Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (10 page)

“I just have a feeling.
I had a dream about a little boy the other night with your crazy rusty hair and
green eyes.”

I smiled thinking of a
little me running around and then cringed. That was not something I was ready
for. I’d rather have a little Sway running around with her emerald eyes and
soft mahogany curls but I’d settle for either one.

“
Mmmm
,”
I sighed.

“What?” Sway asked
turning to face me holding the picture to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

“I can always tell when
you have a secret.”

Her eyes fell to the
photograph once again tracing the outline of our baby. “I can’t hide anything
from you, can I?”

“Nope,” I shook my
head.

“I’m scared it’s too
soon for us to become parents.” Sway blurted out.

I laughed. “You’re
probably right but it is what it is.”

“We’re doing this
backwards you know.”

When I didn’t say
anything her anxious eyes meant mine.

“That’s what makes it
fun.” I told her.

Eventually I ended up
showing Sway the rest of the house and the race shop I was having built.

She loved everything
about the house but I knew she enjoyed the baby’s room best. After today I
couldn’t wait to finally start our lives together but first I would need to
purpose.

I knew that wasn’t
something I could rush into, especially after the other night. I needed to show
Sway how much she meant to me and I needed to earn her trust.

Stagger – Sway

We could only keep
Jameson in the house for so long before he found his way to the sprint car shop
and insisted on making some changes to the cars. What he was doing, no one
knew, but it was more of him just needing to be around the cars.

I also knew that even
though he was out there, he needed to eat. So I stopped by the store, picked up
some food intending to cook for him.

His sprint car shop for
JAR
Racing
(his sprint car team that he started) was
located about a mile from his parent’s house and five miles from the new house
on Lake Norman. It was around twenty four thousand square feet with white
walls, red and black trim and the JAR
Racing
logo in
the center of the concrete floor surrounded by a pair of checkered flags.

Don’t think I didn’t already
imagine what my ass would look like sitting on it.

I must have walked
right past Jameson leaned against his tool box near the wall when I heard that
smooth rasp on the phone with whom I assumed was his grandpa. Grandpa Casten
was a crazy old man with a nasty temper much like any Riley, who built all the
race engines for both JAR Racing and Riley-Simplex Racing, the Winston Cup
team. Engines were extremely expensive so it paid having family in the process.
And for a new team on both sides, it was what kept them going. That and a brand
new engine runs $75,000 - $80,000, and you take around four to each track, you
get deals where you get them.

Some teams even went
the route of leasing engines to the tune of $45,000 apiece. Currently there
were five World of Outlaw teams and nine Winston Cup teams leasing from CST
Engines. They were good and knew how to build strong engines.

“We have too much lift
and not enough clearance. They’ll need to have pistons fly cut or we have to
run a different cam.” Jameson said to him.

Most thought Jameson
was just a driver. They were wrong. He knew everything about sprint cars from
the setups to the engines and could build one from the ground up if needed.
Though he was still learning with stock cars, he’d picked up enough that he
knew what the car was doing and how to make it do what he wanted.

Jameson turned sharply
when he heard the click of my flip flops hitting the heel of my feet as I
walked closer.

My eyes caught his. He
smirked shifting his position against the tool box to appear more relaxed. The
phone rested against his shoulder as he scribbled notes across a note pad
laying on his toolbox.

Dressed comfortably in
loose khaki shorts and a Simplex polo shirt, he looked tempting.

I waited patiently for
him to hang up but it wasn’t like his engine talk wasn’t turning me on.

“Grandpa,” Jameson
sighed tossing his pen aside. “The cam is .499
intake
with .520 exhaust and 1.6 rockers.” He picked up the pen and jotted down a few
things before tossing it again. “We’re gonna have a spring bind problem.”

I lost track of what he
was saying because though he was talking to his grandpa, his grass green eyes
never left mine. “Just make the changes. Fine
...
tell nana I love her
...
yes
...
of course I want cookies. All right
...
love you too, jerk.”

When he cleared his
throat, I spoke. “I came to offer food.”

His eyes flashed with
humor as a smile lit up his face. “Is that so?” he asked with a certain
sparkle.

He moved from his
position near the toolbox to stand over an engine block that was open. Somehow
my feet moved and I too, was standing over the engine.

Jameson slid a black
plastic glove on his right hand. His eyes moved over my body slowly as though
he was memorizing it. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze feeling exposed.

“I need to get this
camshaft in.” he said moving closer yet again.

“What’s all this?” I
motioned to the engine. “Why are you doing this?”

“Grandpa needed some
help this morning.” He perked up at the idea of engine building. “I’m
installing the camshaft. Would you like to watch?”

I felt moisture seep
down my thighs at the thought.

And then he began the
most erotic engine slang I had ever heard from him.

“I’ve already installed
the camshaft bearings, prepping them with assembly lube.” Jameson ran his gloved
finger over the opening in the block back and forth provocatively. “Now, you
take the camshaft,” he chuckled deeply, holding the long piece of metal in his
hands. To tease me further, he stroked the lobes once and I elbowed him, his
eyes brows raised as he giggled. Yep, he giggled.

