“I don’t think you want to . . .” Too late. Tamara had turned his phone toward her.
“Oh, my. Well, there’s nothing subtle about that, is there?”
“Not really.” Elec hit Erase with a fair amount of disgust. “I don’t think ignoring her is working.”
“Guess not.” Tamara looked at him curiously. “How long did you date her?”
“For about a minute.” Elec stuck his phone back in his pocket. “We went out three times!
That’s it.” And even though Tamara wasn’t asking, he felt it was important to point out,
“And I didn’t sleep with her. Not even close. These texts are showing me way more of her than I ever saw on our three very casual dates.”
He couldn’t tell if Tamara believed him or not.
But she said, “Clearly she is determined to show you what you missed out on.”
“I don’t want it,” he insisted.
Tamara laughed. “Okay, I can see that. You look genuinely horrified. But what I can’t figure out is why you’d want saggy old me when you can have that perky perfection.”
She didn’t get it, and he didn’t know how to explain it to her. And he was afraid that no matter what he said, it would be misinterpreted. Maybe later he would try to explain what made her so gorgeous to him and why Crystal was artificial and empty. But for now he just settled for, “I think you’re beautiful. I want you. No one else.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you. Now go home before I do something I’ll regret, like rip your clothes off.”
Elec grinned. “And how is that supposed to send me running to the door? I’d like to stick around for that.”
“Except that you respect me and know I’ll regret it, so you’re going to be stronger than me and leave.”
Damn. “Alright, alright.” Elec gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be on the road, but call me if you want. And let me know if the kids aren’t back in school next Monday and we can reschedule.”
“Okay. Good luck in Pocono.”
“Thanks.” And Elec got the hell out of there before he let her down and ravaged her on her kitchen table.
“HOW could you say something like that? Oh my God, this is a disaster!” Eve threw her messenger bag onto the sofa in Evan’s coach and glared at him, and Elec almost felt sorry for him.
Almost. Eve was furious at Evan for creating a PR nightmare. Elec was furious for more personal reasons.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded! You know what it’s like . . . I had just climbed out of the car and they’re hitting me with questions. I didn’t mean it the way they made it sound.”
Eve, who had ripped her sandals off, grabbed the TV remote and whirled in the pink summer skirt and white top she’d been wearing at the track. “Listen to yourself, Evan, just listen.”
Oh, Lord, she was going to make them suffer through it again on DVR. There was Evan, grinning and victorious from his win at Pocono, climbing out of his car. Elec glanced back and forth between his brother sitting next to him, his elbows on his knees, his hands holding his head up, a grimace on his face, and the elated guy on the TV screen. Yeah, Elec almost felt sorry for him.
Microphones were shoved in Evan’s face and he answered a few questions, inserting his sponsor and car owner in at appropriate intervals. Then the reporter, a cute twentysomething who didn’t look like she’d know squat about stock car racing, said, “With this win today at Pocono, you just surpassed Pete Briggs’s record for the most victories at this track.”
“Really?” Evan said, looking startled.
Elec wouldn’t have known that either. Monroes weren’t ones to chase records. What mattered to them was climbing in the car week after week and making it count.
“Yes, he had four victories here and this is your fifth. How do you feel about that?”
“Well, that’s a fun bit of news, Theresa, thank you for sharing.” Evan gave her a big, charming smile and she smiled back. It was a little on-camera flirting that wasn’t necessarily appropriate but wouldn’t have been all that noteworthy, except that Evan opened his mouth again. And said, “And I guess all I can say about passing Pete’s record is that clearly things have turned out better for me than they have for him.”
Which probably wouldn’t have been a terrible thing to say except the man Evan was referring to was dead.
The reporter, who had been a flirty little sweetheart two seconds earlier, turned into a story shark and sank her teeth into Evan. “I guess they have turned out better for you since you’re standing here collecting another victory and he hit the wall at Talladega. Do you think that’s skill or just the luck of the driver?”
Evan’s grin had fallen off his face and he stammered a bit, before saying, “Everyone knows Pete Briggs was a great driver. His death was a huge loss to his family, fans, and to racing.”
Elec nudged his brother’s leg. “That was a good save, but dude.”
“I know, I know . . . but admit it, it just as easily could have been you.”
“No, it wouldn’t have,” Eve snapped. “Because Elec doesn’t get distracted by perky little reporters. The problem with Elec is that he never says enough. You, on the other hand, could stand to zip it once in a while.”
“Hey, now. I don’t see you having to do these interviews, Eve!” Evan dropped his hands and glared at her. “You think it’s so easy, but you try climbing out of a car that’s a hundred and ten degrees that you’ve been strapped into for four hours, dehydrated and still vibrating from the engine. You see how sharp on your toes you are.”
“I know what it’s like to drive a car! I was the quarter midget champion at fifteen, if you’re too blindsided by blond reporters to remember.”
“Midget cars ain’t stock cars, sweetheart.”
Oh, Lord, here they went. It was descending into something uglier than it already was. Elec could see both of their sides. It wasn’t easy to climb out of a car and answer tricky questions. But Eve was right—what Evan had said sounded just awful given that Pete was dead.
“Can we just focus on damage control here?” Elec asked. “Do you think Evan should offer an apology or maybe he can go to one of those events as a gesture . . . don’t Pete’s parents have a charity in his name?”
Image was important in racing, and Elec didn’t want this misstep to affect Evan’s career.