Checkered Flag Cheater by Will Weaver Read Free Book Online Page B

replied.
    â€œWhat it’s like with your crew? Racing. Being on the road all the time.”
    Trace glanced down briefly, then told her the main parts about being on the road: Harlan, the crew chief and full-time huckster for Team Blu; Jimmy, the Xbox king and Super Stock setup guy; Smoky, the team motor man. He didn’t tell her about Sara Bishop, whom he talked to a lot—mostly about racing. Or April, the college girl from North Dakota, whom he had met at a speedway concession stand.
    â€œHave you had any more engine protests?” Mel asked; the first one had been at Headwaters last summer.
    â€œYes,” Trace said.
    â€œAnd?”
    He shrugged. “We always pass inspection.”
    She cocked her head. “You don’t seem all that happy.”
    â€œI miss working on my own engine. I like to know exactly what’s in there.”
    â€œYou’re a pro driver now,” Mel said. “You can’t do everything.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” Trace said without enthusiasm.
    â€œDo you see much of that creepy Laura from corporate headquarters?”
    â€œShe’s not that creepy,” Trace replied quickly.
    â€œYes she is. I don’t trust her.”
    Trace laughed—then saw that he shouldn’t have. “Don’t worry. She’s way too old for me.”
    â€œI would certainly hope so,” Mel said. “And what else aren’t you telling me?” she teased.
    â€œThat’s pretty much it. Racing, then hanging out in my little cabin, thinking about you.”
    â€œYeah, right.”
    Trace was silent.
    â€œSorry,” Mel said. She leaned against him. “I believe you.”
    â€œLet’s talk about this summer instead,” he said.
    Mel blushed slightly.
    â€œWhen does summer officially begin?” Trace asked, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.
    â€œAccording to the calendar? Or according to me?” she said.
    â€œAccording to you,” Trace said.
    She pulled her hands away. “The Fourth of July,” she said, color coming into her cheeks. “That always feels like summer to me.”
    â€œI’ll bring some fireworks,” Trace said. “I can get real ones down in South Dakota.”
    â€œI don’t think we’ll need any fireworks,” she said.
    They hung out at Perkins until dawn, and then left in separate cars. Mel went home. Trace headed to South Dakota to catch up with Team Blu.

5
    Trace arrived at the Dakota State Fair Speedway in Huron, South Dakota, not long after the pit gates opened. Heats started in two hours. He parked across the pit fence from the Team Blu hauler, staggered out of his car, and hurried to the gate. His pit pass was waiting.
    Inside the pits he walked past a lineup of race-car trailers and haulers, their stock cars unloaded and pointed toward pit row. Team Blu’s Freightliner hauler was buttoned up, the Super Stock out of sight. Smoky’s mini–motor home, an older Gulf Stream camper with a Ford nose, sat alongside the hauler; its roof bristled with antennae, including a small satellite dish. Smoky always parked so he could watch the track from his sidewindow. Harlan lounged in his lawn chair beside the tall blue Freightliner like a security guard for a Southern rock band.
    â€œMy, my, my—look what the cat drug in,” Harlan said. He wore his usual Team Blu T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to accommodate his beefy arms, along with sunglasses and a red do-rag. He was having a cigarette. At the sound of voices, the trailer’s side service door opened a crack; Smoky, like a Team Blu trailer troll, peered out, with Jimmy Joe’s narrow face popping up briefly over his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t ask,” Trace said to his crew.
    â€œYou’re lucky we didn’t change the lock on your cabin,” Harlan said.
    â€œSorry,” Trace mumbled. That was all he could think to say, or explain. His butt was