Page 17 of Wrecking Boundaries (SteelTrack Racing #2)

Martinsville Speedway

“The rumors are true,” I say, climbing into the hauler. “You weren’t expected until tomorrow.”

This is the third time this season he’s shown up on a Saturday.

Bert is inside, ruffling through the snack drawer. “Do we have anything saltier?”

The cooked meals are a feast, while the provided snacks tend to be healthy. “Probably not.”

“I have some business today,” Bert says, responding to my earlier comment. “Great performance during quals. It’s always a joy to see how far you’ve come.”

We’re alone, and Bert seems gripped by a bit of nostalgia. Sarah suggested I talk with him two weeks ago, and I’ve been looking for an opportunity ever since.

It isn’t easy to plan a spontaneous conversation.

“Thanks. Why was I offered a one-year contract extension? That makes sense for the rookie, considering he’s yet to prove himself. For me, it’s total bullshit. What’s going on?” I lean against the counter and wait for an answer. My body language says casual, while my words are not.

Sarah’s directions were to use our longstanding relationship to get answers. She probably meant a softer approach, but it’s not how we typically communicate. He’s been respectful enough to tell me when I’m a dumbass, so I’m returning the favor.

Besides, my fast question will make bullshitting me more difficult, though I don’t worry about that very much.

Bert falls onto one of the narrow stools. “I’m surprised you waited so long to ask.”

“Rumors are starting. I’d prefer to hear it from you than some unnamed source in a news article. Should I be worried? I’m wondering because how you’re acting says I should be.”

Bert looks away as a creeping flush grows up his neck, cheek, and forehead. “I hope not, Jake. We’ve been together your entire career, and this isn’t how I want it to end.”

A knife stabs me in the gut. There were hints of a problem, but a blunt confirmation still hurt. “How long do I have? The full season?” That gives me time to race under a new team or, with luck, under my own.

Bert nervously wipes his hair forward, turning it into an odd sort of flattop. “Longer, I hope.”

That doesn’t make sense. If rumors spread, employees will start running for another job. No one with sense will stick around because of empty promises. There’s no point in further discussing a contact. “How long?” Another stab hits me, and I sit down.

“Jake, before I go on, you must understand this is in confidence. Your racing career began with BPR, and in all that time, have I ever lied or misled you?”

I shake my head to show my agreement, while a part of me thinks confronting him implies at least some level of misleading. “I hope you respect me enough to keep it that way.”

“Sit,” he says.

Bert nods to the empty chair next to him. I reluctantly do so. People tell you to sit before delivering bad news, and I never understood why. The warning makes people anxious and doesn’t make the bad news any easier. Let people pace; it gives them something to do.

I was asked to sit down for a talk the night my father died. No one asks their teenage son to sit down for a midnight chat unless a parent dies or they wrecked their first car. Sitting down makes sharing the news easier while doing shit all for the recipient.

Sitting makes it easier for the one sharing the bad news.

“Be blunt,” I say and stand. The hauler doesn’t allow much space to move, but it is an improvement.

“I don’t know. Pierce isn’t getting the expected returns and wants to put his efforts elsewhere. I’m negotiating for time.”

Bert’s face is a tomato again. In someone else, it might indicate a lie. With Bert, it hints at his emotions. He’s being honest with me.

“If he wants to quit, then what good is extra time? Let people know so they can prepare.”

Bert leans back in his chair, resting his hands on the armrest. He taps a foot, and the chair leans back. “How long have you been racing? Fifteen years.”

“Sixteen. We signed two years after I started.” A great day is now complete shit.

“Surely, in all that time, you’ve figured out that the more laps that remain, the more time to make a play.” His face twists, although I can’t tell if that’s disappointment in me not getting it or the entire situation. It’s probably both. “Sometimes, you get a caution, and it goes to overtime. Those last two laps make a difference.”

He’s right, and I shouldn’t forget it. My performance is good enough that another team would pick me up. This isn’t the end of my career; it’s a setback at worst. I also have Sarah safely tucked away, working towards something for us both. BP Racing’ s downfall might be what helps me launch something new.

Many people back at headquarters aren’t so lucky. Hell, the new rookie isn’t as fortunate. His time in Cup is probably finished.

“What about you?” I ask. All the talk of time and extra laps will help others. Bert isn’t driving and won’t be asked to work for another team. If BP Racing finishes, his time in motorsports is done. “If the worst happens, what does that mean for you?”

Bert’s head drops, and it’s all the answer I need.

∞∞∞

I dive across the trailer before the phone stops ringing. “Hey, Princess. It’s a little early for your call. Did you miss me?”

“Jake?” asks a woman’s voice

Shit. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“Princess? I’d like to hear that story, especially if it’s serious enough to give her a nickname.”

