Free Dangerous Curves by Pamela Britton Page B

since Randy’s death, even for his Busch team.
    Blain barely heard the escalation in crowd noise as the cars took off. He glanced back at Cece. She stared at the group of cars, a hand lifted to shield her eyes. Her face looked as tense as his own, her concern for him evident every time their eyes met. Just when she’d become a confidante and a friend he had no idea, and yet somehow, she had. Not surprising, he thought, given that she was the only one in the garage who knew what he did: that someone might have tried to kill Randy.
    Acid hit his stomach like peroxide on an open wound. He felt like calling Lance back. Felt like going to the nearest official and asking him to call off the race. But Cece was right; they didn’t know anything for certain yet, and after all, the killer’s note hadn’t threatened this league.
    Still…
    The cars picked up speed, the sound like the roar of a hundred tornadoes. Angry whines that reached beneath his earphones and vibrated his chest cavity. Race day. Usually excitement filled him, but today that thrill was gone.
    He motioned to Cece. She mouthed the word, “Me?” as she pointed to herself, blond brows lifted, and despite the tension, despite the acid in his gut, Blain found himself smiling. Cece, his fearless FBI agent, looked reluctant to enter the maw of his pit stall. But just like the Cece of old, he watched her straighten her shoulders and look both ways before crossing though the stream of owners and TV crews that moved up and down pit road. She came up alongside him and he handed her a pair of spare headphones that hung from a toolbox.
    “Here,” he yelled, because by now they’d be lucky to hear a DC-10 take off. The roar of the fans—nearly fifty thousand of them—drowned out all sound but that of the cars themselves.
    She tugged them awkwardly over her ears and he flipped her mike down, pressing the button on the side of his own headphones. “If you need to talk, just press here and speak.”
    “Ah, thanks, honey,” came Lance’s familiar voice, his words syrupy-sweet. “But I’m not in the mood for sweet talk right now. Maybe later.”
    Cece’s met Blain’s gaze in shock.
    He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Lancethought himself a comedian. Turning to the track, Blain tried to find his car, the thunder of engines telling him the pack was on the back stretch. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air.
    “Lance, cut the chatter. We’re on the air.” By that he meant people listening in.
    But his new driver didn’t appear to care. “Ah, honey, you’re always spoiling my fun.”
    He met his crew chief’s eyes. Mike Johnson had been in the business as long as Blain, but they were both a little baffled by Lance’s stand-up comedy routine on race day.
    “Hey, was it sexy Cece you gave a headset to?” Lance asked, obviously in a conversational mood.
    Blain didn’t answer.
    “Because if it was, I have a little song for her—”
    “No,” his crew chief said. “Don’t—”
    Too late. Lance belted out the words to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” as he swerved his car back and forth to warm the tires.
    And then, to Blain’s shock, Cece pressed her mike and interrupted him midstream. “Lance, there’s a pack of dogs following you.”
    Which made every member of his Busch team laugh. Blain included, and it felt nice to forget, even if it was just for a second, that there was a killer on the loose.
    “Ah, honey,” Lance said, “they’re just following the Big Dog.” And then he howled like a wolf, causing everyone with headsets to clutch at their ears.
    Blain rolled his eyes. Cece met his gaze and smiled.
    And Blain felt like the sun came out, even though it was already shining brightly in the sky. And he was glad that she was there in the pit with them. Glad she was on his side. Glad she was trying to lighten his mood a bit.
    “That’s enough, Lance,” Blain said. “Keep it up and you’ll find yourself in the doghouse.”
    “As long as