Chapter 19

Ava POV

The next day, I took advantage of the helicopter ride to Google about NASCAR on my phone so that when we arrived at the track I felt confident I was going to call things by the right name. Then we walked into an arena with more people in the stands than I had ever seen in one place. I felt equally dizzy and exhilarated, and I loved it.

I knew now that racers originally had to use production-model, or "stock," cars, but not anymore. The car Chris indicated was his, #41, could go over 200 miles an hour and seriously looked like it could achieve orbit.

Chris took me over to his pit crew of seven people and introduced me, then made small talk with a few sponsors before going to change.

I'd also learned that stock car racing originated during the Human World's prohibition against alcohol when cars carrying bottles were souped-up to outrace the police. I considered that as I watched Chris walk to his car in his blue fireproof racing suit and laughed at the thought that the outfit looked like the footie pajamas he used to wear to bed.

Those were not the best musings to have before he detoured to the pit and kissed me in front of about fifty thousand people. His lips were as soft and lovely as ever, and we showed up on the Jumbo Tron with the title "A Kiss for Luck!" I felt like I was twenty-one and enjoying my first beer.

The race was 145 laps of a bizarrely fun form of terror. Being in the pit, I could feel the cars pass by as waves of air and thunder. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline was surprisingly easy to get used to, and listening to the crowd felt like a rock concert without the music.

About mid-way through, there was a horrifying crash. Entering Turn 3 on the final lap of Stage 2, a car in bright green seemed to run out of fuel, slowing all the cars behind it. One car in the pack, bright blue, darted out and sped forward, only to clip another car that spun out, blocking everyone. A car speeding through obviously tried to avoid the mess but ended up T-boning the bright blue car.

Ultimately, no one was seriously hurt, thank the Goddess. The driver of the car that flipped over several times "dropped the net" to show he was OK, and the safety team whisked him away. I confess I was mostly watching Chris's car, which under the yellow flag had to follow the speed of the pace car. Thinking about how I would feel if his car crashed forced me to confront that my feelings for him were quickly getting out of control.

With effort, I focused on the cars as they sped around the track, no longer under the yellow flag. Watching the race in person, I could see the drivers were pushing the limits of their cars with every turn. I saw how the cars would tighten up to intimidate the leader or stretch out to pretend they were taking it easy only to rush through turn to take the lead. It was a complicated mix of chess and boxing, and soon I was so caught up in the racing that I was screaming and raising my hands.

I had a sudden mental flash of living my life with someone so beautiful and so full of life. I thought of how wonderful Chris was and about how much he seemed to care for me. It took me a moment to ground myself and remember that I was thirty-five and he was twenty-five. I had watched him grow up.

The problem was that thinking about our age difference wasn't the sobering thought it used to be. I was getting used to thinking of him as a man, and a highly competent, wonderfully thoughtful man at that.

And then Chris was the first to cross the finish line, and I screamed my head off.

In fact, I admit, I howled. So many people were making noise around me, however, that I don't think anyone noticed.

As everyone in the pit was congratulating each other, a man walked up to me and said Chris had made for a very good show. He sported a ten-gallon hat with an eagle feather I doubted was legal, and his belly was held up by a leather belt adorned with a huge buckle in the shape of a bull. The beer on his breath made me hold mine.

"George Harrison," he told me. "Like the Beatle! Pretty sweet, ain't it?"

"Very," I said with a smile and a step back.

"Great race and a solid win for your team," he said next, waving his hands around. He reached out toward me next, and I thought he was waving at someone, but instead his hand ended up on my right shoulder, and he shook me slightly. "Great pit crew, right?"

I stepped back to get his hand off my shoulder, but instead of letting go he slid his hand down my front, brushing my breast with his knuckles. I thought seriously about strangling him to death with his belt.

"I'm here to represent one of the sponsors," he said next, then made a little bow. "Coca-Cola."

"How nice," I said instead of kneeing him in the balls. "You guys have logos up everywhere."

"Absolutely!" He threw his head back and laughed, and people in the crew cut their eyes toward him in a way that let me know he wasn't popular with them. I was relieved to know his behavior was as unlikable in the Human World as it would be in Wolf Territory.

He put out his hands next, obviously trying to capture one of mine. I smoothed my hair back to keep them out of his reach and smiled. Then, to my great relief, Chris joined us.

"Come with me to the winner's circle?" he asked, and I could not help but compare his polite diffidence to the pig-like manners I'd had to endure for the past few minutes.

Which made it all the more abhorrent when George asked, "Is this your nephew or something?"

We both looked at him.

He blustered a bit. "I just mean, heh, who's the kid?"

Chris frowned at him.

"He just won," I said and laughed. "Weren't you watching?" I reached up to kiss Chris on the cheek and wound up with a sweet kiss on my lips instead. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," he said back. The sunlight in his hair made him look like a Greek god, and I felt a little weak in the knees.

"Don't you think he's a little young for you?" George asked next, and I turned to tell him what he could go do with himself as I felt Chris tense up next to me.