Tucker Poston had pulled into his garage stall and wrenched his race helmet from his head. “Bastard knew I was there and still shoved me into the wall.” He tossed the safety gear out of the window. “This shit has to end. I'm tired of racing crashed cars.""Just like Cline knew you were there the week before, and yeah, the shit has to end. I'm tired of replacing crashed cars.” Guy Turner tapped on the roof of the car. “Get out, Poston."Tucker ground his teeth together. Just what he needed...his ass handed to him on a platter. He wriggled out through the window. “Mr Turner, I swear—""Spare me the excuses."Raking his fingers through his hair, Tucker glanced at the midway. Although he heard Guy's rant, the words didn't register above the roar of cars thundering down the backstretch. The tangy scent of race fuel and motor oil permeated the air. A whip of late-October breeze caressed his cheek. He noticed none of it after the flash of chestnut hair caught his eye. He shifted position to keep her in view, using the guise of removing the rest of his safety gear.
