knew Jamesonvery well, better than I knew myself. Times like this he took the hardest because he was not only disappointed in himself but he felt as though he was letting his entire team down. Now it didn’t just consist of a few men, Riley Racing had about seventy-five people working for them on the two teams. All of them felt it when Jameson didn’t finish.

To give you an example of this—take Harry—the engine builder for both teams. So he spends around sixty hours a week working on the engines for the team. How do you think he feels when the engine blows? Not good.

Not only does Jameson not finish the race, but he has sponsors looking at him as to why he couldn’t finish the race. Jimi and Randy want to know why the engine failed and here Harry is wondering what the hell went wrong. Was it something he did? Was it the way Jameson was running the car? Was it an adjustment the crew made? It’s a mystery nonetheless but my point is not just one individual is affected if the car doesn’t finish well. They’re ateamand they feel it like ateam.

Knowing all that, I knew the weight that was on him each week. Every point is critical as every race is critical.

By now, Jameson had made his way to the pits and a news broadcaster was pushing a microphone in his face as he walked stalked to his hauler.

“Jameson?” the reporter struggled to gain his attention as he kept walking, “Can you tell us what happened out there? It looked as though he just came down on you.”

“I’m not real sure.” Jameson said edgily.

He had sunglasses on by that point so I couldn’t see his eyes to tell if he was upset or not. Who was I kidding, he was most certainly upset.

Jameson finally spoke but kept walking. “We had a run on him coming out of four but I couldn’t tell how close he was...next thing I knew...I was in the wall.” His voice sounded wrong, it didn’t even sound like him. The fact that his sunglasses were on frustrated me even more in that moment, I needed to see his eyes to know for sure he was okay.

Alley pushed him inside his hauler, which was probably wise.

I stopped listening after that, I didn’t want to hear them bashing Jameson so I turned to drinking. Before I knew it, Blake was holding me up as we walked outside. College kids lined the streets, partying as usual.

Knowing Tommy was in town, I sent him a text to see if he could pick me up as we made our way through the young boisterous crowd.

I was in no shape to be driving and I wasn’t about to leave with Blake.

Blake had other ideas when he followed me toward my truck, his arm slung around my shoulders.

“Don’t Blake, I need to get home.”

I caught a glimpse of his eyes, covetously glowing. But they were the wrong color. I wanted those grass green intensely jaded eyes. Instead I saw Blake’s muddy hazel eyes.

“You’re such a tease.” He groaned pushing me against my truck, his breath oppressively heavy against my skin, it felt wrong, very wrong.

Everything felt different, the hands weren’t the same and the smell wasn’t the same. Nothing was. Where there were soft hands, I wanted to feel the familiar calloused hands I knew so well. The smell theObsessionwas overbearing where Jameson never needed cologne and I worshiped the heady pungent traces of racing on him.

“I said no.” I pushed against Blake again.

My hands trembled against his dark shirt and I wasn’t sure how far he was going to push the issue. Not only was I impaired by alcohol but Blake had at least a hundred pounds on me.

“And I say yes.” His mouth attacked my neck with sloppy overbearing kisses.

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