Third Place Romance SouthWest Writers Contest

CHAPTER ONE

Eric Trent walked into the garage, the scent of oil and gasoline assailing his nostrils.  The workshop had not changed much in fifteen years, with the exception of growing older, shabbier.  Stacks of overflowing cardboard boxes still lined the walls and faded, dog-eared issues of Motor Trend, Car and Driver, and Racing Weekly were piled into tall skyscrapers in the far corner.  The walls, once painted a bright white, had turned ivory from oil and age.  There were a few changes, too.  Gone were Ron’s old pinup calendars of busty blondes with “Farrah” hair.  Tools were no longer strewn across the workbenches, nor was the floor littered with discarded engine parts, evidence that a new hand managed Monroe Racing.

The feelings had been different when he had come here as a boy:  happiness, excitement, freedom.  No one at Monroe’s had jumped to fulfill his every whim as they did at his father’s house.  Here, Eric had been like one of the family.  Ron had given him chores and responsibilities; that was the price for participating in the Monroe legacy.  A small part of Eric had resented being ordered about by his father’s employee.  But those hours of waxing cars and scraping rust from Ron’s old tools had provided Eric with a sense of peace and purpose he only appreciated after it was lost.

Eric frowned.  The days of his purposeless youth were long past.  He pushed aside the warm memory of Ron Monroe and his family.  He smoothed the lapels on his black, three-button suit and straightened his red silk tie.  Now, his purpose was all business.

A racer with a smoke-stained Riley and Scott chassis was raised on blocks.  The automobile had seen better days.  The car looked like a dissected shark, mechanical guts spread across an oil-blackened workstation.  The twisted rear and front wings rested against the garage wall, the carbon fiber body exposed where a collision had peeled the glossy black paint.  An Aurora engine lay partially dismantled on the workbench, a collection of plugs, wires, and bolts arranged around it like an offering to a mechanical god.

Beside the Riley and Scott was an ancient-looking 1966 Ford Mustang GT convertible, the emerald green paint faded after years in the desert sun.  Two halves of an old muffler and the Mustang’s rusted exhaust pipe lay strewn on the garage floor like a cast-off snakeskin.

Eric heard the clang of metal striking the pavement.  He peeked around the opposite side of the Mustang.  A pair of dirty, leather work boots protruded from under the machine’s belly.  Eric picked his way across the oil-stained floor, grumbling for not the first time that he should have chosen different shoes.

Eric kicked the left boot.  “Come out of there, Monroe.  We need to talk.”

The mechanic slid out on the wheeled dolly.

Eric blinked rapidly.  This was not what he had expected.  Or rather, whom.

A woman stared up at him, impatience reflected in her mahogany eyes.  Her gray coveralls were stained with engine oil and globs of sticky green grease.  Her brown hair had been gathered into a matching gray ball cap, a few wayward curls escaping to tickle her elfin face.  Her face was covered in a fine oil mist, smudges highlighting her cheekbones.  Hardly the type of cosmetics Eric was accustomed to seeing on women.

The woman sat up and watched him with irritation.  She blew a curl out of her face impatiently.

Eric extended his hand in greeting.  “Thomasina?  Miss Monroe, I’m—”

“I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Trent,” she said, refusing his outstretched hand. “And why you are here.”  Her eyes moved over him briefly, disdainfully.  “Let me save you the trouble of soiling your fine three-hundred dollar Italian shoes by telling you we’re not interested.”

“Your brother indicated a deal might be reached.”  A nonchalant shrug disguised his discomfort.  She was the last person Eric hoped to encounter.  Eric was used to eliciting a certain response from the fairer sex, and Tommi’s scorn was not even close.  A normal woman would have smiled or blushed, maybe even flirted with him a little if she were bold.  Miss Monroe was telling him to take a hike.

