10 10Sunday night brought Team Blu into Minnesota, and Buffalo River Race Park. Just east of Moorhead on Highway 10, it was a sticky black-gumbo, quarter-mile oval with a freshly remodeled white metal grandstand. A driver favorite—Trace had raced here before—Buffalo River was also where he had met April, who worked in the concession stand. They had seen each other a couple of times, though not recently. He had stopped returning her calls.
“Jimmy, do me a favor,” Trace said. Team Blu was parked in the pits, and the concession stand was now open.
“Sure.”
Trace leaned in and murmured his request.
“You mean that chick April, from the last time we were here?” Jimmy said.
“Yes,” Trace said, glancing around. “See if she’s working here tonight.”
“And if she is, what do I say?”
“Nothing,” Trace said. “The main thing is, I don’t want to see her.”
“Jeez! Why not?” Jimmy asked quickly.
“Just . . . because,” Trace said. “So be cool. Order some food, whatever. It’s not like she’s going to recognize you.”
“She might,” Jimmy said, straightening his cap and slicking back his hair as he walked off.
“What’s that all about?” Harlan asked from behind the Super Stock.
“Nothing,” Trace replied.
Race teams continued to roll in, including Jason Nelson—and then Sara Bishop and her father with their Super Stock. Jason flashed a longhorn salute as he passed by, but Sara’s father, with their car on the trailer, stopped to talk. He was friendly, as always; Sara had little to say. After an awkward silence, she looked toward the big Blu hauler. “Anybody from Headwaters coming over to see you race tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” Trace said.
“Well, see you on the track, I guess,” she said finally.
“Okay. Good luck,” Trace said.
She motioned for her father to drive on.
“Wasn’t that the girl in the Chevelle from the other night?” Harlan asked.
“Yes,” Trace said.
“She didn’t seem all that happy,” Harlan said.
A couple of Super Stock teams from Headwaters rattled past, including Gerry Harkness and his family. There had been bad blood at the end of last season; Gerry drove a local Super Stock at Headwaters, and had been the first to protest Trace’s Team Blu motor. But this afternoon, Gerry blustered over, big smile on his face, his wife and kid in tow.
“Hey, Mr. Big Shot,” Gerry said. He had larger hands and arms than Harlan, but fewer teeth. “Just can’t get away from you!”
“Hi, Gerry,” Trace said, and greeted his family as well.
“Billboards, those TV ads—and now we gotta run into you here,” Gerry said, and sighed.
“Sorry about that,” Trace said.
“Why ain’t you on American Idol, that’s what I want to know.”
“ ’Cause he can’t sing,” Harlan said from the side.
“I’ll bet he can,” Gerry said. He was one of those guys whose humor was always on the edge—friendly jabs that could tip either way. “Let’s hear something.”
“No chance,” Trace said.
At that moment Jimmy appeared. “No,” he mouthed to Trace.
Trace nodded.
“No what?” Harlan asked. The Harkness family looked on.
Trace turned to the Harknesses. “How’s the speedway makeover going back home?”
Gerry winced. “Slow. I hope Mel’s not in over her head. Johnny gave her the green light, and it’s too late to turn back now.”
“It’s going to be a great track once it’s done,” Gerry’s wife, Cindy, said.
“If it ever gets done,” Gerry said.
“Ain’t you going to ask about his cheater motor?” the Harkness kid said to his dad.
There was silence but for the pit sounds.
“That was last season,” Gerry said. “We turned the page, right, Trace?”
“Good luck tonight, Gerry,” Trace said.
As the Harkness family moved on, Jimmy whispered, “I asked around about April, but she’s not working tonight,” he said.
“Thanks.” Trace did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He checked his watch, then sat in Jimmy’s lawn chair and caught some sun while the crew worked—the crew except Smoky, who remained in his motor home. The sounds of NASCAR radio came from inside. When Harlan went inside the hauler, Trace suddenly got up and followed him.
“What would we need magnets for?” Trace asked Harlan. He kept his voice down.
“Magnets?” Harlan asked. He turned to stare.
“I noticed something strange,” Trace said, pointing to the padlocked drawers. He fished a metal washer out of a can and knelt beside the steel compartments. “Watch this.” He tossed the washer—which went tack! against the drawer front, and hung there.
Harlan stared. Then he stepped over, bent down, and peeled off the washer. “Those are Smoky’s drawers,” he said.
“I know that, but—”
“But nothing,” Harlan said. “Just leave well enough alone.”
