Slow Ride (Fast Track #5)(63)
Author: Erin McCarthy

He could live without racing.

But he couldn’t live without the woman he loved.

He wanted to help her with her own grief, work through it, without wine or walls up between them.

Together.

Taking a deep breath, Diesel climbed into the car, receiving only a slight twinge of protest from his knee. He was going to take the car around the track solo a time or two before Roger rode shotgun with him.

It felt good sliding down into the seat, like seeing an old friend again. He put his helmet on and secured his harness. When he flipped the switch to start the engine, he turned and grinned at Jesper, his old crew chief who had come out to back him up.

Jesper gave him the thumbs-up and said into his radio, “Hell, yeah. How’s that feeling, Diesel?”

“It feels f**king awesome.” It did.

Jesper laughed. “Have fun out there, bro.”

“I will.” Diesel hit the gas and pulled out onto the track. After a few seconds, he opened her up, enjoying the rumble beneath his legs, enjoying the power of the car. He had built this car, and that made it even more satisfying.

As he took the first turn, all the instincts, all the training, all the years of driving came right back to him, and he felt in control. He felt exhilarated. Free.

So he couldn’t drive for a living.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun.

He’d been denying himself this because he was afraid of failure, afraid of embarrassing himself.

None of that mattered anymore.

As the lady in black rose up before him, the heat of the September sun making waves on the surface, he drove into his future.

TUESDAY squeezed her mother’s hand as the final hymns of the mass rang through the church, but not out of concern, out of love. When her mother glanced over at her, they shared a smile. It had been surprisingly peaceful to be back in church, something she didn’t make a habit of, and she’d stood there next to her mother as they had dedicated the mass to her father, and she’d felt grateful, not the overwhelming sadness she’d been anticipating.

Grateful that she’d had Bob Jones as a father. Grateful that she still had her mother. Grateful that she had done justice to her father’s memory and the fight against cancer, despite her personal appalling behavior. In the end, they had raised money, and the driving community has praised her father’s memory. Out of respect for him, she hadn’t gotten much heat in the media for her drunkenness that night, which she had to admit was classier than the way she would have handled it. The old Tuesday Talladega would have torn apart in her blog anyone who had shown up at an event blitzed.

That was not the person she wanted to be. Either the drunk or the bitch. She wasn’t that person anymore. She hadn’t had a drink in four weeks and she was doing well in her counseling sessions.

The grief from her father’s death was still there, but not raw and weeping on the surface anymore. It was a beautiful day in late September. Birds sang outside, babies cooed inside, and she had survived both the loss of her father and the first man she could have seen herself actually marrying.

To have the hurt of her father be replaced by the sting of losing Diesel had been like an electrical jolt, especially knowing she had done the latter to herself. She had spent two days in bed, vomiting long after the results of the wine, and crying repeatedly. Then she had dragged herself out of bed, called a therapist, and dug deep for that strength she constantly touted to herself and others as having so much of.

She had screwed up with Diesel and she had paid the price. He had called her on Monday, but she’d still been throwing up, and too embarrassed to talk to him. She didn’t want to hear the truth, which was that she had probably ruined any feelings he had ever had for her. Eventually, she was going to return his call, to apologize for her part in their failure as a couple. She owed that both to him and to herself, but she had been waiting until she could speak to him without falling apart. She needed to do it soon before her apology no longer held any weight.

“You ready?” her mother whispered as the last notes died down.

She nodded, and they filed out of the pew and started the slow shuffle down the aisle with the rest of the congregation. She was about to invite her mother to lunch when she looked to her right and came to an abrupt stop.

There was a man wearing a Diesel Lange T-shirt. His face was right on the guy’s chest, right there in church. His hair had been shorter when the picture had been taken several years ago but he was wearing the half smile she recognized so well.

She looked back at the altar, where the priest had solemnly dedicated the mass to her father earlier.

Heart beating wildly, Tuesday decided it was definitely a sign. Today was the day she needed to apologize to Diesel. She had just been thinking about it and now there was Diesel’s face in front of her. What were the odds of that? As soon as they were out of the church she turned to her mom. “I need to call Diesel. I need to apologize.”

Her mother’s eyebrows raised but then she nodded. “I think that’s a good idea, honey.”

Now that the idea had popped into her head, she had to pursue it immediately. Pulling her phone out of her purse, she called him standing in the parking lot. It went to voice mail. She debated leaving a message, but his phone was clearly turned off, so she didn’t bother. Instead, she called his uncle.

“Hi, Johnny, it’s Tuesday Jones . . . how are you?” She paced across the sidewalk, barely aware of the warm air swirling around and the flowers still blooming, despite the coming fall.

Diesel’s uncle was obviously surprised to hear from her, but he just said, “Good, good, how are you?”

“I’m better, but I need to clear a few things up. I’d like to talk to Diesel but he’s not picking up. Do you happen to know where he is?” She knew it was a long shot. Diesel could be doing any number of things.

But his uncle answered right away. “Sure do. He’s at the track. Giving that businessman his ride today.”

Again, that struck Tuesday as a sign. That today would be the day he was fulfilling the promise she had rudely made on his behalf . . . she needed to apologize plain and simple.

“Oh, okay, great, thanks, Johnny.” She hesitated. “How is he?”

“He’s fine, but he misses you, girl. I wish the two of you would patch things up.”

Her throat tightened. “Me, too, but I’m not sure Diesel wants that.” But a glimmer of hope rose in her. “I guess I’ll let you know.”

Another minute and she was on her way to the track in high heels and a pencil skirt.