Racing Hearts Page 3

  After one last look in the direction of Jack and Isla, Derek chuffed. “Well, let’s get scraping, then.”

  D.J. Lancaster was a rotund old man with rosy cheeks and a short fuse. He was nearing eighty, although his looks and attitude made that hard to believe. The man was a living legend, having raced in nearly thirty 500s, winning three of them. The All-American Special had been pieced together in his garage and pulled to the track in 1958. He barely qualified the car, but managed to drive the wheels off and finish in third in his first attempt. It took another five years before he could drink the victor’s milk, then another ten, and his last win came in the late seventies.

  He ran his last race at the age of 54, making him the oldest competing driver in the 500. After retiring from behind the wheel, he led a team from behind the pitbox. All-American Pro Racing was a scrappy, lower tier team that struggled year after year but had a dedicated following among racers and spectators alike. In motorsports, they were David. Goliath was the unstoppable force known as Team Kedzie.

  Bobby Kedzie ran the most successful team with the best sponsors and drivers. They were a force to be reckoned with, holding nearly twenty Indy 500 victories. Jack Savage was one of four Kedzie drivers. The other three were just as fast and competitive, and Chance hadn’t even bothered talking with that team. AAPR had the funds for only one driver and one car. No backups, no contingencies, and unfortunately for Chance Pierce, no vacancies, either.

  D.J. pulled the stub of a cigar from his mouth, dropping it onto his paper plate. “Sorry, D. The kid we got from Canada is a rising star.” He let out a jovial, Santa-like laugh. “I think you might be acquainted.”

  The large man shoved himself up from the folding chair. They were under an awning beside a large hauler containing the AAPR car and millions in equipment and computers. He dropped his plate into the trash.

  Chance knew who D.J. referred to. They were far more than acquaintances. Billy Moore and Chance Pierce were teammates at Lentz Brothers, and before that, the two learned and raced together in the IndyLights series. The young Canadian was insanely talented, and he looked up to Chance like a mentor. A gust of emotions blew through Chance. Jealousy, anger, pride, and a sick sense of irony stirred in Chance’s mind. No one deserved the seat more, and he knew that. Billy could be a champion some day, and AAPR could be the team to do it.

  “Billy is a good bet, D.J. He’s a solid driver who doesn’t take unnecessary risks.” Chance’s words were true, even if they betrayed his own interests.

  After a groan at the three steps into the hauler, the old man grinned. “Ain’t a bet. Billy’s a sure thing that’s just gonna take some time.”

  Chance’s face must have shown the disappointment, because D.J.’s voice dropped. “I’ve seen what you can do, and if we could afford a second car, your ass would be in the seat, guaranteed.”

  “I need a ride. You know I can bring it home, but I need a ride to do it.”

  “Chance, we both know there’s no free seats up and down the paddock. That’s why you’re here. We’re the bottom of the heap. We both know that’s true. If you can’t get a ride here, you can’t get a ride. The truth is a cruel bitch, but she’s still the truth.”

  Disappointment slammed into Chance, a twisted wreck of damage.

  “But...” D.J. dragged out the word, leaving Chance hanging on. “I do have a job opening. It’s a demotion, but a demotion is better than unemployment.”

  “Development driver? Billy doesn’t need one. He can nail a set-up after just a few laps on track. Not that I’m turning you down--”

  D.J. raised a hand, knuckles swollen from eight decades of hard living. “Hate to say it, but driver ain’t in the title. We had a mechanic with a pregnant wife. Apparently the baby came two months early, and he had to split. I know you can turn a wrench, and it keeps you at the track. Don’t say no. I know you can’t say no.”

  The old man chuckled with a sad smile.

  Chance stared at his shoes. D.J was dead right, there was no way he could say no. After stopping at every team up and down pit road, he heard nothing but no. AAPR was his last choice, and it wasn’t even for a ride.

  “What d’ya say, Chance? We got a shot to win this thing. Small shot, but a shot nonetheless. Come join history.” D.J. lowered his hand, opening it to shake with Chance.

