Heroes & Legends
"He said I'm just a local hero,
local hero, he said with a smile
I'm just a local hero-used to live here for awhile"-Bruce
Springsteen, "Local Hero" 1991

Chapter 1: Better Days

Owensboro, 1980

The high-noon Saturday sun invaded the tiny bedroom in a blaze of mid- July glory. The single, seventeen-year-old occupant blindly stumbled to his feet and hastily tried to toss an old blanket over the curtain rod to as if to delay the inevitable arrival of day. Succeeding only in knocking down the rod and curtain swag, he burrowed under the sheets in spite of the stifling heat. After an all-night tour of carousing with the Green brothers and enjoying the bounty of filched beer, he had no further ambition other than maybe working on the $300.00 car he just bought. Beyond that, he was quite content to let the world go on about its business without him and equally content to revel in the simple joy of being shiftless. Rising to the small stereo, he cranked up his sister's latest Fleetwood Mac album and gazed longingly at the photo of Stevie Nicks on the cover.

Downstairs, Michael could hear his mother rattling around the kitchen and his father outside jawing with the neighbor but in his own little sanctuary, his own dreams took him beyond the boundaries of the small, west Kentucky town . He lusted quietly over the sultry songbird on the album cover and grinned as he regarded her delicate form, expressive eyes and long, curly hair. "Mmmm-mmm...she's hotter'n dammit! Hope I can get me an ol' gal like that someday." he chuckled as his hand drifted down his bare belly to gently stroke "Pedro" into wakefulness. Up an' at 'em, big guy! Whatever portion of his mind wasn't occupied by racing, was centered on sex. At his tender age, Michael Waltrip was 100% red-blooded, all-American male and the staples of his existence were fast cars, cheap beer, rock `n'roll and a pretty girl by his side (if he could find one that would put up with him, that is).

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs, broke Michael from his erotic daydreams as his father stormed into his room. "Boy, you get yer lazy ass outta this bed and start `splainin' where that goddamn car came from!" Exit Stevie Nicks, enter Leroy Waltrip stage right. Say `adios', Pedro.

"Bought it from Dave Green-I'm gonna race it this fall in the Pro- Stocks. I've saved up enough money for parts and entry fees. You ain't gotta worry `bout it." Michael knew the battle was coming and he also knew that he probably should've told the old man before he snuck the car in the garage out back last night.

"Didn't I tell you that I don't want no part of this racin' pipedream of yours? You're gonna get your lazy self up and your gonna get that thing outta my garage now! And while you're at it-you better go to town and get that hair cut because come Monday, you're startin' work down at the Pepsi warehouse with me!" Michael groaned as he pulled himself up and contemplated that distasteful, four-letter-word: work. The thought of cutting his long, thick mane of dark brown hair was mortifying in itself. It was a two-year labor of love that cascaded down past his shoulders in a style that could be best described as pure "outlaw chic".

"Dad, I told ya before-this is what I want to do! Why do you have to cut me down like that? You were always behind Darrell..." he drifted off, knowing this argument was older than dirt and the end result was always the same.

"You ain't Darrell. You ain't got his talent or drive and you're as lazy as the day is long! You never finish a dang thing you start, always goofing off....You need sponsors and a lot of money to get into this. Son, why can't you see that you're only gonna be wasting your time and ever' body else's?" Now Leroy Waltrip's youngest son was furiously throwing his jeans and a ratty t-shirt and ready to storm out the door.

"I ain't wastin' my time! I'd make it if'n somebody was to just give a goddamn chance! Fuck this shit! I'm outta here!"

"Hey, now-I don't wanna hear that kinda talk in this house!" Leroy growled, about ready to bust his errant offspring upside the head.

Michael whirled and glared at him, eyes flashing like blue lightning, "One of these days you're gonna be sorry you said that, Pops. One of these days, you're gonna see me run and win as many races as Darrell and they're gonna call me.........................."

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NYC 2004

"..........winner of the 2004 Winston Cup Championship-Michael Waltrip, driver of the #15 Napa Chevrolet for Dale Earnhardt Inc.!" As the guests in attendance rose as one for a standing ovation, Michael was riveted back to the present; the shadows of the past disintegrating like ancient cobwebs with the applause. Over twenty years of struggling, fighting, disappointments and finally, victory. Twenty-plus years of driving everything from Pro-stock, sprints, Dash, Busch and Winston Cup; cars ranging from shit box junk-heaps to the gleaming rockets stabled at Dale Earnhardt Inc. It finally paid off-finally, fucking paid off and as wicked as it sounded, revenge was his. How sweet it is!