“Danny and I have discussed your proposal,” she insisted, her brown eyes going hard,  “At this time, we do not believe the deal is in the best interests of Monroe Racing.  Now, I suggest you get back into your BMW—”

“Porsche,” he interrupted, smiling his most charming smile.

“and take yourself back to San Antonio,” she finished, not breaking stride.

“I understand your opinions, Miss Monroe, but I think I really need to speak with your father on this matter.”

Tommi’s eyes narrowed as he mentioned her father.  “I’m very aware of my father’s desires, and speak for my entire family when I say that we’re not interested.  Good-bye.”  She shook his hand, leaving a thick smear of grease in his palm.  With an impish smile, Tommi slid back under the Mustang, signaling the end of the conversation.

Eric stood staring like a fool at the patch of sticky grime coating his hand.  He was more shocked than angry, with half a mind to drag the girl out from under the car and talk some sense into her.  Instead, he reached for his handkerchief, wiping away as much of the slime as possible.  She would not get away with this behavior.  Surely she could not stay under the car all day.  He would simply wait her out, and then address the subject once more.

Eric paced alone in the garage like an impatient child, waiting for Miss Monroe to re-emerge.  After ten minutes with no sign she would speak with him, Eric retuned to his car, the dusty gravel crunching under his leather soles.

Every bit as stubborn as I remembered, Eric grumbled, yanking open the door of his car, careful not to smear grease on the leather interior.  This was not over yet.

*  *  *

The black Riley whipped around the second turn, narrowly brushing the brick wall.  The driver increased speed on the straightaway, pushing the speedometer to two hundred miles per hour.  The pilot downshifted for the next turn, the engine whining in disappointment.  Driving was like flying.  The sensation went beyond the cockpit, with all the dials, lights, and controls.  It was the rush of the wind, the roar of the engine pounding like the blood slamming in her veins.

When Tommi was behind the wheel, the world seemed to fade. She saw nothing but the white blur of the concrete wall and the black ribbon of asphalt curling in front of her.  Here, her life depended on her reflexes and instinct.  One miscalculation, and she could send her craft spinning into the wall.  She lived for this, the thrilling bond between human and machine.  She could forget about life and all its disappointments, the problems with her father, the money, everything.

Today, she wanted to forget about Eric Trent.  Tommi frowned as she remembered him standing in her garage bold-as-brass, addressing her as though they had never met.  “Miss Monroe” he had called her.  Tommi sniffed behind her visor.  He probably did not remember her.  She was sure the Monroes were of little consequence to a man as powerful as Eric Trent.  His father’s company was built on the backs of peons such as herself.  She wished she could have forgotten the last fifteen years as easily as Eric had.

Tommi’s foot hit the gas, taking the car to two-thirty.  The rebuilt engine growled as it propelled the car through the next stretch of track.  He had a lot of nerve coming to the house.  Until now, all Trent’s contacts had been via telephone.  Perhaps he wanted to assess their financial situation himself, gloat over her family’s near-destitution. The Trents had almost ruined her family fifteen years ago.  After years without any contact, the interest they now showed in Monroe Racing could only mean bad news.

Tommi slowed the car to two hundred and ten miles per hour as she approached the next turn.  She gritted her teeth as her body was tossed to the left side of the cockpit.  He was still the same Eric, the spoiled kid who thought he could charm everyone with his false charm.  She had seen his cool arrogance when he announced he drove a Porsche, his distain for the oil splattered concrete floor of her family’s garage.  Some women might be awed by his status and wealth, but not Tommi Monroe.  She had fallen for his charms once, but never again.

As she exited the turn, Tommi pushed all thoughts of Eric from her mind.  She grinned as the accelerator hit the floor.  Who wanted to ride in a Porsche when you could drive a Riley & Scott?

Tommi slammed the stop button on the watch as she slid across the line.  The times would indicate the effectiveness of her adjustments.  Everything from the angle of the rear fin to the size of the tires determined the balance and handling of the Riley.  The engine pitch seemed a little off; she would check the crankshafts when she returned to the garage.  In general, the car seemed to handle well considering how badly it had been damaged.