“There’s something weird going on with my motor,” Trace said. He blocked Harlan’s path back to daylight.
“Weird?” Harlan asked.
“Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk about last night.”
“What do you mean, ‘weird’? Smoky’s motors run great.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes they run too great. It’s like Smoky gives me power when he wants to, or when I really need it—like last night in the last few laps.”
Harlan stared. “Have you been watching those late-night religious channels?”
“Huh?” Trace asked.
“Smoky ain’t God,” Harlan continued. “He can’t just fill your motor with the Holy Spirit whenever he wants to.”
Trace glanced at the Blu Super Stock, then at the old Gulf Stream. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Harlan gave Trace a long look. “You just drive, remember?” he said. “And don’t be snooping around Smoky’s stuff.”
Just then a track guy came along on an ATV. “Drivers’ meeting! Drivers’ meeting!” he called.
“You got that? Is that clear?” Harlan asked.
“All right, all right!” Trace muttered, and walked away.
At the prerace gathering of drivers, the chief pit steward, wearing a headset and a green safety vest, stood atop an ATV. He held a bullhorn and waited impatiently for the drivers. It was standard procedure at every speedway for a track official to read off the general rules, and to orient drivers new to the speedway. It was also standard procedure for drivers to be in no hurry to gather; they joshed with one another, played little mind games, talked cars, and fished for information as they slowly migrated toward the bullhorn.
Jason Nelson and his father were already there. The older Nelson stood with a group of drivers, all of whom swiveled their heads to look at Trace. He ignored them and paused center-back, where he folded his arms and waited for the usual sermon.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” the official called to the drivers still on their way. “We do have to race tonight.” He was crabby, like all chief pit stewards, but getting race drivers to follow instructions was like rounding up cats and dogs.
“New drivers: you go on the track in turn 2, you go off on turn 1,” he began, and continued with restart and then return-to-the pit rules. “On a yellow flag, a driver with a flat or minor mechanical trouble may return to the pits while the other cars complete two slow laps under caution. If you can make it back, fine, but we drop the green flag after two laps—any questions?”
There were none. Everything was standard procedure. As the race director went on, Trace gradually felt something strange. He looked behind, then to his right, then to his left. In the crowd of over fifty drivers, no one stood within ten feet of him. The chief pit steward began to stare at Trace—or rather, try not to stare. He swung his bullhorn right, then left, but purposefully didn’t aim it toward Trace—who stood like an outcast animal at the edge of the herd.
Jason Nelson broke away from his father, and ambled across the open space toward Trace. He stopped nearby, folded his arms across his chest as if bored like everyone else, and continued to listen. The circle of faces gradually turned back to the race director.
“Hey,” Trace said. It was the least he could do.
“Hell, ah know it ain’t you,” Jason said under his breath.
Trace looked briefly sideways, but didn’t answer.
“It’s your engine guy,” Jason continued, all the while watching the race director.
Trace concentrated on saying nothing.
“It’s like he holds you back in the heats, then juices your motor for the feature,” Jason said. “Everybody knows.”
“Juices it?” Trace said.
Other drivers turned to stare.
“Yeah. Or whatever it is he does,” Jason said, not caring who heard.
“Something for sure,” his father said from nearby. “Ain’t no Super Stock should run like yours does.”
“We’re having a meeting here!” the race director said, his bullhorn louder.
“Money talks,” Harlan called to Jason and his father. “Like I always say, if you think we’re cheating, put up two hundred dollars and protest our engine.”
Heads turned as Harlan shouldered his way through the crowd.
“We may be dumb, but we’re not stupid,” Jason’s father said.
“Too bad there’s not an engine-claiming rule in Super Stock class,” another driver said. “Then we’d see if you could win with my motor.”
“If you don’t mind—” the race director boomed.
But the drivers were all focused on Trace. “That’s probably why Team Blu runs Super Stocks,” someone said. “They couldn’t win with somebody else’s motor.”
“Or maybe you boys just don’t know how to build engines—let alone set up a car right!” Harlan growled as he stood next to Trace.
“I can handle this,” Trace muttered.
“Go back to the trailer,” Harlan replied.
Trace stepped away, angry and humiliated, but didn’t leave.
“Hey, don’t get your shorts in a wad!” a local driver said to Harlan. “We’re just sayin’ what everybody thinks.”
“Do your talking on the track,” Harlan replied.
“We’re talkin’ right here, you fat redneck!” another driver called.
“Okay, that’s enough!” the race director boomed. “I’m calling the six-foot rule right now!”