Rising to the podium, he gave a triumphant grin to his loyal crew chief, Slugger Labbe. In the end, he was almost completely responsible for the success of the Napa team. I'm just the nut that holds the wheel, Michael was always fond of saying. The rest of the Napa crew resided as rowdy occupants of the balcony above and Michael gave them the salute of victory. Teresa Earnhardt sat in the front row below the raised stage, never dreaming that this would have been possible three years ago. Michael cast one final, loving glance at the woman who had diligently stood behind him all these years. Rory Waltrip, usually the unflappable one, the "rock" so to speak, now sat with her hands clasped to her lips and her eyes wet with unshed tears of joy. "Thank you, baby." he whispered.

Michael cleared his throat as he stood before the congregation of stock car racing's elite: champions past and present, the old guard and their wives, Nascar's founding fathers and the up-and-coming contenders for the title. Normally, he was always the "funny guy", the one the media would come to for a joke or a off-beat take on the events of the day, but now was not the time for jokes or contrived stand-up material. He addressed the guests his unmistakable west Kentucky twang; uncharacteristically soft-spoken as emotion and the significance of the moment overwhelmed him.

"I'm sure y'all are expecting me to do a rundown thank-you to all my sponsors but they all know week in and week out how much their support means to me. And I'm not gonna walk away from here without saying `thanks' to Slugger and the boys who've been behind me for the past three-goin'-on-four years. There's no way I coulda done this without you. The same goes to Teresa and all of DEI-I'm proud to represent this organization. And of course, I couldn`t leave out my family-Ro, Caitlin, Mick and Macy-your love keeps me alive and inspires me. " He paused for a moment as the silent crowd continued to give him their polite attention. "But this one's for my Dad. I lost him back in 2000. He never saw me win a Winston Cup race and Lord knows how he tried to get me to quit. He always told me and DW can attest to this-that if I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it on my own. And I did. Call it `tough love' but it made me stronger and more determined than ever to succeed. So I'm gonna wrap it up now and just say, thanks Dad. This one's for you." He was presented his bonus check and the enormous trophy to a complete standing ovation amid the tears. In the wings and once again, Darrell swelled with pride and love for his `baby brother'. Michael caught his eye and grinned that silly, lopsided grin as if to say, "Thanks, bro! But I told you I'd make it someday!"

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January 2005

Rory finished up cleaning the morning breakfast dishes and perched herself on the counter with her morning cup of coffee. The big, sleek black cat, Pooka settled himself on her latest edition of Winston Cup Scene as she attempted to clip an article about Michael's championship award. The headline read, "Waltrip gives tribute to Earnhardt" and showed an old file photo of Michael and Dale together when the initial contract was signed so many years ago. She glanced up at the goofy, Fritz the Cat kitchen clock with the buggy, wayward eyes and swishing pendulum tail; kids won't be home `till 3:30 and Michael was at an emergency meeting at DEI. Still time to head up to The Ridge.

She finished picking up the kitchen-between the kids and Michael, it usually looked like a small tornado went through. In spite of the "domestic goddess" connotations, the kitchen and morning room was her domain. She was always in love with '50's American kitsch and the kitchen itself was almost a shrine to Lucille Ball. Several stills from the old "I Love Lucy" show adorned the walls and her favorite, "Vitameatavegamine" sign hung in prominence by the breakfast nook. Everything was retro-styled from the stove and refrigerator to the cabinetry and farm-house style table. It gave the place a hominess that Buffy's upscale remodeling lacked. (In fact, Michael's former wife was livid to find out that Rory had cheerfully demolished $25000.00 in upgrades to restore the kitchen to it's old-fashioned charm) Whimsical pink flamingoes and old 45's decorated the walls and the focal point was a Wurlitzer jukebox. (one could always find the Waltrip motor coach because of the flock of pink flamingoes surrounding it!) Perhaps all the whimsy was an escape from the years of heartache and loss that both Michael and Rory had endured for so long or perhaps it was simply a reflection of their resilient, happy-go-lucky nature. For whatever reason, the decorations never failed to put a smile on the faces of their company.

Slipping into to a bulky, hand-knit fisherman's sweater and giving Pooka a final scratch on his perpetually arched back, she headed out the door to the antique convertible Michael had given her for Christmas. It was a fully restored, 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air; pearl white-on-white with tan leather interior. Keeping with her odd habit of naming her vehicles, this one was dubbed "Marilyn" after that other blonde bombshell. The big v-8 rumbled to life and effortlessly glided down the long, winding driveway to The Ridge.

The Ridge overlooked Mooresville; a small hillock that was occupied by a private cemetery. It was here that Rory often came to simply think and reflect. A place of timeless peace, not sadness. She usually was here for an hour or so and this had been her routine just about every day for the past year. She parked Marilyn by a large pine where the narrow road ended and walked past the sleeping stones and stopped by a large, granite monolith bearing the name "Earnhardt".

