He finishes by letting out a long sigh. If he hadn’t just said it, I’d have already guessed that Wes Wells is tired of all this. He’s probably ready to retire or at least dreaming about what that might be like. With the burdens of running a racetrack and the annoyance of developers constantly knocking on his door, he’s likely feeling worn down. And with the state of repairs I’ve seen thus far, his business probably isn’t thriving as it once did, back when this is something he could be proud of.
I lean forward and rest my arms on my thighs.
“Well, I’d like an opportunity to meet them, see if we can start fresh. My mom’s family has a race team in Italy, and I’ve spent a decent amount of time in that world. Maybe not the same way your kids did, but I like racing and I like cars. I’m curious about the track business even if that’s not why we’re interested in this property.”
That last part—the pitch about being interested in their track business—is a stretch, but it’s all I have. Wes seems to like fishing, which I know nothing about, so racing is my only hope for making a connection here. When I finish, Wes continues to assess me as he reaches for a bottle of antacids. He twists the cap off, shakes two out into his hand, and tosses them in his mouth. He washes them down with a shot of Gatorade from the bottle on his desk.
Wes cocks his head as he swallows down another gulp of the electric-blue drink. “Then what?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Then we talk again. Maybe you’ll consider letting me put some numbers in front of you. Maybe not.”
He nods his head slowly. “A slow roll with a spinnerbait? Interesting. Most of you guys would go with a noisy top water approach, just to froth things up. But I can respect a man who will stand on the bank and commit to the shallows in the middle of July.”
I don’t even bother trying to hide the fact that I have no idea what in the hell he’s trying to say, although I suspect that it’s some sort of Jedi Master fishing talk. When my forehead furrows up in confusion, Wes the Fishing Yoda just points to the TV.
“Do you fish, Alec?”
I shake my head. “No. Worms creep me out and boats make me seasick.”
His responding expression indicates that Wes thinks I’m kind of a wimp for describing worms as creepy. I’d also venture that Wes considers hurling your guts over the side of a boat is another litmus test of masculinity. I’ll fail that test every time. It doesn’t matter if it’s a rowboat, a dinghy, or Declan’s yacht—they all make me want to hurl.
Credit to Wes’s apparent sense of civility, he doesn’t actually say anything offensive about my lack of chest-thumping-type traits. Instead, he stands up and walks over to sit down on the ratty love seat that’s right in front of the TV. He waves me over, so I take a seat on the other end of the couch.
“See, these guys are winter fishing. Bass are lazy in the cold, they don’t move much, so you have to be patient and move your bait the right way. You can’t get jumpy. That’s the key,” he says gravely, as if this is a monumental piece of advice I should carry with me the rest of my life.
On the screen, two guys are dressed in parkas and waders, standing on the front deck of a small boat and casting their lines into the water. Wherever they are, it’s cold enough to see their breath, and there are beads of frost forming on their beards. The guys have huge smiles on their faces—which makes absolutely no sense to me since their outing involves smelly fish, freezing temperatures, and a boat rocking beneath your feet.
Wes continues to talk, but when he starts to rhapsodize about the merits of something called deadsticking, my attention inevitably drifts.
I glance out the trailer windows at the garage area of the track facilities. There’s a line of mechanic stalls off to one side, along with a second parking lot. As I wait out Wes’s fishing lecture, an older pickup truck pulls into the lot, leaving a heavy dust trail in its wake. The truck lurches to a halt right up front, and for a moment I can’t see much of the driver. But given the way they barreled in here, they’re evidently familiar with the Rocky Mile Raceway.
When the driver opens the truck door, I’m half expecting to see some discount version of Richard Petty or Jeff Gordon step out, complete with a fire suit and a washed-up trophy girl at his side.
But that’s not what happens. No guy in a fire suit emerges. There is a girl though.
Or rather, a woman.
There’s no mistaking that when she uses one stiletto-clad foot to shove the truck door closed behind her. And the long legs that go along with those stilettos suddenly make it impossible to see anything else but this woman. The Abominable Snowman could be twerking behind her and I probably wouldn’t notice because she also happens to be wearing a very tiny, very tight electric-blue club dress. Her long, dark brown hair is styled with full glossy curls, and even from here, I can see caked-on layers of camera-ready makeup. Add in the sway in her hips as she walks and the look is full-on party girl.
And, hell, it’s a good look on her. Really good. Amazing, in fact. But it’s also two o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and we’re at a run-down dirt track, so this look of hers doesn’t make a lot of sense. Unless she’s just here on the lookout for her next hookup with a race car driver. Although, if that is her goal, she’s picked a shitty time to try to hook up with a driver. Perhaps she’s about to lodge a complaint with the management about the lack of fresh meat around here since she’s currently making a beeline for the trailer. Before I know it, the sound of those heels hits the stairs outside and I find myself sitting up a little straighter.
“I swear to all that’s freaking holy, I would love it if Becca someday wanted to style outfits that are a little less like being strapped into a sausage casing,” she announces as she blows into the trailer.
Without breaking her stride, she heads toward the back of the trailer where a small doorway leads to what looks like a bathroom. She continues talking, hollering over the sound of Wes’s show.
“I mean, she’s my best friend and I’m glad that her blog is doing well, but maybe she could do a post on yoga pants at some point. Or oversized hoodies and fuzzy slipper socks. That way I’d be able to eat a sandwich before these photo shoots and my freaking feet wouldn’t feel like they’re about to fall off.”
She ends her rant by letting out a funny little growl, and I find myself grinning at the sound. Wes seems to tune it all out, a feat given all the noises coming from the bathroom. Water running in the sink, the sound of high heels being tossed on the floor, along with a few feminine grunts that suggest she’s now trying to shimmy herself out of that dress. That thought has me biting back a grunt of my own, just from considering what’s underneath that very tight little dress.
I sit quietly, ignored by Wes and overlooked by the gorgeous woman who’s now probably naked behind that door. All while awkwardly trying to figure out the best moment to introduce myself or make my exit, without blowing what little rapport I’ve established with Wes. Before I can do either, the woman starts talking again.
“I think we need to swap out the alternator on the Mystery Machine. Last night I tried to start it and got nothing. Will you look at it today?”
The water finally shuts off, and she strides back into the room midsentence, pulling up her hair into a high ponytail. When she spots me, our eyes lock and I lose track of all the reasons I didn’t want to come to Colorado.