Free One night in Daytona (One Night Stands #1) by Ann Grech

 
    C H A P T E R   O N E
     
     
    “Welcome back to our live coverage of the Daytona 500 after those important messages from our sponsors.”
    “This is the final pit stop for Jos Farris.  He’ll only need enough gas to get him over the line and with twenty laps of the circuit left, it’ll be a quick stop.  He’s got it in the bag.  Mark my words: Farris is on his way to his first driver championship.  This is his season.  He’s already dominating it.  The darling on and off the racing circuit is ready; go, go... oh no.  It looks like Farris’ car has stalled.  What a disaster!”
    “Farris is usually cool as a cucumber, but he’s got to be feeling the pressure here.  He’s trying to restart the engine, but it’s just not coming alive.”
    “He’s out.  He’s out of the Daytona 500.  What a tragedy.  From leader of the race to a DNF.  Jos Farris is a DNF.  His pit crew are moving the car into the garage and have the jacks out already.  Farris is out of the car.  His race is over.  What a tragedy.”
     
    “What the fuck, man?” Buck Allbright shouted at Jos in his Texan drawl, his white Stetson contrasting against the mottled red of his face and white handlebar moustache.  “Can you or can you not drive this fucking car?  I’ve invested millions of dollars into this team and you,” he poked a thick finger in Jos’ chest, “you’ve just pissed on it.”
    “The starter motor crapped itself.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.  What’d you want me to do?”
    “Not stall the fucking car.”
    “Deliver me a goddamn car that isn’t plagued by mechanical faults and I’ll win this damn race.  But no, we’ve had problems with that piece-of-shit alternator all day.  And don’t even get me started on the shit that went down last year.”
    “Bullshit, Farris.  It’s your driving. You’re fucking incompetent.  Get the fuck outta your suit.  You ain’t drivin’ for this team again,” Allbright shouted, spittle covering Jos’ face, as he grabbed Jos’ firesuit with both hands and shook him.
    “You can’t fire me, asshole,” Jos swatted his hands as he pushed Allbright away, making him stumble and land on his ass before the media circus vying for the best take of the argument.
    “I’ll have your ass for this, you disrespectful little shit,” the team owner gritted out as he steadied himself on the tyres.  Jos’ glare back at him seemed to push Allbright over the edge of his already tattered temper and he threw a punch at Jos.  The fringing on Allbright’s white button down shuddered as wildly as the jiggle around his thick waist as he again stumbled.  Jos didn’t think.  He’d been pushed to the limits of endurance today, his anger and disappointment at his stupid, stupid mistake exploding in a haze of red clouding his vision.  Jos’ lightning fast reflexes kicked in and he sidestepped Allbright’s reach, easily avoiding his punch.  Before his brain could engage, survival instinct kicked in and Jos’ fist connected with the soft cartilage of his team owner’s nose, sending a crimson splatter of blood down Allbright’s pristine shirt. 
    Jos kept punching until his pit crew pulled the two brawling men apart.  Allbright was clutching his nose, blood streaming down his face as he howled and Jos shook out his already swelling hand. 
    The contrast between the two men was stark.  Allbright typified the Texan cowboy come oil magnate.  He was a sixty-something, portly man dressed in a near all-white suit excepting the corporate logos of the team sponsors sewn to the back and chest of his shirt with matching red cowboy boots. Jos had a longer, leaner look with a shock of dark, sweat-plastered, messy hair and brown eyes that, except for the distinctive gold flecks, were almost black in their intensity.  The two men struggled against the teammates restraining them until Jos relaxed in their arms and said quietly, “I’m done.  Let me go,” just as the closest