  Chance had done enough interviews to hide his true emotions at the drop of a green flag. “Who can say no to that kind of offer?”

  The two men shook hands, neither knowing just how momentous the agreement would be.

  Another bright and early morning. Three days in, and it wasn’t any easier at all. Heather decided that there was no getting used to the early morning calls. The two-car garage felt more drab every day. Leaning a shoulder against the wall between the two open doors, Heather tried not to let any of the scenery get to her. The bright yellow shirts burned her vision so early in the morning. Work would be a drag through broken glass, but at least it would be done in three weeks.

  “Things are pretty slow today, you and I could probably disappear for a few minutes." Robert spoke from behind. Heather didn’t turn around, letting Robert’s breath frolic over her neck. Closing her eyes, Heather suddenly didn’t think her situation was so bad.

  Even though she knew it was wrong, there was something exciting about flirting with her boss. At least that helped pass the time.

  Laughing him off, Heather shot for the coffee maker. The dirty, worn machine was her best friend. Until that first cup of coffee hit Heather’s lips, she was practically dead to the world.

  An older man’s voice broke Heather’s concentration. “Christ, is that rain?”

  Coffee in hand, Heather turned to look out the open garage doors. The question must have been rhetorical, because the skies had opened wide. Large drops of rain fell, splashing into the dirt packed by thousands upon thousands of footsteps outside the two-car garage.

  “Please tell me we don’t have to work in this.” Heather spoke to no one in particular as she took in the deluge.

  Robert’s chuckle answered the question. She turned to see him with a cardboard box in his hand. He tilted it down, and Heather saw that it was filled with plastic ponchos. The day was going to be misery.

  “Are you kidding?”

  He shook his head. “Afraid not. The rain is supposed to clear up by mid-morning, and that means they’ll be on track.”

  Heather was nervous that some of the other employees might catch on that she was getting special treatment. Instead of walking through the muddy field to the north parking lot, she rode shotgun on Rob’s golf cart.

  So what, she told herself. This job is temporary, and it kinda sucks.

  The rain had lightened, but it was still a steady constant. Heather did her best to keep her back to the weather. Even still, she could feel the cold and dampness seeping in. The outline of her Texas silver necklace was cool against her skin.

  Just after eight in the morning, her phone vibrated, snapping Heather out of an hours long daze. She looked up at the low clouds racing across the sky. The sun was up, but the rain kept things gloomy and dark as far as she could see.

  What time are you off work 2day?

  Josie was up awfully early, pushing Heather to think something might be wrong. She texted her best friend back, asking if she wanted to get together.

  Things were fine, but Josie missed seeing Heather. She could sympathize. Going to bed at nine PM was really taking a toll on her social life. She was firing off another text to Josie when Rob pulled up.

  “Break time. Come on, let’s get you out of the rain for a little bit.”

  Heather slid her phone back into her pocket and hopped into the passenger seat. “Thank god.”

  They drove down to the grandstands, with Heather’s phone buzzing almost constantly. She pulled it out, laughing at the list of bars Josie wanted to hit up. The girl acted like she had just gotten out of prison. Heather replied, giggling as she did.

  “What�
��s so funny?” Rob leaned over, his eyes on her screen.

  Heather hit the Home button. “A friend of mine is going stir crazy. She wants to go out tonight.”

  “Mhm. I see.”

  Heather cocked an eyebrow at Rob’s tone. His eyes were still on the phone, but she let it go. They parked beneath the stands, out of the drizzle for the first time in hours. Heather still had a chill deep in her bones, but it was nice not to feel that constant drip on the thin plastic over her head.

  She pulled the pancho hood down, shocked when Rob’s hand pulled her lips to his. It was sudden and hard. Heather didn’t fight it because the action caught her so off guard.

  When Rob pulled back, there was no smile on his face. “What’s up? It’s like I’m kissing a dead fish over here. We don’t have much time, so we gotta be quick.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was just surprised is all.”

  The smile came back to Rob, but it was strange, a little off.