Tommi hit the brakes hard as she pulled into the pit area, burning a long strip of rubber into the pavement.

“New tires can be expensive,” her brother observed.

Danny leaned against a support beam near the entrance to the El Paso County Racetrack’s pit area.  Tommi’s brother had grown into a younger version of their father.  Almost thirty, Danny’s hazel eyes were more serious and careworn than Ron’s had been; not surprising considering the burdens that had fallen on the young man over the years. He was dressed in his black racing uniform, his wavy brown hair mussed by the wind.

Tommi exited the cockpit and removed her helmet, shaking out her wild curls.  “Just breaking them in a little,” she grinned, tossing her emerald green helmet to her brother.

Danny caught the helmet easily.  “How did she handle?”

“Not bad,” Tommi said, running her hand appreciatively across the sleek black chassis.  “She should work well for you in Phoenix.”

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled.

“After what you did to it at Homestead, I’m surprised I could resurrect her at all.  You left parts all over the track in Miami.  What do you do to these machines, Danny?” she asked, giving her brother a playful tap on the arm.

“Hey, if my crew chief kept my machines in proper condition, maybe I wouldn’t have these problems,” Danny teased.  “Besides, I know how much you like challenges.”

She gave him a warning look as she entered information in her logbook.

Danny cleared his throat.  “I spoke to Eric Trent today.”

Tommi’s smile faded as she buried her head in her notebook.  Eric was like an oozing sore that just wouldn’t heal.

“Why didn’t you tell me he came to the house yesterday?” her brother asked.

“I didn’t think it was important,” Tommi shrugged, still busy with her notes.  “Why waste Dad’s time with Trent?  We both know he won’t sell, especially not to a Trent.”

Danny raised an eyebrow.  “Don’t you think that should be Dad’s decision?”

Tommi threw down her book.  This conversation had been going on since just after the race at Homestead.  Danny was in position to capture the flag when he crashed the Riley on the last lap.  Eric Trent called the following morning with the first of his proposals.  “Honestly, Danny!  After all that happened with Dad, how can you even stand to talk to Eric Trent?”

Danny took a step toward his sister.  “After all that happened, how can we not?  The money is almost gone.  After that spill I took at Homestead, we had to practically rebuild the car.  How long do you think we can afford to keep Monroe Racing in business?”

“Danny, the season has barely started,” she pleaded.  “All we need are a few wins and we will be back in the black.  Last year you had a great season.  People are starting to talk.  Notice you.  We have one more race, then the Indy.  If we can at least place in Phoenix and Indy, I know we can make it.”

Danny ran his fingers through his dark hair, his face troubled.  “Sam at Team Chronos called.  He wants me to race for them.”

Tommi grabbed the neckline of her jumpsuit, suddenly feeling as though it were strangling her.  “What did you tell him?” she asked uncertainly.

Her brother stared at the tip of his boot.  “I told him I’d think about it.”

“How can you say that?” she demanded. “This is Monroe Racing’s year!”

“For what, Tommi!” he replied.  “You’re right, people are starting to take notice.  I can get a spot on a team.  A good team.  I can finally do something with my career.  And the money—”

“We can make our own money!” she interrupted.  “We don’t need them!”

“Enough to pay Dad’s medical bills?” he shot back.

She stepped backward, Danny’s words striking her like a blow.  “That’s right, I forgot it’s my fault you didn’t grow up the pampered son of a famous racer like your friend Eric Trent!” she said bitterly.

“Tommi, you know that’s not what I meant,” Danny replied, his voice losing some of its fury.  “It just costs a lot to care for Dad.  Monroe Racing is in bad shape.  We need to have a plan just in case I don’t finish at Phoenix.”