Two pit stewards in green safety vests hustled toward the tightening group of drivers and crew members, which quickly broke apart at their approach. Jason Nelson disappeared like a gopher down a hole. The six-foot rule was designed to prevent just such in-your-face confrontations between drivers; it carried fines, point losses—even disqualification.
“We’ll see your boy on the track!” a driver called over his shoulder to Harlan.
“You might see his rear end if you’re lucky,” Harlan shot back.
Back at the trailer, Harlan sat down in his lawn chair and lit a cigarette. He drew deeply, then turned to Trace. “Want one?”
“No,” Trace said.
“That’s the right answer,” Harlan said. “These things will kill you.”
Trace was silent.
“If they don’t kill me, these farmers might,” Harlan added, looking around the pits.
Trace followed his gaze. “So why do we run Super Stocks?” he asked suddenly. “If we ran Modifieds, we’d have way more places, way more speedways to race. Maybe they’re right about the claimer class.”
Harlan barked out a short laugh, and spit to the side. “It’s way simpler than that. The higher-ups, like Laura Williams? They thought Super Stocks would look cooler on billboards than other car types. Super Stocks are longer, bigger—more tin for advertising.”
“More tin?” Trace asked. “That’s the only reason?”
“Yep,” Harlan said. “That engine no-claim rule just fell into our laps.”
Trace was silent.
Harlan glanced at him. “In racing, when a rule falls your way, you make it work for you. Squeeze it, stretch it, find the gray area, find the space inside it where you can operate.”
“Which is what Smoky does,” Trace said.
“I don’t know what Smoky does,” Harlan said, and sucked again on his cigarette. “I only know that he gets you a lot of horsepower. I don’t ask, and Smoky sure as hell don’t tell.”
Just as Trace opened his mouth, Harlan said, “And you don’t need to know, either. You’re winning. You got the world by the short hairs, kid. Leave things alone.”
“Yeah. But all the other drivers want to wreck me.”
“They wreck you, we got another car,” Harlan said.
“That only pisses them off more.”
“Which makes them worse drivers,” Harlan said.
“Still nothing,” Harlan said, cutting him off. “Let me give it to you straight: do you want to be Mr. Nice Guy? Or do you want to win?”
Trace was silent. He picked up a pebble, then pitched it away.
“Lemme tell you another thing,” Harlan said. “You’re on the racing radar now. Lonny Marzones, other people—they’ve got their eyes on you. They think you might be the real deal.”
“What about you?” Trace said.
“Once in a blue moon, I do, too,” Harlan said gruffly.
Trace was silent.
“Stock car racing is like any other sport—there are scouts everywhere,” Harlan continued. “If there’s some farm kid out of Podunk, North Dakota, who can throw a baseball through a barn wall, some scout’s watching him. If there’s a skinny city kid in Chicago who can dunk the basketball in sixth grade, some scout’s got him in his computer. Well, you’re a young dirt track driver they’re watching.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“You don’t need to know,” Harlan said. “All you need to do is drive like you’ve been doing, and leave the rest to me and Smoky.”
Trace headed to his cabin—where he wanted to break or kick something—but just then his phone beeped. It was a text from Jimmy: RED ALERT GIRL.
Trace stepped to his cabin window—and saw Mel walking down pit row. He froze. She was the last thing he’d expected tonight.
He looked around the cabin. The first thing that came to mind was to brush his teeth. He gave them a five-second brush, spit, rinsed, then hustled downstairs—slowing at the hauler side door so as not to seem surprised or eager.
She was smiling as she came toward the Blu hauler. Mel was always taller in real life than she was inside his head (she should have been a basketball or volleyball player). Her jeans were nicer and tighter than usual, but otherwise she wore her standard speedway outfit: World of Outlaws cap with blond ponytail poking out the back, sunglasses, and a Trace Bonham T-shirt.
“Surprise!” she called.
“Wow—that’s for sure!” he said as he came forward to meet her. “I thought you had to work tonight.”
“I changed my mind,” she said. “Girls get to do that.”
“I’m glad,” Trace said. They paused a long step apart. “Nice T-shirt,” he added.
“I know the guy,” she said. “Sort of.”
They both stepped forward at the same moment and had a major hug. He could not help burying his face briefly against her neck. She always smelled good; today it was like flowers—clover or lavender.
“Did your dad come?” Trace asked. Johnny Walters was a former sprint car driver, now in a wheelchair; together he and Mel ran Headwaters Speedway.
