Power Slide by Susan Dunlap Read Free Book Online Page B

clutch.
    “Get out of my truck!”
    “Guthrie?”
    He was black with smoke. Tears streaked down his cheeks.
    He slid in the driver’s side and we passed the pedal so smoothly the engine didn’t even cough. In less than a minute the rig was on its way out, and the fire was receding behind us. The first thing he said was, “I gotta spend some time teaching you to drive.”
    “Hey—” Then I was coughing.

    “Listen, you were great. But when we’ve got a production company, we can really ramp up the truck gags. I’ve been thinking . . .”
    Suddenly, his attention snapped back to the smoky landscape around us. “I gotta put some more distance between those flames and this rig.”
    He was in his element, feet on the pedals, arms curved into the wheel, eyes straight ahead, an unconscious smile playing on his mouth. Like the fire never existed at all. Like we were on to the next scene. I was so relieved—giddy with relief—I almost slipped over onto the driver’s seat with him and snuggled under his arm.
    He took the corners fast but nothing like he’d be doing in a shoot, moving through the gears the way I did with a standard four on the floor. I was making mental notes of the sequence, of his timing, of the pull of each gear.
    “Always learning, eh, Darcy?”
    “No novices in Lott and Guthrie!” It was way too early in our sudden relationship for that kind of commitment, but I didn’t care.
    “Listen, this isn’t pie-in-the-sky stuff. There are great drivers—not like me, but, you know, good ones—”
    I laughed.
    “And there are great high fall artists—not up to your standard—” Even at this speed, his eyes never left the road. “But the combo—no one’s doing that, at least not like we can. We can cushion the roof of this baby so you could hit it at forty feet moving—piece of cake.”
    He pulled over near the gate. In the side mirror the fire looked like a funnel cloud, just not moving. He gave me a quick kiss, and then, as if choreographed, we both jumped out to check the rig for fire damage. All stunt doubles are careful—at least those who have a long life in the business—but no one’s more obsessive than those of us who do high falls. One loose tie-down overlooked, and splat. We’ve all heard the tales of catcher failure, wind not factored in, or more bones broken than we even realized
we possessed . . . of death. I surveyed the trailer shell with that same professional obsessiveness while Guthrie squat-walked underneath where an ember could still be smoldering near a gas line and blow us into the Bay.
    Even with my help, the check took an hour. By the time he declared the rig okay, the fog was moving in for the night.
    “Another couple of minutes and I’d’ve been working by flashlight,” Guthrie said, emerging from under the bed. He straightened so slowly it looked like he was being cranked up by gears.
    He slipped his arm around my shoulder and we leaned back against the siding. We stared at the fire’s black plume against the gray fog. The heat of his body flooded into me so only my right hand was still cold and I reached up to slip my fingers through his.
    “You’re a different man than the guy who was so down on himself yesterday.”
    “You suggesting I’m unpredictable?”
    “I’m applauding.”
    “You’ve got your guy Leo to thank.”
    What did Leo say? I can’t ask. Tell me!
    As if intuiting my thoughts, he repeated the sutra, “All my ancient, tangled karma I face up to.”
    “Avow.”
    “What?”
    “You fully avow the karma, but I guess it’s the same thing.”
    “I don’t know. It’s hard to believe I wasted all this time avoiding it. I sweated for weeks at a ranch in a hole in the desert trying to deal with it. And then I have one chat and all of a sudden it seems so clear that facing up to it is the answer. How could I not see that before? It’s crazy.”
    “But us, being together, that’s crazy, and yet it’s not. It’s like you run toward a