gimped forward on her broken heel toward the pit area for Stillwell Motors Racing.
She’d employ charm and tact and whip the elusive brother of the bride right into shape.
THE FOUR-WHEELER towed Beau and his ‘69 Camaro into their pit area beneath the two green pop-up tents next to the trailer. Before he’d even climbed out of the car, his motor guy Darnell and general crew member Tim were pulling the hood pins, eager to read the spark plugs and tweak the setup.
Beau tugged off his helmet and stripped off his neck brace and fireproof gloves. A grin split Scooter Lewis’s face as he walked over, waving Beau’s run results in his hand. “That was a helluva run. Even with your tires spinning a little off the line, you beat him off the tree and at the sixty-foot. He didn’t have a prayer of catching you.”
“It was sweet, wasn’t it?” Beau said, the adrenalin rush that came with rocketing down a quarter-mile track in less than four and a half seconds was beginning to subside. It was like a five-second orgasm with an unpredictable woman. From the instant the light went green, signaling him to go, he was never sure what would happen on the run, but it was guaranteed to be a rush. “If we run that again tomorrow, we should qualify first.”
“I’ll ramp it down some and that’ll take care of the spin,” Darnell said, glancing up and handing off the socket wrench to Tim.
Beau nodded. As crew chief, Scooter oversaw all the adjustments based on track and weather conditions, but Darnell was damn near a genius when it came to motor setups. “Who’ve we got to beat tomorrow? Mitchell or Taylor?”
“Mitchell. They dropped in a new motor but you’re still the better driver.”
And without arrogance, Beau knew it was true. Driving a race car was in his blood. He’d been born with a need for speed. It’s what the Stillwell men did. His father had raced, his grandfather had raced, and stories of his great-grandfather Theodore Stillwell outrunning prohibitionists in a Model T in his day was local legend around Dahlia, Tennessee. Before that, the Stillwell men were hell at the helm of a buggy. In fact, family rumor had it that Stillwells drove a mean chariot in the day. That, however, was totally unsubstantiated Stillwell family lore.
A couple of fans stopped by to check out the car. Beau recognized the guys as motorheads who showed up at every race. They were still looking over the engine and bending Darnell’s ear when a blonde and a brunette in matching jeans and what he’d guess to be double D’s in tube tops strolled into the pit area.
“Hi, I’m Sherree,” the blonde said, “and this is Tara. Would you take a picture with us?”
“Certainly, ladies.” He offered them his most charming smile.
Sherree shoved a camera at Scooter, and within seconds Beau was sandwiched between heavily perfumed feminine flesh, those matching double D’s pressing against his arms on each side of him.
“Say nitrous oxide,” Scooter instructed.
“I thought it was cheese—isn’t it cheese?” Tara asked.
On the other side of the camera, Scooter, ever the prankster, grinned.
“Cheese is fine,” Beau assured her. He wasn’t particularly surprised when one of them grabbed his ass a second later.
Scooter snapped the photo and returned the camera. Sherree murmured a thank-you and turned her attention back to Beau. “Want to party with us later?” she asked.
The invitation didn’t surprise him any more than her copping a feel. Women liked him. They always had. And he liked them, too. And no doubt Tara and Sherree had a good time in mind and it was sort of crazy because it’d been a while since he’d partied and they were hot, but he just wasn’t feeling it.
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a busy evening, ladies. No partying for me.”
Sherree offered a moue of disappointment and another rub of her bodacious silicone tatas against his bicep. “Then you’ll just have to call us for your celebration party when you win.” She tucked a piece of paper into his jeans pocket, sliding her fingers suggestively along the edge of his pants.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They left, mouthing in unison “Call me” over their shoulders.
“Lucky bastard,” Scooter muttered. They both knew he was just talking. Scooter had lost his wife, Emma Jean, two years ago and had never mentioned another woman. Scooter didn’t say much, but Beau knew he missed her. Hell, they’d been married longer than the thirty-two years Beau had been alive.
A father and his young son, both wearing Stillwell Motors Racing T-shirts, came by for an autograph. They left and Beau and the crew spent a few minutes discussing setup adjustments for 10.5 qualifying the following day.
“You staying here tonight?” Scooter asked.
“Might as well.” His major sponsor had shelled out the money for a sweet setup at the end of last year’s winning season. They’d outfitted Stillwell Motors Racing with a toter home and race trailer that were both nicer than what he was living in now. But soon…
If he walked away with the 10.5 championship again this year, he’d have his money in place to build his house. Just as he’d promised his father before he died sixteen years ago, Beau had taken care of his mother and his sister. But it had been more than a deathbed promise.
Before he drank himself to death, Monroe Stillwell had bankrupted them and they’d lost everything—their home, cars, even their furniture. They’d been left with the clothes on their back, tattered pride and precious little else. As a teenager, Beau had vowed he’d never owe a red penny to anyone again. If he didn’t owe, no one could come in and take what he considered his.
Between racing and his construction business, he’d made enough money to build his mother a house and set her up with a dress shop in downtown Dahlia. He was damn proud that his mother had turned Beverly’s Closet into a thriving enterprise. He’d put Caitlyn through college and helped her find a job. Now it was his turn.
His cell phone buzzed at his side and he glanced at the caller ID—speaking of the devil. He let it go to voice mail. Scooter raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
“Caitlyn,” Beau said. “Between her and that wedding planner, they’re driving me bat-shit crazy.”
“Why don’t you just talk to the woman and get it over with?”
“She wants to know when I can start the remodel on Belle Terre. I haven’t had time to get out there.” Which suited him just fine. Everyone looked at Caitlyn’s fiancé, Cash Vickers, and saw Nashville’s newest rising star. Beau looked at Vickers and saw heartbreak for his sister.
He didn’t like Vickers. He didn’t think for a second the guy was good enough for his baby sister. To begin with, women were all over the guy, and he seemed to like them in return. Second, Beau had been most unimpressed when Cash had bought Belle Terre. It seemed like a extravagant, fiscally irresponsible move to him. Caitlyn had already been the victim of one financially irresponsible man—their father. She sure as hell didn’t need a husband who spent money like water. And forbidding Caitlyn to marry Vickers would simply push her in his direction all the harder. Not to mention that his sister was old enough to do whatever she wanted to do. But Beau figured if he dragged his feet