Tommi turned her face so her brother would not see her tears.  “We won’t lose.  Our sponsors—”

“We lost two more sponsors,” Danny said, his voice soft.

Tommi slumped against the car, her stomach sinking.  Maintaining the racecar cost a small fortune.  Without backers to supply money for equipment and repairs, they were out of business.  Their father’s business, and his dream, would die.

“Danny, are you bothering my girl?” A big African-American man moved from the shadows of the garage, wrapping his arm protectively around Tommi.

“Pete, now what would your wife say if she heard you talking like that?” the woman admonished her employee.  She wondered how much of their conversation Pete and the others had heard.

“Probably leave me sleeping on the couch for a few nights to consider my words,” he replied.  Pete Newkirk was a bear of a man, with arms like small trees, and the heart of a lion.

Pete, Luis Lucero, Don Little, Nick del Marco, and Stu Randolph comprised the remainder of Danny’s pit crew.  They had worked for Ron Monroe during his racing days.  Even after Steve Trent pulled his partnership, they had remained, helping Ron grow his son’s career.

Pete glanced between brother and sister, his rich, coffee-colored eyes expressing his concern.  “Everything all right out here?” he asked.  “The guys and I thought we heard shouting.”

Tommi cleared her throat, turning to the car.  “Danny and I were discussing his unique braking techniques and trying to develop a new strategy for Phoenix.”

“Try avoiding the walls next time,” Pete said with a wide grin.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Danny murmured.

Pete placed his arms around both Monroes.  “We have beauty, brains, and brawn.  What can we possibly have to worry about?”

*  *  *

Eric Trent walked to his father’s office with the enthusiasm of a man going to his own execution.  He fiddled with his tie, the silk band feeling more like a hangman’s noose with each step he took down the long, empty corridor.  A morgue was more welcoming.  There were no pictures or color on the pristine, ice-colored walls.  Illuminated from above by huge rectangular skylights, the pale, white marble floor tiles seemed to glow from within, leaving Eric to wonder if this was what the passage to St. Peter looked like.

“More like Hades,” he mumbled.

He stopped at the sterile, glass-block desk before the massive, frosted glass doors.  The gray-haired gnome behind the imported black granite counter did not look up from her computer or otherwise acknowledge his presence.

“Evening, Jane,” he said to his father’s secretary, flashing her one of his best smiles.

The woman glanced at him over the rims of her silver spectacles.

“He’s in a foul mood tonight,” Jane warned as she buzzed him into the elder Trent’s office.  The doors opened with the clang of prison gates.

“What else is new?” Eric replied in a low voice, stepping through the etched glass doors.

The office beyond beckoned like the mouth of a hungry troll.  The throne room of Trent Performance Racing was everything Steve Trent wanted it to be:  powerful, intimidating, and reeking of wealth.  Steve chose each decoration to convey his status, from his imported, hand-carved mahogany desk, to the autographed photos advertising that he was on a first name basis with everyone from presidents to athletes to Hollywood producers.  Steve’s lair was lined with trophies and flags won by either Trent Precision’s stable of talented drivers, or the elder Trent himself.

In his youth, Steve had been considered handsome.  Now, his face was a testament to his plastic surgeon’s skill.  Scalpels carefully erased age lines and imperfections, preserving the face that had once graced dozens of magazine covers, and monthly trips to tony spas kept his body trim and youthful.  His golden hair was courtesy of a salon, as was his bronzed tan.

Only one object appeared out of place in Steve’s temple: the polished ebony walking stick leaning against his desk, a constant reminder of the crash that ended his racing career.  Trent had shifted to the business side of racing, leaving the more dangerous aspects of the sport to others.

Currently, Eric’s father was engaged in a heated telephone conversation.  Eric felt immediate sympathy for the poor, unfortunate soul on the receiving end of one of his father’s rants.  Steve looked up when he noticed Eric standing in the office foyer.  Waving his son forward, Steve shouted a final command into his phone, and then slammed the receiver into the base with a brittle crash.  He now watched his protégé and greatest failure approach his desk.

