Chapter 22

Dressed in a racing suit at least two sizes too big, I hesitantly walk out into the pit on the side of the track, meeting the guys as they stand around a shiny stock car. The sun is beaming down from high up in the sky, and I can feel beads of sweat trailing down my back as my heart thunders in my chest, slamming against my rib cage in protest as I stare out over the looming track. Swallowing hard, I try to psych myself up, but it’s no use. To be honest, NASCAR isn’t really my thing. I tried to act all excited about it with the guys, but now that I’m here faced with the prospect of crashing headfirst into a barricade and killing myself, that excitement I felt is nonexistent. I hate driving fast.

Actually, I don’t even really like driving. I’m not the kind of person who likes to get in the car with the windows down and drive to get lost just for the sake of it. I drive only to get to where I need to be. I have enough trouble navigating the streets of Graceville in my trusty little Cruze. I don’t need to complicate things by driving two hundred miles per hour in a NASCAR vehicle. But, this is what Nash wanted.

The instructor goes over the emergency procedures, which only increases my anxiety, and explains everything else we need to know in regard to safety. The fact that we’ll be driving with a professional driver riding shotgun doesn’t make me feel any better, but at least if I die, I’ll take someone with me.

“You okay?”

I look up to see Harley watching me, his brow furrowed as he studies my face.

I manage a nod, barely.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” I snap abruptly, my voice strangely high-pitched.

“You know you don’t have to do this, Murph,” he says quietly, gently touching my shoulder. “You can just sit and watch. Or you can ride shotgun while the driver takes you around in a pace car.”

“Really?” My brows climb higher in hope at that last suggestion.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, obviously witnessing the relief flood through me. “You don’t have to go fast.”

I look around, for what I’m not sure. The truth is I don’t want everyone to think I’m too chicken. It’s weird enough that I’m the only girl on a guys’ bachelor party trip; the last thing I want is for anyone to pander to me or, worse, call me a girl. Because, let’s face it, I could kick all their asses.

“Actually, to be honest”— Harley leans in closer, his voice even lower, pulling my attention straight back to him—“I’m not too keen on this, either. I’ll ride with you, if you want …?”

I meet his eyes, gaping at him. “Are you serious?”

He smiles with a shrug. “We can even say it’s me who’s too chickenshit to drive …”