  He leaned back in, and this time, Heather’s hands wrapped around the back of Rob’s neck. She smiled as their lips met, excited for the thrill of making out in the rain, not to mention that they were at work, and Rob was Heather’s boss.

  His hands traveled down to her hips. They crawled beneath the plastic poncho. Rob certainly was moving fast. Her heart and mind tried to keep up. It was exciting, but Heather felt like she was on a roller-coaster hanging on for dear life.

  Josie sent her another text, the phone lighting up in her lap.

  Robert pulled back. “Oh, what the hell? Seriously, what is so important, huh?”

  Heather tensed. “It’s my friend. What’s your problem?”

  “It’s a real mood killer, you know?” The fire behind Rob’s eyes had changed to something far less passionate. The fire was anger.

  “Mood killer? We’re making out on a golf cart. It’s raining. I’m wearing a garbage bag, Rob. What mood?”

  Robert slid from the golf cart. “It’s a guy, isn’t it? I knew it. I knew this was bound to end in heartbreak.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Heather felt like she had taken a hard slap to the face. Rob was a completely different person. He flashed into an angry, illogical jerk.

  Rob threw his hands up. “You’re unbelievable.”

  She was struggling to hang onto the conversation. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.” Rob sat down in the drover’s seat and backed the golf cart up. “I need to cool off.” He sped past her, back toward the parking lots.

  The early morning rain had gone, leaving behind the steam to rise up from the pavement in the morning sun. It had been a long time since Chance had bloody knuckles. His father’s had been scarred over from years of wrenching. His daddy had worked hard to make sure Chance never had to earn his living as a mechanic. Sully would be spinning in his grave if he knew what his son was doing to make a living

  Chance didn’t mind, though. He knew it was a means to an end. The 500 was special, and special things happened at the 500. Drivers came and went all the time. The second a seat opened up, he’d be there, helmet and gloves in hand. His ear was always to the grapevine, and Chance knew that a few of the smaller teams were having difficulties. Drivers could be divas, and most teams budgets didn’t allow for greed.

  He wasn’t in it for the money. In fact, Chance was willing to pay for his seat with every last dime he had. Chance didn’t race for the prize money. He did it for the same reason he had no problem wiping the blood from his hand with a greasy rag. The love of racing drove him.

  “Catch yourself?” Kiwi stepped past Chance to open a sliding drawer on the toolbox.

  Chance shrugged. “The ratchet slipped. No biggie.”

  After pulling out a pair of pliers, Kiwi lifted his hands. He wore thin black gloves, a few of the fingers worn through. “Live savers, I swear by ‘em.”

  Chance grinned. Kiwi’s New Zealand accent never failed to lighten the mood. “I’ll see if DJ will spring for another pair.”

  “Good luck. He wouldn’t even give out a penny for your thoughts.” Kiwi headed back to the gearbox he had torn apart. “Just head over to the vendor garages. Impact has gloves for less than a tenner. With that, Kiwi disappeared back into the gearbox rebuild. During one of Billy’s rookie orientation runs, he felt a vibration in the higher gears. Kiwi was tasked with breaking the gearbox down to every last individual part looking for the issue. It was a painstakingly long job, but Kiwi took on every task with a smile.

  Outside the garage, the morning rain had cleared, the puddles drying up and rising from the pavement. The sun warmed the chill from the air. Stepping outside, Chance tossed the rag spotted with oil and blood into a trashcan as Billy walked up.

  “Treating her well, I hope?” The baby-faced driver threw an arm around Chance. His racing suit was tied at his waist, revealing the plain white flame-resistant Nomex undershirt normally covered up.

  Chance laughed and threw his own arm around Billy’s shoulders. “Someone has to. You’re driving this thing like it’s a rental.”

  “Isn’t it?” Billy winked.

  “You ready for the 200 mile an hour test?”

  “I’ve already run over 200. This rookie thing is bullshit. I’m ready for real practice. I know Annabelle can run with the best. They just have to release me from the rookie orientation. Then they’ll see.”

  Chance believed him. Billy was fast. The kid had many years in the sport. If he got the opportunity to move into a well-funded team, Billy could be a star and future champion. He could feel the car instinctively, like it was part of him. Chance knew the feeling well.

