Diesel could have said no, but chances were his family was mentioned. Because Diesel and Pete were cousins and had both had a similar accident, Pete’s resulting in his tragic death, they were forever be linked together in racing stories. Since Pete had been Johnny’s only child, he deserved to see anything that might involve his son.
In Diesel’s opinion, Johnny had always done a fine job of keeping his son’s memory alive without being obsessive about it. He had faced adversity and loss with strength.
Diesel wasn’t sure he’d done as well, but he’d managed. He gave his uncle the envelope and went over to discuss the final details with the hauler, who looked about finished loading the car. It was going over to the practice track for a few days to be on display, then a big-box retail store, and finally to the hotel where the benefit was taking place.
He was damn proud of this car. It was his idea of art, a finely tuned machine that was fifty years old and could still go around that speedway track at one-thirty.
“Did you see the picture of the car?” his uncle asked him.
“No.” Curious, Diesel leaned over to see the magazine spread. “I wish she would have told me what she was doing. I would have pulled the car out of the garage.”
The photo looked cluttered to him, like the focus wasn’t really on the car but on his mess surrounding it. “I’d have washed it, too. It’s all dusty.”
“Did you see this picture?”
Following his uncle’s finger, he saw the last car he’d driven, mangled after the wreck. Nice. “She didn’t tell me she was printing that either.” Maybe because everytime she’d brought up the article, he’d shut her down. He didn’t like seeing his failure in glossy color, and now he was regretting brushing her off. “Do you mind if I have a look at that?”
He suddenly had a bad feeling . . . like he wasn’t going to be thrilled about any of what was printed on that page.
“Knock yourself out.”
Five minutes later, he definitely wasn’t happy. The tone of the article was verging on critical of him. At least that’s how he took it. And last time he’d checked, it was his girlfriend who had written it.
In the two years since his accident, Lange has neither pursued the possibility of returning to the track, nor has he become an advocate for stricter safety measures, two traditional routes we’ve seen injured drivers take over the years. He lives instead in relative obscurity on a large property with no wife or kids, or any evidence of his stellar but short-lived career inside his spacious home. The garage is the only room that indicates any connection to racing, and after viewing the litany of car parts scattered around, most people would assume he had been a chief mechanic, not a driver.
What exactly was she suggesting? So he didn’t have a bunch of pictures of himself on the walls or awards displayed. It didn’t match the décor. Plus he didn’t need a constant reminder of what he’d had and lost by losing control out on the track.
“Johnny.” He called to his uncle, who had stepped away to let him read the article and was tossing the tennis ball to Wilma.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should have become an advocate for stricter safety measures after Pete’s crash and mine?”
His uncle’s eyebrow went up, like he was wondering where the hell that question had come from. But he didn’t ask, he just shook his head. “No, of course not. Nothing could have been done to change the outcome of what happened to both of you. It’s a risk you take, plain and simple. We can’t bubble-wrap the sport any more or it won’t be racing.”
That would be his opinion as well. His accident had been a combination of unexpected circumstances and human error. “This article is kind of pissing me off.”
“Business and pleasure don’t mix, son. They never have.”
He definitely wasn’t feeling any pleasure toward this business.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DIESEL put the chicken skewers on the grill and tried not to worry. A storm was brewing and he didn’t mean over Lake Norman. Tuesday was clearly pissed at him and he had to admit he wasn’t feeling so pleased with her himself.
“Okay, I’ve been here an hour now and I think I’ve been patient enough.”
Yep. Storm coming. Diesel took the grilling tongs in his hand and messed with the skewers, adding more spacing between them. “Patient enough about what?”
“You haven’t said one word about my article.”
She could sense she was leaving the chair she’d been sitting in, but he still didn’t turn around. He wasn’t prepared to have this conversation. “I told you it was a nice article.” Which he had.
“That’s lame and you know it.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Something that says you care about me and know it was hard for me to write the thing.”
He turned, feeling his anger spark a little. “I do care about you. I do know it was hard for you. It was hard for me to read it.”
“Why?” she asked him baldly, standing a foot in front of him, her hands on her hips. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and the gesture had her shirt riding up, exposing her stomach.
“Because it was.” Diesel knew that was a frustrating answer but he couldn’t make himself say anything else. He couldn’t tell her how sometimes he felt like a total loser. That he had let down his uncle and his team owner and sponsor and himself.
That he had never come close to achieving the success he had worked hard for in his twenties.
“Are you kidding me? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What am I supposed to say?” He couldn’t take the way she was staring at him, irritated, her eyes pleading with him. He couldn’t stand the thought that he was inadequate to Tuesday.
“You’re supposed to tell me how you feel.”
“I feel fine.” Diesel went back to the grill, turning the skewers.
Her arms wrapped around him from behind, snaking around his waist. He closed his eyes as she laid her cheek on his back. Maybe he should tell her he was angry about the article. Maybe he should tell her that he didn’t like the way she’d portrayed him, as a racing hermit locked in his house.
“You can tell me anything, you know. I care about you.”
“Yeah, I know.” He did know and he was very grateful for her in his life. “I care about you, too.”
He loved her.