of chest-thumping-type traits. Instead, he stands up and walks over to sit down on the ratty love seat that’s right in front of the TV. He waves me over, so I take a seat on the other end of the couch.
“See, these guys are winter fishing. Bass are lazy in the cold, they don’t move much, so you have to be patient and move your bait the right way. You can’t get jumpy. That’s the key,” he says gravely, as if this is a monumental piece of advice I should carry with me the rest of my life.
On the screen, two guys are dressed in parkas and waders, standing on the front deck of a small boat and casting their lines into the water. Wherever they are, it’s cold enough to see their breath, and there are beads of frost forming on their beards. The guys have huge smiles on their faces—which makes absolutely no sense to me since their outing involves smelly fish, freezing temperatures, and a boat rocking beneath your feet.
Wes continues to talk, but when he starts to rhapsodize about the merits of something called deadsticking, my attention inevitably drifts.
I glance out the trailer windows at the garage area of the track facilities. There’s a line of mechanic stalls off to one side, along with a second parking lot. As I wait out Wes’s fishing lecture, an older pickup truck pulls into the lot, leaving a heavy dust trail in its wake. The truck lurches to a halt right up front, and for a moment I can’t see much of the driver. But given the way they barreled in here, they’re evidently familiar with the Rocky Mile Raceway.
When the driver opens the truck door, I’m half expecting to see some discount version of Richard Petty or Jeff Gordon step out, complete with a fire suit and a washed-up trophy girl at his side.
But that’s not what happens. No guy in a fire suit emerges. There is a girl though.
Or rather, a woman.
There’s no mistaking that when she uses one stiletto-clad foot to shove the truck door closed behind her. And the long legs that go along with those stilettos suddenly make it impossible to see anything else but this woman. The Abominable Snowman could be twerking behind her and I probably wouldn’t notice because she also happens to be wearing a very tiny, very tight electric-blue club dress. Her long, dark brown hair is styled with full glossy curls, and even from here, I can see caked-on layers of camera-ready makeup. Add in the sway in her hips as she walks and the look is full-on party girl.
And, hell, it’s a good look on her. Really good. Amazing, in fact. But it’s also two o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and we’re at a run-down dirt track, so this ensemble of hers doesn’t make a lot of sense. Unless she’s just here on the lookout for her next hookup with a race car driver. Although, if that is her goal, she’s picked a shitty time to try to hook up with a driver. Perhaps she’s about to lodge a complaint with the management about the lack of fresh meat around here since she’s currently making a beeline for the trailer. Before I know it, the sound of those heels hits the stairs outside and I find myself sitting up a little straighter.
“I swear to all that’s freaking holy, I would love it if Becca someday wanted to style outfits that are a little less like being strapped into a sausage casing,” she announces as she blows into the trailer.
Without breaking her stride, she heads toward the back of the trailer where a small doorway leads to what looks like a bathroom. She continues talking, hollering over the sound of Wes’s show.
“I mean, she’s my best friend and I’m glad that her blog is doing well, but maybe she could do a post on yoga pants at some point. Or oversized hoodies and fuzzy slipper socks. That way I’d be able to eat a sandwich before these photo shoots and my freaking feet wouldn’t feel like they’re about to fall off.”
She ends her rant by letting out a funny little growl, and I find myself grinning at the sound. Wes seems to tune it all out, a feat given all the noises coming from the bathroom. Water running in the sink, the sound of high heels being tossed on the floor, along with a few feminine grunts