“Good evening, Sir,” Eric began, standing before his father’s desk like a naughty schoolboy.  He always hated the enforced formality his father required.  He could not ever remember being allowed to call Steve “Dad”.  Even as a small child, Steve had always been “Sir”.

“Well, what did Monroe say?” his father demanded, rifling through a stack of documents and not bothering to offer Eric a seat.

Good to see you, too, Dad, Eric thought.  He set his leather briefcase on the desk, erecting a convenient barrier between himself and his father.  “I didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Mr. Monroe.”

“Why not?” Steve growled, his fist pounding the desk.  “What are you doing back in San Antonio if you haven’t talked to him?”

“He wasn’t at home,” Eric replied, bowing his head.  He hated how his voice sounded full of excuses, even to his own ears.  He should not have bothered to come home.  Somehow, Eric had hoped his father would have given up on his crazy obsession to purchase Monroe Racing.  Eric had done the analysis.  Monroe Racing was a money pit, but Steve refused to listen.  Eric did not understand why his father wanted to saddle himself with so unstable a business.

“With all due respect, Sir, their equipment is outdated and the cars are wrecks.  Unless their luck changes, Monroe Racing will be extinct in a few weeks.  Why try to resurrect a dinosaur?”

His father glared at him as though he hoped a dragon would tear off the roof and snatch his son.  “When is he going to be home?” Steve asked, his voice slow and measured, addressing Eric as though he were a simpleton.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Eric replied through clenched teeth.

Steve rose slowly, his silver Armani suit shimmering like a shark’s skin.  He limped around the desk, brandishing his walking stick like a sword.  “Then why are you back here?” he repeated.

Eric shook his head.  “Sir, this deal does not make sense.  The company is worthless.  What do you want with Monroe Racing anyway?”

Steve smiled, a cold, calculating expression.  “I want to have a hand in Danny Monroe’s career.”

Eric snorted in disbelief.  “When did you become a philanthropist?”  He should have known better than raise his father’s ire.

Steve’s eyes narrowed and the vein on his forehead bulged.  “Go back to that dusty hole Monroe calls home and get that loser to sign the contract. Understand?”

Eric stared at his feet.  “Yes, Sir.”

“I don’t want you polluting my halls until you have that contract signed!” Trent pushed the buzzer behind his desk.  The etched glass doors swung open behind his son.

Eric exited the office, shaking his head in disgust.  He had been dismissed like a servant.  Sometimes, he thought that was all he was—another peon placed on the Earth to do Steve Trent’s bidding.

“Have a good night, Eric,” Jane cooed as he left.

*  *  *

Twilight had fallen when Tommi finally returned to the house in her battered green Mustang.  She had made a few adjustments to the Riley before turning the car over to Danny.  There were only two weeks until the next League race in Phoenix.  What they did not have was money to get the team there.

Tommi stopped at a few banks in El Paso to see if Monroe Racing would qualify for a loan.  The financial officers had all told her, very politely, that she was out of her mind. She balled her fists in frustration.  She and Danny had not paid the crew in almost two weeks.  The men were kind and patient, but they also had families to support.  Danny just had to win at Phoenix.  It was their only chance.

Danny’s old Chevy Camaro was not in the driveway, Tommi noted as she walked up the ramp onto the porch.  He had probably gone to Stu’s for a beer after practice.  That would leave her alone with their father.

Tommi cringed as the crooked screen door banged against its frame.

“Danny?  That you?”  The croaking voice carried from the living room.

Tommi sighed.  “No, Dad, its me.”

“Oh.”  The disappointment in her father’s voice was evident.

