We were at the race—Richmond International Raceway. I’d never been to a NASCAR race. Texas Motor Speedway wasn’t an unknown concept to me when I resided in Texas, but racing had never really interested me. But in Virginia, racing was a big deal. And as we walked around, I was definitely feeling like a human dropped on a foreign planet, forced to walk among a different species. Girls walked around in bikinis donning the controversial confederate flag; others wore cutoff jean shorts with their ass cheeks hanging out. Men walked around sporting T-shirts with their favorite racers on them, and with helmets that held beer cans with long straws in their mouths. There was porta potties everywhere and the heat didn’t help to keep the stench down as we passed by them. As if all that wasn’t enough, Marcus decided to wear a T-shirt that had I’m with the shrew on the back of it, just above an arrow pointing to the side. He’d made a point to remain to the left of me all day just so that arrow would point at me.
My new tactic in dealing with him was to ignore him. I thought if I didn’t react, maybe he would stop. “You’re a dick,” I told him. On that day I failed.
He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?”
I ignored him and huffed annoyed that we were waiting on Paul who was taking forever to talk to a group of women. “Is he planning on talking to every woman with huge tits today?”
“Sex sells,” Marcus pointed out. “He’s good at seducing women into adventure.”
I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to gag.
“Are you offended, Queen of Prudes? I’m sure those lovely painted walls in our office will sell more dives than an attractive man who actually jumps.”
I flipped him the bird because I couldn’t come up with a witty comeback.
“No one is making you do it, Clara, so why do you care?”
“Because it’s . . . tacky.” How could he not see that?
“So what if it is? If you’re going to stand around all day with that face, just go back to the RV.”
“What face?” I asked in offense.
“Like you need a giant enema. Chill.”
For a moment, I wondered if I was strong enough to punt him across the track like a football. He really knew how to get under my skin.
When Paul finally joined us again, he pretended to ignore our spat and focused on trying to earn clientele. Somehow that involved only stopping at groups including attractive women.
“Uncurl your lip,” Paul ordered as we left one group. “This is big money for us.”
“I get that,” I griped. “But why do we have to be here all day?”
Cutting me a look that said, watch this, he turned off the gravel path and walked right over to a group of young men and women, dancing as they blared country music. The women flocked to him, puffing out their chests so their bosoms would stick out more. Paul, in his straw cowboy hat and tight, black T-shirt, flashed his smile, the one I had come to know as the hook, line, and sinker smile. Stupid smile. I hated it. I hated it mostly because it had the same effect on me as it did every other woman.
For the next twenty minutes I stood to the side while Paul drank beer with his new posse and at the end of it, he handed all of them a brochure and told them to watch for him because he’d be skydiving into the race. I tried not to be annoyed when one of the women wrote her number on the palm of his hand. As we walked away, my aggravation was rolling off of me in waves. Paul sensed this because he said, “What?”
“You shouldn’t drink before a jump,” I griped. It was the only thing I could come up with. Marcus hadn’t quite finished with the last group and remained behind as we moved on.
“It was two beers and I’ve been chugging water all day,” he argued as he shook his water bottle in my face. I knew he had been, but he still shouldn’t have drunk anything alcoholic. Period. “What’s really the problem here?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I just think you’re trying to say flirting is promoting and it’s not.”
“I flirt to promote,” he argued.
“Or to get laid,” I quipped.
He laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me to him. My body tensed so I immediately pulled away. He held his hands up as if surrendering. “Sorry.”
I clenched my jaw and looked away. I didn’t like him touching me because, actually, I really liked him touching me. It had been happening more and more; his arm resting against my arm as we looked at something on the office computer together; his hand brushing mine as he handed me something. Small touches, yet never really simple. I refused to fall victim to his charm because the truth was it was all bullshit. It had to be. He was handsome and charming and his smile captivated everyone, and all of those things coupled together were lethal. Somehow those things directed at me made me feel . . . special. Which was why it was all bullshit. No one was special to Paul James. He’d share that lethal combo with anyone.