Ever Fallen in LoveBy: Wendi Zwaduk
Took me six years, but I finally got it to the light of day. Feels pretty darned good.
BW—thanks for the info and the race. Totally worth it.
CM—CP, proofer, BFF—wouldn't be here without'cha.
JPZ—I don't think I'd ever fallen in love until I met you.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Talladega Superspeedway: International Speedway Corporation Chevrolet Impala: General Motors Corp.
Chevrolet Camaro: General Motors Corp.
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company Pepsi: PepsiCo, Inc.
Homestead Miami Speedway: International Speedway Corporation
"Just once I'd like to catch a God damned break.” Tucker Poston had pulled into his garage stall and wrenched his race helmet from his head. “Bastard knew I was there and still shoved me into the wall.” He tossed the safety gear out of the window. “This shit has to end. I'm tired of racing crashed cars."
"Just like Cline knew you were there the week before, and yeah, the shit has to end. I'm tired of replacing crashed cars.” Guy Turner tapped on the roof of the car. “Get out, Poston."
Tucker ground his teeth together. Just what he needed...his ass handed to him on a platter. He wriggled out through the window. “Mr Turner, I swear—"
"Spare me the excuses."
Raking his fingers through his hair, Tucker glanced at the midway. Although he heard Guy's rant, the words didn't register above the roar of cars thundering down the backstretch. The tangy scent of race fuel and motor oil permeated the air. A whip of late-October breeze caressed his cheek. He noticed none of it after the flash of chestnut hair caught his eye. He shifted position to keep her in view, using the guise of removing the rest of his safety gear. He had to see this woman again. Make sure it was her.
"Are you listening to me?” Guy stepped into Tucker's line of sight. “She'd better be cute."
Tucker stared at his car owner. “What?"
"I know you ain't gettin’ any—when you do, you race well. Eighth place doesn't win races. So I am to assume you're checking out a woman.” Guy turned and whistled. “Holy shit."
"What?” Tucker tugged the zipper on his uniform down and flapped air into the suit. October in Virginia wasn't that hot.
"You're staring at Megan Rodney."
"Nah,” he lied as he rubbed his eyes and caught a flash of her face in his mind. Megan. Heat stirred low in his belly. Memories of Megan and their past rushed into his brain—the taste of her kiss, the tickle of her hair on his cheek, the low tone of her sigh when they made love.
The moment he told her goodbye.
"I oughta set you up with her. She needs a good lay and you need to get your head out of your ass."
"Sure, sell me for parts.” In Megan's hands, he'd willingly offer whatever parts she wanted. His cock, his mouth, his tongue... Damn. If he didn't get his priorities straight, he'd be caught in the middle of the garage with a hard-on.
"Shit. You ain't got any parts she could use other than someone to direct her team. Women don't need to own race teams.” Guy threw his hands in the air. “Since we're in the garage area, why don't we talk cars? Got any ideas for how we make your speeds better? I'd love to have both my cars finish the race for a change."
Tucker turned his back on Megan's position. The cars. Right. Focus on something other than his cock or his irritation towards Guy Turner. “Maybe we should share equipment like you promised at the beginning of the season. Boyd's team could stand to share their findings once in a while.” He followed behind Guy as he strolled away. “I can make things work if I have the right equipment."
Guy stopped at the second car. “Lower your voice.” He groaned. “You make it sound like I give you shit and expect miracles."
"My rear end gear broke in two straight races. Makes me wonder what you are giving me."
"You want good stuff? Prove to me you can handle it. Boyd gets better stuff because he's twenty-three and winning. I put the money where the performance is."