He wanted a fight tonight.  Over the years, Tommi had come to recognize that tone of voice.  He had probably heard from Danny how she had turned away Eric Trent.  Anger suddenly boiled in Tommi’s veins.  Was she the only one who had learned from their past dealings with the Trents?  Eric and his father were not to be trusted.  She wondered where her father stood regarding Eric’s proposal.  Was it possible Ron had no idea Eric Trent had even offered to buy the business?

She sighed.  No, Danny would never do anything without consulting their father.  Tommi and her brother had their disagreements, but Danny would never lie to her or Ron.  However, Tommi did wonder what her father thought of the Trent matter.  She would ask him.  She again considered her father’s tone.  Avoiding Ron would have been the wisest course of action, but Tommi found her disobedient feet carrying her across the torn linoleum into the dingy confines of the living room.

The living room was her father’s domain and one that she rarely entered.  She leaned casually against the doorframe, silently watching the man who had once been Ronny Monroe, racecar driver and Indianapolis 500 hopeful.  The years since the accident had not been kind to the handsome, charismatic man that had been her father.  He sat in his wheelchair, his withered legs hidden under his baggy jeans, eyes vacant and lost in the workings of a television game show.  He was no longer the vibrant young man Tommi had known as a child.  The accident had aged him prematurely; his dark hair was now salted with gray and his face bore a perennial pinched expression.  His temper had changed as well.  He was often argumentative and surly, pouting like a child when he did not get his way.  While the accident had not been easy for either of the children, the brunt of his anger was reserved for Tommi.  After all, she had been the reason her father’s name was not etched in gold with Unser, Mears and Andretti.

The day of the accident loomed close every time Tommi closed her eyes, playing out in slow motion like a silent movie.  She could see the bright blue of the Texas sky, hear the rumble of the engine.  She remembered seeing her father, her childhood hero, rushing to save her.  Then came the awful conclusion.  She could feel the weight of her foot on the pedal, the car springing forward like a cheetah, her father’s horrified face as she—

Tommi opened her eyes, pushing the memory from her mind.  In that moment of childhood foolishness, she had killed her father—his hopes, his dreams, and mostly his love for her.  Tommi was a ghost to him.  Ron rarely spoke to her, often referring to her only as “Girl”.  When he did address her, it was only to issue a demand.  Ron had no kind words left for his daughter, and Tommi could not say she blamed him.  Their present financial predicament was the result of endless doctor and therapist bills and construction invoices for the necessary changes made to the house to accommodate Ron’s wheelchair.  An entire room had been built on the ground floor to serve as Ron’s bedroom. Every day Tommi awoke with the knowledge that Ron’s ruin was her fault.

Tommi remembered the first surreal days after the accident, listening to the man in the long white coat telling her and Danny their Daddy might not live.  Anger burned in her older brother’s eyes, and his hands slipped from around her shoulders, pushing her away from him.  When Ron finally did awaken after a week in a coma, she and Danny had raced into his room.  Ron pulled Danny into his arms, but when he saw Tommi, he shrank back from her as though she were some sort of monster.

The nurses finally dragged the sobbing girl from the room.  Their lives had never been the same, even after Ron returned to the renovated home.  Some of his will to live had been lost with the use of his legs.  His refusal to have any dealings with his daughter only grew as the years passed.

Despite her own heartbreak, Tommi still attempted to maintain some contact with her father.  When she felt brave, she would enter her father’s realm and try to speak with him.  As Tommi grew older, the crayon drawings changed to book reports and college applications.  She never received more than a cold look for her efforts, if she received any response at all.  Still, Tommi clung to the hope that one day her father would smile at her, rub her nose with his the way he had when she as a girl, and all her past crimes would be forgiven.

Today, he was as oblivious to her presence as always.

“We got the Riley running today,” she said hopefully.

Her father grunted, his eyes never leaving the flickering screen.

“I had her up to two-thirty,” she continued, “I think she’ll run great for Phoenix.”

“Tell Danny to see me when he gets home.”  Ron said, wheeling himself into his room, his eyes never once looking at his daughter’s face.