I’m trying to get her to fall in love with me, and I’m using a fake online profile to do it. Also, it’s a secret affair because her brother and I desperately want to rip each other’s faces off. “It’s only a few dates, so there is little to tell.”

“Oh, well, that sounds exciting,” she says, except the disappointment in her voice implies otherwise.

I’ve never brought a woman home to meet my family, not once since my dad died. There was never time for any relationship, and maybe I was waiting for Sarah.

“What’s going on?” I ask, wanting to change the topic to something on safer ground. “The property deed should have arrived. ”

“It came in the mail yesterday, thank you.” Julia Knowles’ house now belongs entirely to her, which is a relief to us both. “My job is going well. They’re training me for a promotion later this year.”

“I thought that was part-time,” I say.

“It was. Two of the girls are away at college, and the other two don’t need me hovering.”

“You’re raising them, not hovering,” I correct. There were four young kids in the house, all of them needing childcare, when my father died. That need limited her job options for a long time, making our difficult situation worse. “If you need more money, I can send some.”

“We don’t,” Mom says sharply, and I decide not to protest. “It’s not just work; it gives me responsibility. I enjoy it. Besides, that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What’s wrong?” If it’s not money, it’s one of my sisters, probably Josie.

“It’s Josie. I discovered a paystub in a pair of her jeans.”

I smile, pleased. “We spoke a couple of weeks ago. She’s like me.”

“Jake, she’s failing two classes.”

My smile drops. “I didn’t know that.”

“You aren’t expected to.”

I should have known. “I’m in Virginia this week and then back out to Texas. It should be sooner, I know, but I’ll come talk to her.”

Derek enters the trailer and waves. He immediately opens the fridge and pulls out a cold beer. I never drink before a race, but always keep some in stock for visitors.

He motions with one hand, expression dark.

“Mom, I’ll call you once I’m back home. Love all of you.” I toss my phone on a table and sit across from Derek. “What’s wrong?”

“Joey Fisher was caught yelling at his crew again after inspection. I get he’s under pressure, but so is everyone else.”

“He tried negotiating an early contract renewal, but it didn’t go well. It looks like he’s taking that out on others. Give him a few years to mature, and he’ll improve.”

Derek grunts.

My phone dings.

Sarah: Back in my room. Bring me dinner, or don’t bother wasting my time. I have better things to do.

I bite my lip, trying to decide on a response—something romantic but also a little crass.

Jake: Dinner. Dessert is my dick.

Sarah: You’re disgusting.

Jake: You enchant me.

Perfect.

“Is that her?” Derek asks. “It looks like I’m hanging out alone again tonight if that hangdog expression of yours is a clue.”

I bite my lip because he’s not wrong and smile. “We have plans.”

“Do any of those plans involve telling her you have a fake online persona she enjoys talking with?”

“I deeply regret sharing that plan with you,” I saw with only a tiny amount of petulance. “That’s already solved.”

“How?”

“Soon, Martin will send her a message asking if they can get more serious.”

“You’ll send her a message,” he corrects .

“Don’t get technical. She and I will declare our feelings to each other soon, so she’ll say no. He’ll take it like the honorable man he is, and she’ll never hear from him again. Problem solved like that.” I snap my fingers.

It will work. Sarah’s interest in Martin has dropped substantially since our relationship picked back up. She still sends him messages, but they’re less frequent and more impersonal.

I also want her to end it, so she’s in control. She may be hurt if Martin does it, and I don’t like that, especially after what she shared.

“And her brother?”

“We’ve mostly been professional this season, so he has no reason to be upset. What else is there?”

“You’re on a different team. That doesn’t go away.”

That might change, too. My plans with Sarah remain a secret and will remain so for a while longer. Besides, Bert asked for my discretion, and I’m reluctant to betray him. There’s a chance everything could change, maybe even in a big way. Plus, if I move to a new car, Derek will come with me. There’s no point in raising further alarm.

This is all true, and a niggle of doubt still pricks.

Derek stares at me for a very long time. “You’re a big fucking idiot.”

“No, I’m just your average race car driver with a winning plan.”

“You realize plans fail all the time, right?” he warns.

“Not mine. Enjoy the trailer. Eat whatever you want. I’ll be back in the morning.”

∞∞ ∞

Sarah lies on her stomach across the bed, her crossed knees swinging. She wears an oversized T-shirt and nothing else.

“How many disguises do you have?” she asks, frowning.

Pride fills me. This week, it’s fake glasses and a mustache. “I stumbled into a costume shop and cleaned them out. It’s funny, right?”

“It’s really not,” she says, but her lips turn into a lazy half-smile, and a quiet snort escapes.

“There’s something else for you,” I tell her.

It’s a surprise for her, and a gift for me.