“No. Just me.” Mel’s face colored slightly.
“Great,” Trace said. He glanced behind; Jimmy was working too quietly underneath the car, Harlan was conveniently out of sight inside the hauler, and Smoky’s side window was cracked open a few inches. “Let’s walk,” Trace said.
As they headed toward the grandstand, Gerry Harkness called out, “Hey, Mel—when’s our speedway going to be done?”
She waved. “Soon. Fourth of July at the very latest.”
“We can’t wait,” Gerry’s wife said.
“Fourth of July? Me neither,” Trace murmured.
Mel ignored him. “Construction is pretty much on schedule,” she said to the Harknesses. “The grandstands get knocked down next week. New aluminum bleachers are coming.”
“You should have a workday,” Gerry said. “Put out a call for all the drivers and their crews to help pick rocks or pound nails, whatever.”
“I like the idea! I’ll be in touch,” Mel said.
As they walked on, Mel said softly, “I can’t wait until the Fourth of July, either—which is why I drove over here tonight.” She spoke quickly, as though she needed to say it now or it wouldn’t get said.
Trace stumbled to a halt.
“I’m staying over,” she said.
“Overnight?”
She nodded.
“Where?” Trace asked.
“Well, I have an aunt in Fargo, but my nieces and nephews are way wild,” she said. “So I got a motel room.”
“A motel?” Trace said.
“Yes. They’re places where people pay to stay?” she teased.
Trace heard himself mouth-breathing. “Are you serious?” he said. His voice was suddenly croaky.
She laughed, but blushed deeply at the same time. “You clearly weren’t listening. I just said, ‘I can’t wait until the Fourth of July, either.’ ”
“Wow,” Trace said.
“Do you need to sit down?” Mel said. “You’re not going to faint on me?”
“I might,” Trace said. He put his arms around her.
She turned away from his kiss. “Ummm, this is not the motel,” she said, but let him hold her.
“Maybe I’ll ditch the races tonight,” Trace said.
“Yeah, right!” she said. She broke away and pulled him along, her arm through his. At concessions, she ordered a major tray of food, including a taco in a bag and a large cola, after which they sat in the stands. They watched the Pure Stocks and the Bombers, but Trace couldn’t concentrate on the track.
“What?” Mel said.
Trace turned to her. “I wonder if Harlan would let Jimmy drive tonight.”
“Are you crazy? And anyway, your boss, Laura, wouldn’t like it,” Mel said.
“She wouldn’t have to know.”
“As if that witch wouldn’t find out,” Mel said; she was not a fan of Laura—her red lipstick, short skirts, and silky business blouses.
“You’re probably right,” Trace said.
“You just do your thing on the track like always,” Mel said. “The faster you drive, the sooner your race will be over. Think of it that way.”
In his heat race, Trace drove like a crazy man, spinning out once, pressing too hard, and finishing seventh of eight cars.
“What the hell?” Harlan asked as Trace hoisted himself up from the cockpit.
“Sorry, my fault,” Trace said.
“No kidding,” Harlan said.
“Got in a hurry,” Trace said, wiping sweat from his face. Mel lingered across pit row; she had been watching from along the fence, and did not come over now. She was also not a fan of Harlan—he had insulted most everyone at Headwaters Speedway on Team Blu’s one and only stop there.
“You can’t win a race on the first lap—you know better than that,” Harlan said.
“Don’t know what I was thinking,” Trace said, his gaze drifting to Mel’s long legs and tight jeans.
“I do,” Harlan said, following Trace’s look. “We should have a damn rule: no girls in the pits before the races.”
“What about after?” Trace said.
“After is fine,” Harlan said, then realized that Trace was joking—but only slightly.
Trace glanced once more at Mel, then stepped closer to Harlan. Keeping his voice low, he explained the situation.
“Holy moly!” Harlan said, looking over at Mel.
“I told you not to look!” Trace said.
“Sorry,” Harlan said, focusing back on Trace. He manufactured a pained look. “You know I like to hit the road right after the feature, but, all things considered . . .” His gaze sneaked sideways to Mel.
