Slow Ride (Fast Track #5)(55)
Author: Erin McCarthy

But today she felt capable of handling it. She was in love with Diesel. It was the most unexpected, weirdest damn thing, but it was true. She was in love with him, and it made everything else in her life just a little bit better, easier.

He was a good man, and while she never thought of herself as the kind of woman who would enjoy staking a claim, Tuesday felt a bit like announcing that they were together to whoever would listen. She didn’t, obviously, but it was tempting.

Picking the drive up, she inserted it into her computer, taking a deep breath. Hopefully it would be an easy subject, and she could knock out the article in the next few days.

What she saw when she opened the folder made her jaw drop.

Her father’s last article, outlined in front of her, had been about Diesel Lange.

There were notes from an interview, Diesel’s driving stats, and details on his accident.

She should have known. She should have talked to her father more. Diesel should have mentioned it to her. Somehow, even before knowing about his cancer or having met Diesel, she should have known that the two men were communicating. She should have been a part of it, and she felt left out and . . . lonely.

Unsure where to begin, or what to open first and read, Tuesday saw there was also a video of Diesel’s accident. Her heart pounding, she clicked on it.

It had been at Pocono, the Tricky Triangle, as the track was referred to. She recognized it immediately when the camera panned over the track, and the announcers confirmed that as they chattered over the roar of the engines.

Diesel was running in fifth place and Tuesday studied his powerful black car, like somehow she could see him, the man, behind the windshield and the net and the helmet. She’d seen him drive dozens of times in the past, but she had never thought twice about it. She’d never met him. Now he was her boyfriend, as much as that ridiculous word made her want to squirm. Boyfriend sounded so high school, but that’s what he was. He was hers.

It happened so fast, the camera missed half of it. One minute the sportscaster was commenting on leader laps, the next there were cars spinning out in the infield, smoke, exclamations of concern, and Diesel’s car in the wall.

“That was a hard hit, Rob,” the one announcer said. “Diesel Lange went straight into that wall at almost one hundred and forty miles an hour. Did you see that debris? It went straight up into his windshield. I don’t know what it was, but we heard the spotter, and he tried to avoid the twenty-three car, but the turn was right there, and he had no visibility.”

“Yeah, this is a bad one. I don’t see him climbing out of his car yet, Phil.”

Her stomach flipped and she felt the hot taste of fear in her mouth, even though she knew the outcome. That was two years ago. Yet, still, it made her sick to think that Diesel could have died.

His car was completely crunched in and there was an ambulance streaming across the infield already. The network had obviously cut to a commercial, but whoever had made the video edited in the EMTs taking Diesel off the track on a stretcher. His helmet was off and it was clear he was unconscious.

That was it, all she could take. Tuesday smacked her keyboard to stop the video.

God, she was shaking.

She read the details of his accident, outlined in her father’s notes. Punctured lung, two broken vertebrae, shattered kneecap, dislocated shoulder . . .

No wonder he was in pain. No wonder he didn’t want to drive that vintage car.

She read through the interview her father had conducted with him. As she stared at the words on the screen, she could hear them both, the two men she knew the best. She could hear her father, recognized his phrasings, choice of words. The same with Diesel. They had known each other, met, talked, and laughed, and for some reason tears came to her eyes. Both with relief that they had had the opportunity to meet while her father had still been alive, and shock to realize that in some ways, her father had known Diesel better than she did.

For all she believed that he loved for, he hadn’t told her anything about the accident, about his injuries, about the impact it had had on his life. It was an off subject, not allowed. If she raised it, he changed the subject.

Yet he had reflected on the life-changing event with her father.

It was there in the notes, a direct quote.

“I don’t know, Bob. A lot of people want to believe that everything happens for a reason, because it brings them comfort. But I think down that path lies the torment of trying to interpret what you were supposed to learn from something that was painful and unplanned. But you know, I think sometimes horrible and random things happen, and we just have to deal with the outcome. I had a great career as a driver. Now I don’t. It’s called an accident for a reason . . . yet I’m still the same guy. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Tuesday reread everything in the files again. She watched the video three times, each time her gut twisting into army knots. She made a list of questions she had for the article.

Then she started to write.

DIESEL was standing in his driveway with Johnny, admiring the car he had restored as they loaded it onto a hauler.

“That’s one fine-looking car, son. You should be proud.”

He was. It was damn satisfying to be seeing the very obvious results of his labor, time, and money.

“Thank you. I think I just might consider myself an honest-to-goodness grease monkey now.”

“You might just be greasy.” His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, your girl just pulled up in the front of the house.”

His girl. It was something he still couldn’t get over even a week after their talk in bed. Tuesday was nuts enough to agree to be with him and he was feeling pretty damn happy about it. She got out of her car, a manila envelope in her hand, sunglasses on her face. Wearing narrow jeans and highheeled sandals, with a form-fitting shirt, Diesel thought she was that perfect combination of hot and classy.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?” He leaned over and kissed her, enjoying that he had the right to show her affection in front of his uncle, the haulers, and anyone else who happened to be around.

For the last few weeks, he’d been running on kind of a perpetual high, between all the sex and his growing feelings for Tuesday. Since he didn’t plan on giving up either of those things anytime soon, he was thinking he was in for a very pleasant fall and winter.

“Hi,” she said with a smile. Leaning around him, she waved to his uncle. “Hi, Johnny, how are you?”

“Good, good. How’s that for a beautiful-looking car?”