“You should do a proper
cleaning of all the journals and lobes, which I’ve done already. Then you
spread lube over the distributor driver gear and all the lobes of the camshaft.
It’s messy, so you start with the gear and the first four lobes at the rear of
the cam.” He whispered, moving closer. “Then you spread some Molly lube on the
two rear journals and insert the cam in the block slowly until you can leave it
hanging on those last two journals. That way, the next four lobes of the cam
are easily assessable for greasing. Each lobe needs to be fully coated.”

I had to physically
block the neurons firing in my head to just lay myself over this goddamn engine
and have him coat me in Molly lube, whatever the hell that was.

He stared down at me,
the knowing smirk growing. “It’s really messy but if you lube all the journals
first and then try to insert, your hands will slip off so it’s best to go a
little at time.”

Just before the cam was
inserted all the way, his eyes found mine. “Would you like to help with
insertion?” he asked raising an eyebrow and then raising his shirt to sweep
across his forehead. Though I took comfort in the fact he was just as worked
up, it still wasn’t much consolation.

I drew in a breath that
sounded like a wind tunnel as I stared at the cam.

“I’ll take that as a
no.” he chuckled. “When you get to the end, you grab the camshaft with one hand
and then reach inside the block and feed the rest through.” His hand reached
over the top of the block feeding the camshaft through. I watched intently as
his forearms flexed with the controlled movement.

“If you leave the cam
plug out, you can ease the last few inches in easier. Then you put the upper
gear on,” he bolted the gear on, “and your cam is ready to go, fully lubricated
and spinning smoothly.” His wrist flicked the gear once spinning it.
“See, perfect.”

I think he knew he’d
gotten me but he was quick to add, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

Next thing I knew, we were
knocking over tools, parts and using a sprint car for balance.

“Cars
again?”
I let a little giggle slip.

“Hmmm
...
yes
, cars again.” His
teeth did that nipping thing I loved so much.
“Sprint cars.
I hope you stretched.”

Hot
damn.

“
Mmm
sprint cars.” I pointed to the floor. “Is that oil on the floor? Don’t slip in
that.”

“I won’t slip in the
oil.” His hands moved to my face searching for my lips.

“Be careful, you’re not
paying attention.” I looked around the shop. There were tools, tires, hoses,
and oil scattered throughout. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I won’t slip in the
oil,” his hands once again, forced my attention back to him. “
now
you
...
pay
attention.”

“Pay attention? Not
possible, not when you
...
oh god
...
do that again
...
oh my
...
” Just as I was about to see stars, he was gone. “Hey what
happened? Are you okay down there?”

“I slipped in the oil.”

I started to turn
around to see if he was truly okay but he pressed me hard against the rear tire
of his sprint car, my bare ass on cool rubber.

“What’s going on down
there?” I noticed he wasn’t quite as, shall I say
hard
as before.

Jameson shrugged his
eyes wary. “It’s cold in here. He’s shy.”

It was freezing in
here. That was no lie. My nipples could cut through an iceberg. These days,
they did that a lot.

“Shy you say?”

“Yes, shy.” The wary
eyes dropped. “I just slipped trying to be sexy. He needs his ego stroked.”

“Stroked?” I reached
between my legs where he was knelt, running my hand from the tip to base, he
hardened further with a groan.
“That kind of stroking?”

“Yes, stroking
...
good.”

My foot slipped against
the oil pan, spraying oil against us.

“Fuck
...
that stings,” Jameson’s hand flew to his
eyes.

“What stings?”

“Oil
...
in my eye.
I can’t see now
...
there seems to be three of you.”

“Aim for the one in the
middle.” I mumbled guiding his face to mine.

Thoughts of the oil
spill were fleeting as he slipped inside with an oil slick of my own. It should
have hurt. There I was sitting on the edge of a rubber tire as my dirty heathen
pushed against me and oh was he dirty
...
and
I mean
actually
dirty.

His hands were covered
in grease, oil and god knows what else which in turn was now all over me. I
looked like I was trying to disguise myself for battle.

“I came here to tell
you I was going to make you breakfast.” I said trying to reason with myself as
to why I was now spread out, once again, on a car, except this time it was a
sprint car.

“Don’t distract me with
food.” He warned. “Can you stick your leg on my shoulder?” Jameson reached for
the hem of his t-shirt yanking it over his head in one quick movement. His
muscles flexed moving closer. The bruises from his healed ribs were beginning
to turn yellow although new bruises formed along his right side from his brawl
with Mike.

I placed my leg on his shoulder,
my foot rested against his neck as he spread my legs out in front of him.

“No talking eh? I think
a little dirty talking is good sometimes. It’s a
good
distraction.”

“Don’t test me, honey.”
He removed my hands from the tire and placed them against the wing above me.
“You might want to hold on.”

“I make a bitchin
omelet.”

“Omelets, really?” he
groaned picking up the other foot and placing it on his shoulder. He then
placed both of them together against his right shoulder. His hands wrapped
around my hips pulling me toward him. “I love omelets.”

“I know you do.”

“How’s that
...
does it feel good?”

“Good
...
yes
...
very
good.”

“Very
good?”

“Amazing, back to the
omelet,”

“You really want to
talk about omelets when I’m fucking you against my sprint car? Because if you
keep that up, I’ll be forced to
fight
dirty,”