In the feature, thanks to a bad draw and his poor heat finish, Trace rolled toward the green flag in the ninth row, outside. There were only two cars behind him. Sara Bishop was in the middle of the pack, and Jason Nelson in the third row, inside. Impatiently, Trace drummed the throttle, breaking loose the rear tires again and again. He pressed close against the car ahead. As the lead car dropped the hammer and surged forward, Trace broke to the outside. He loved this Buffalo River black gumbo, and the Blu Super Stock, thanks to Jimmy’s tire and setup magic, clawed past several cars. However, the higher Trace went the looser he got, so he backed off slightly. He probed down low for a crack, a sliver of daylight between cars—like trying to merge into heavy freeway traffic on a day when all the drivers were pissed off. A local white car rocked Trace—forcing him higher—but Trace pulled away, and the other car fell back. The other Super Stocks were equally happy to pinch off or bump Trace’s car. His Blu Super Stock had an invisible bull’s-eye stuck on it tonight.
After another hard thump, Trace muttered, “Okay, we can do that!” He hit back hard as he forced his way into the flow. His left front fender tin tore loose and began to flap—but didn’t fly off. It chattered against his left front tire—sharp tin rubbing the sidewall rubber—and a half lap later sliced through the tire like a knife blade popping a balloon. The Super Stock shuddered and slewed. Trace cranked the car sideways—a calculated spinout—which brought out the caution flag. Without slowing, he high-tailed it to the pits, flat tire thundering inside the wheel well as the rubber plies tore apart.
Jimmy was waiting with a floor jack and a fresh tire mounted on a new wheel. Trace sat, engine revving, while Jimmy air-hammered the lug nuts partway loose, lurched the front end off the ground with the jack, then zipped off the nuts and clattered on the new wheel. As he worked, Harlan used a rivet gun on the loose fender tin. Jimmy’s air hammer rattled like a crazy woodpecker.
“Go!” Jimmy shouted. Trace humped the Super Stock off the jack, and burned his tires back down pit row.
He powered onto the track in the nick of time: the green flag was down, and he dove into line just ahead of the lead car—which meant he was a full lap behind. “Let’s do it!” he said to himself, and concentrated on racing against the track, not the other cars. There were still twelve laps to go in the twenty-five-lap feature. Trace drove hard and smart, taking advantage of another yellow flag to pick up several places.
On lap 16 a green Super Stock tangled with somebody, rode up over a front wheel, then flipped twice. It happened just ahead of Trace—he dove low to avoid wrecking himself. The green car landed upside down in front of the grandstand in an explosion of dust and flapping metal. Red lights flashed, and the cars stopped dead as EMTs raced to the upside-down pile of a Super Stock. The driver, a local guy, emerged unhurt but staggering, to a standing ovation. His car was wrecked. Totaled. As he put both hands on the flattened roof and lowered his head, Trace flashed on the late-night waitress back in Iowa: her comments on family life, racing, and money.
After a long delay (which helped him get his mind right), Trace powered up, and the remaining cars rumbled forward again under yellow. In the thunder following green, Trace soon clawed his way back to the middle of the pack—right beside Sara. He gave her plenty of room, however. This race was about finishing, not winning; if he caused a second yellow flag, he was done for the night. However, the engine found a sweet spot, Jimmy’s tire setup was fist-in-glove rubber to dirt—so on lap 20 he went for it.
Sara pinched him hard, but Trace got by her down low. After that it was Gerry Harkness—who also rocked him—and eventually Trace rode the orange bumper pipes of Jason Nelson. On the next lap, Trace got his nose between Nelson and a green Super Stock. The cars glued up three-wide through the turn—Trace caught a flash in his side vision of the crowd jumping to its feet—then powered down the straightaway. Trace felt his engine quicken—like some kind of overdrive—and he gradually pulled away by a car length, and then two. By the white-flag lap he had two more cars to pass, which he did with a sweet high-low dive. His engine thrummed at 8500 rpm, with still more left—but he didn’t need it. He took the checkered by three car lengths.
In victory lane, the trophy girl (there was always a new one) hung on tight, smiling as the crowd booed. Trace held up a fist, a victory salute—which only brought louder boos.
“Don’t worry, I like you,” the trophy girl said.
“You might be the only one,” Trace said as the cameras continued to flash.
“You got a girlfriend?” the trophy girl asked.
“Yes.”
“A real one?”
“Very,” Trace said. “She’s waitin’ for me in the pits.”
After the photos, Trace headed to the tech lane. “Don’t see many guys go last to first after a flat tire,” a scruffy tech guy said—and motioned Trace toward the tech shed. There Trace, Harlan, and Jimmy stood around while the tech guys did their thing. The pits were shadowy enough that even Smoky stood nearby. Mel lingered opposite Smoky, and as the teardown stretched on, Trace walked out to her.
“I see what you meant about your motor,” she whispered. She glanced sideways at Smoky.
