Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak

asked, looking at Kasey.
    “I believe it’s around three hundred dollars this season.”
    “Cool. I guess I’ll have the steak, then.”
    “Just one?” asked Race, swiping a lime green candy from the pile in front of Robbie. “Are you sure that’s gonna be enough?”
    While we were waiting for our food, Robbie slid a napkin and a red felt pen in front of Race.
    “Draw something,” he said.
    “Like what?”
    “Surprise me.”
    Race scribbled on the napkin. Within seconds a cartoon emerged of the black #1 Camaro stranded a few feet from the finish line. Steam shimmered up from its hood as Addamsen’s fist shook from the driver’s window.
    Jim, who was watching over Race’s shoulder, chuckled. “In your dreams,” he said.
    Race finished the sketch and pushed it toward Robbie.
    “Cool,” the kid said, a grin sliding over his face.
    An image flashed momentarily through my mind. A pencil drawing of a 1970 Superbird. Something suspiciously like jealousy swelled inside me, but I smothered it. Why should I care who Race buddied up to? I eyeballed the little suck-up, but he was too busy studying the cartoon to notice.
    “My kid must have a couple dozen of those damned things pinned on his wall at home,” said Jim.
    “When Race is a famous Winston Cup driver his drawings are gonna be worth a million dollars,” Robbie informed us. He folded the napkin and stuck it in his pocket.
    “In your dreams,” I muttered, echoing his dad.
    * * *
    Our food came, and I dug into my steak, absently listening to the conversation. It had drifted to the topic of sponsorship. Drivers financed their addiction by weasling money out of business owners in exchange for plastering that company’s name on their race car. Apparently, this wasn’t something that was easy to do.
    I looked at Kasey. “So what made a successful business woman such as yourself wanna team up with the likes of ol’ Speed here?” I asked, waving my fork at Race.
    Kasey toyed with a tomato in her chef’s salad as she considered the question. “Oh, he just impressed me, once.”
    “Impressed you?” Jim quipped. “Race did that?” He looked at my uncle and shook his head.
    “In the Enduro two years ago,” said Kasey.
    “Oh, yeah,” Race said, “you decided to sponsor me that same night. That impressed you?”
    “Hell, Morgan, I think that one even impressed Addamsen,” said Jim.
    I skewered my steak with my fork, lifting it and tearing a chunk off with my teeth. “What’s an Enduro?”
    Jim laughed. “Someone’s idea of a bad joke, if ya ask me.”
    I glanced at Kasey, knowing she’d give me a real answer.
    “It’s a long race, usually about a hundred and fifty or two hundred laps,” she said. “But the drivers aren’t allowed to make any modifications to their cars. All they can do is strip them of the glass and interior.”
    “That’s supposed to be impressive?”
    “Not generally,” Kasey said, “but it is an opportunity for the average person to race. And the purse is a thousand dollars.”
    “Radical,” I said. “So, what happened?”
    Kasey hesitated, casting a look at Race that was a little too sentimental to be purely professional. I wondered what the real story was between them. I had a pretty strong suspicion Race had the hots for her, but Kasey was harder to read.
    “Well, your uncle was driving a Pinto—”
    Laughter derailed my attempt to swallow, and a piece of steak caught in my throat.
    “It might help if you chewed first,” Race suggested.
    “Thanks for the tip.”
    Kasey raised an eyebrow at me but continued her story. “He was driving a Pinto, and actually doing fairly well with it. Out of fifty cars, he and two others were the only ones on the lead lap. Race was in third place.”
    “In a Pinto.” I shook my head.
    “The fourth place car was two laps down,” Kasey continued, “and the rest of the pack was even further back. There was really no reason why Race shouldn’t have finished third. No one