  From the first moment he sat in a go-kart as a ten year-old, Chance felt an unspoken bond to the machine. He hated it, though. The rec center go-kart capped out at twenty miles an hour, but for Chance even as a boy, it wasn’t enough.

  Sixteen years of racing, and Chance had been behind the wheel of almost anything with an engine. From open wheel racing to motorcycles to boats, if there was a shot at victory, Chance took it.

  “Billy, you’re gonna tear it up. Just keep it pointed in the right direction, and you’re in.”

  The young racer shook his head. “I’m in because there’s only thirty three cars. Everyone’s in. No one’s gonna get bumped. That kinda takes away the magic, eh?”

  “I don’t see it that way at all. The magic will be your name forever being chiseled into the grid of the 101st running of the Indy 500. Keep your mind on the positive.” Chance was talking to himself just as much as Billy. He had come to the track looking for a ride, but he had to settle for wrenching for someone else.

  “Yeah, still—“

  DJ’s large figure stepped into the garage, cutting Billy off. Despite his age, the man was intimidating as hell, especially for a young kid desperate for the ride. The owner of the team wasn’t mean—until he got mean, as he liked to remind everyone—but his presence was enough to make anyone feel guilty. He wore a windbreaker, jeans, and his ever-present cigar clung to the side of his mouth.

  “Kiwi, tell me you’re gonna have that trans back together by lunchtime.”

  Without looking up, he answered, “She’ll be right.”

  “Well, we’re turning left, so don’t get your hemispheres all screwed up.” He turned to Billy and Chance. A wide smile appeared, but the cigar didn’t sway between his lips. “There he is. I just saw your times from orientation. You’re well on your way, Billy.”

  Chance stepped away, knowing DJ wanted to speak with his driver, not a lowly mechanic. He turned back to the suspension and his scraped knuckles.

  “Just where do you think you’re skittering off to, Chance Pierce?”

  His eyes darted around. “Kiwi’s not the only one putting this heap of junk back together, sir.”

  Billy visibly saddened. “Annabelle is no piece of junk. She’s gonna take us all the way.”

  DJ nodded. “She sure is, and Chance is gonna make sure you know exactly how to do it.” Reacting to the surprise on Chance�
�s face, DJ went on, “Did you really think I hired you just to change tires? Come on, Chance. You’re one of the smoothest drivers out there, and I need you to pass that on to Billy. He tore up a set of sticker tires doing rookie runs, rookie runs under 200. He’ll burn through every set of rubber we got.”

  For a second Chance just stood with the ratchet in hand. He really had thought he’d only be working on the car. DJ wanted him to be a driver coach, too. Part of him was honored. Part of him was pissed the fuck off.

  Chance was a smoother driver than Billy. He had noticed that when the two were teammates. Admittedly, Billy had more speed, but that speed didn't mean anything if the car wouldn’t last.

  Ultimately, Billy had one thing that Chance didn’t: sponsorship. Billy's family owned a chain of hardware stores, one hundred and seven of them to be precise. Their logo was plastered all over Annabelle, and arguably kept the team afloat. Having a company support a driver was just as important as lap times. Chance still had a naïve "back in the day" idea of what motor racing should be. It was pure sport, with no outside influence or money.

  Back in the real world, however, Chance didn't have a manager, a business partner, a sports coach, or any of the numerous other roles professional drivers had supporting them behind the scenes. He was one man in a world where teamwork was essential.

  Burying his emotion, Chance smiled. “Anything for you, DJ."

  Heather couldn’t think of anything but how unbelievably early it was. Waking up at half past three in the morning to be at work by four thirty was just insanity. She had questioned why so many people camped at the racetrack, including locals, but it made sense to her when she realized their commute was a two minute walk at most.

  Many of the employees had paired off and formed little cliques. Heather hadn’t really gravitated toward anyone after things with Rob went south. She kicked herself for falling into the usual habits, and from then on, Heather wanted to keep her head down and get the work done.