“Yeah,” Trace said. Arms folded, he stared into the tech shed as the men worked with wrenches, trouble lights, and micrometers. “But they never find anything out of spec.”
Mel was silent. Then she ventured, “Maybe it’s not—”
“It has to be,” Trace said. “Nobody has a Super Stock motor that runs like Smoky’s.”
They watched in silence.
“So what are you going to do?” Mel asked.
“I just drive,” Trace said, a hard edge in his voice. “And I keep winning.”
After a few more minutes the head tech guy stepped away from the car and turned toward Harlan. “Thanks—and have a nice day,” he said.
Trace looked sideways toward Smoky, but he was gone.
The tech crew gathered up their tools, leaving a mess of Blu V-8 heads, pushrods, gaskets, valve covers, and an oil pan.
“You fine gentlemen have a great day, too!” Harlan said with exaggerated politeness.
“I gotta go,” Trace said to Mel. “See you back at the hauler.”
“Then you’re done for the night?” Mel asked.
Trace blinked. He had almost forgotten that part—but certainly wasn’t going to tell her. “Yes. Ten minutes and we’re out of here.”
With a push truck behind, Trace steered the dead Super Stock down pit row. Most of the other teams had buttoned up their cars and gone to the concession area for food or to the stands to watch the races. Trace coasted up to the Blu hauler, where a few people waited, and pulled himself out. Smoky was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, Trace—can I get a driver’s card?” a kid called.
“Trace, can you sign my T-shirt?” another boy asked.
Trace took care of business while Jimmy opened the big rear door and then hooked up the winch cable. The electric motor whirred as Harlan and Jimmy, working from the back of the trailer, maneuvered the Super Stock inside.
“Great driving,” said a woman’s deep voice. It was the chicken-wing lady he’d met the night before at the other end of the pits at Rivers Speedway.
“Thanks,” Trace said cautiously.
She stepped up to Trace. “It’s not for me to say what’s in your engine, but after the reception you got, I didn’t think you’d be walking through the pits—so I brought you some chicken wings.”
Trace swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, and took the foil package, which was still warm. He felt a weird burning in his eyes—like he could cry—but he fought it off.
“Shirley,” she said.
“Who was that?” Harlan said from the side. He straightened to watch the woman walk away.
“Just some lady.”
“ ‘Just some lady’? And you took a package of chicken wings from her?”
“I talked to her last night,” Trace explained, but then stopped.
“Hey, Trace, can I get a picture with you?” a skinny young girl in a racing cap asked. She was all teeth and elbows; her mother stood poised with a camera.
“Sure,” Trace said. He handed the wings to Jimmy, and knelt down for the flash.
Mel had arrived, and watched from the side. When Trace was finally done, he turned her way and waved.
“No, I don’t want a photo,” Mel called.
“Very funny,” Trace said.
“We’re going to get some food,” Harlan called to Trace. “Smoky—are you coming?”
“Okay,” Smoky rasped from close behind his motor home window screen. He was always watching, listening.
“How about you, kid?” Harlan asked Trace.
“No.”
Harlan and Jimmy turned to look at Mel, waiting a few yards away. Harlan made an exaggerated point of checking his watch. “Okay. We won’t leave without you.”
“Thanks, boss,” Trace said sarcastically.
“Hey—are you going to eat these wings?” Jimmy said to Trace, munching on one as he powered up the big rear door.
“Not now,” Trace said.
Smoky emerged, carefully locked his motor home door, and then he and Jimmy and Harlan headed toward the concessions.
Now that they were finally alone, Trace turned to Mel, who came forward to the Blu hauler. “I need to change before we go,” he said. “Want to come inside?”
“Good girls never go into a rock star’s motor home or a race driver’s cabin,” Mel said. “But I guess I could—this once.”
The side service door of the hauler was unlocked, and Mel followed Trace inside, and up the little stairs. Trace pushed open his door—then froze.
“Hey, Trace. The door was open.” It was April, the girl from the concessions stand, lying on his bed in jeans and a very tight, very full, blue and white 18x T-shirt.
Mel stumbled against Trace, who tried—stupidly—to block her view. But it was too late. There was a long moment as Mel stared at April. April stared back.
“Oh dear—I guess I should have called ahead,” April said.
“Yeah, me too!” Mel said—and spun around to leave.
“Wait,” Trace said.
“Go to hell,” Mel called over her shoulder. Her feet pounded down the stairs and out of the trailer. Its door slammed hard.