On the Edge by Pamela Britton Page A

come.”

    “Thanks for inviting me. And for paying me,” he added. “Even if I don’t make it, that money will come in handy.”

    Which reminded Becca that if he did make it, his sudden pay raise would dramatically change his life.

    The question was: would he change hers?

CHAPTER NINE

    HE COULD DO THIS.
    Adam’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his body so tense it felt as if his helmet was digging into his temples.

    He’d climbed into the truck again, had spoken a few words to Lindsey via his radio, then hooked his window net on the closing latches. Despite what he’d told Becca, he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life.

    Just a few laps around a track. Nothing to it.

    But this was it.

    This was it.

    If he could just hold on to his truck in traffic, he might win the thing.

    Holy crawdad, he might win.

    His breathing echoed in his ears, the bars of his HANS device digging into his shoulder so that he could feel every beat of the pulse near his collarbone. His helmet suddenly felt too tight, pulse points pounding wherever the inner liner made contact with his head.

    Becca had looked upset.

    He’d wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. But he couldn’t do that. They were just friends. That’s all they’d ever be.

    “Start it up,” he heard John say.

    Becca’s image faded as Adam flipped the on/off switch with a hand that shook. How’d it happen? he asked himself. Two months ago he’d been working his fingers to the bone, trying to race and still make ends meet with a job at the local repair shop. Today he sat in the driver’s seat of a race truck owned by none other than Randy Newman’s widow.

    “Everyone take two or three to warm up,” John said. “Then we’ll see what your lap times look like.”

    Two or three to warm up. No problem.

    But behind him were three other drivers who wanted to impress the team owners, one of them Sam Kennison who followed directly behind him, his truck’s red and white paint scheme a familiar one, though different from the red, white and blue trucks they’d driven on Monday. They were using real race trucks this time, not the trucks specially made for the first day’s testing session. The Snappy Lube decal was affixed on the hood of Sam’s truck. Adam’s boss hated the nationwide string of oil change stores, claimed they’d stolen business from him. And yet here Adam was in Martinsville, racing against the same race truck featured in their commercials. But what was even more surreal, what made it feel even more like a dream, was the logo on his own truck. Travel Time Hotels.

    Un. Real.

    Concentrate, Adam, he told himself after they told him to start the truck. He cruised down pit road, the engine so powerful he could feel its vibration down to his bones. On his left, the pit wall raced by like a white stream of paper, faster and faster. The grandstand began to blur, too, as he brought the truck through the gears. But unlike Monday, when he’d shown up at the track expecting to fail, today he knew he might have a shot. Everything seemed sharper somehow—the color of the infield grass, the empty blue seats, sunlight arching off the building’s glass. His own truck’s dark blue hood, the gold logo in the center refracting sunlight.

    “Drop the hammer, boys,” John said when they’d brought the trucks up to speed.

    They’d been asked to start single file, Adam in front, followed by Sam, Tate and Jordan. But Adam backed off a bit just before slamming down the pedal. Sam had to check up. So did Tate and Jordan. It was an old racer’s trick, one Sam should have been expecting, but judging by how close he got to the rear of Adam’s truck, Adam figured he’d been caught off guard. Good. The kid needed to remember he was up against a veteran.

    Kid. Carl’s kid. What the hell was he doing racing against Carl’s—

    No.

    He wouldn’t think like that. Instead he concentrated on steering his truck out of turn