"Hello, old man." she said softly, grinning as she gently set the news clipping and a rose on the stone. "He still thinks about you and we still miss you. They're taking the plates away this year, Dale. We'll try to make it three-in-a-row next month." She sat by the stone for a few moments and looked up and laughed out loud as a large raven perched on top of the monument; regarding her. It made a noise akin to a chuckle and winked an eye before it returned to the heavens with the rose clutched in it's beak. "I thought you'd like that!" she called after the bird.

Turning, she walked over to a white slab with a large Celtic high cross of Connemara marble. It bore the name "Waltrip" as it was a family plot. In the center, inscribed below two entwined Claddaugh rings, were the names "Michael Curtis" and "Rory" along with their dates of birth. And at the end of the slab was the name "Erin" and the year of her birth and death, 2003. "'lo there, my little one." she said softly as she removed a bouquet of expired carnations and replaced it with a fresh one of yellow roses. This was her way of healing. This was her way of overcoming the pain of loosing one child and the painful fact that she would bear no other.

Rory sat quietly on the little marble bench and looked out at the valley below. In the distance, she could see the main building and various race shops for DEI. She wondered how Michael's meeting was going. It was no secret that except for Michael, the team was struggling. Steve had managed to end the year twelfth. But Junior....Rory closed her eyes as if blocking the memory of the shell of his former self that Dale's youngest son had become. For the past year and a half, he always seemed like he was a million miles away; always preoccupied, always preferring the isolation of his home or coach. He finished the year in 27th place with only four top-10's to his credit. He had virtually shut his old friends out, even Michael. All except for Steve. He fought like a tiger to make sure that Steve's contract would continue through 2004. Now it was all up in the air again because there was a chance that Napa was getting out of the sponsorship game. So lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the sound of footsteps behind her.

Suddenly, as two long arms wrapped around her, she stifled a squeak of surprise as Michael buried his face in her neck. He settled himself behind her on the bench as she leaned back against him.

"Thought I'd find you up here." he grinned, gently kissing her cheek.

"It was such a lovely day, I had to take Marilyn out for a gallop." she snuggled against him as the unusually balmy day became somewhat overcast and a chilly breeze blew from the north.

"You sure love that old beast, don't you? I knew you would!" He held her close; she was so tiny compared to his large, muscular frame that she was almost lost in his arms. She burrowed close, loving the sensuous aroma of his after-shave cologne and body warmth. He rested his broad, squared jaw on top of her head, and together they simply enjoyed this rare, quiet moment; lulled by the soft winds through the pines and each other's heartbeat. Rory sighed and looked up at her mate, "I love her but not as much as I love this old beast!" she grinned. Hating to break this lovely moment, she ventured, "So how did it go this morning?"

"It doesn't look good-I think Napa's gonna leave us."

"Oh Mikey, I can't believe they'd leave after all you've done for them!"

"It's nothing we've done. It's this lousy economy." Michael sighed and held her tighter, " I don't want you to worry, though. I'm gonna have a ride and a sponsor."

"Who?" Rory inquired, brows furrowing. Big-time sponsors were getting harder and harder to come by these days as the cost for sponsoring a Cup car had become astronomical.

"Well, I'm not sure. That's when Ty told me I was done and he said he talk to me about it tomorrow in private. He kept Junior and Steve after to talk to them some more." He glanced sadly down the hill at DEI, "Whatever's goin' on down there, it can't be pretty." No further words were needed to convey the concerns he had for his teammates as Rory gently squeezed his hand.

"Did I tell you I love you today?" he said softly.

"Oh at least a dozen times, luv." she rested her head on his broad shoulders. "Love of my life, Mikey." It was a ritual these two went through almost everyday since the day they met at Bristol. It was this simple re-affirmation of a love that withstood the test of time and every conceivable heartache one could imagine. And if they could only see what was in store for them, that bond would be put to the test again......

Chapter 2: Times They Are A-Changin'

Sherrill's Ford, January 2005

Caitlin urged the iron-gray mare into an easy canter in an attempt to catch up with her wayward brother Mick as he galloped along at a breakneck pace aboard his dark bay gelding, Dega. It was one of those rare, balmy afternoons for a January as the pale sun shone warmly on the backs of the horses. A south wind whispered in the omnipresent pines as a female cardinal sang for her mate to the accompaniment of hooves on the muddy trail. An ancient, crumbling stone wall dating back to the days of Robert E. Lee remained along the side of the field as Mick continued his charge. Dega's long neck was stretched out and his black tail waived like a banner as he reveled in his young master's high spirits. Behind them, Caitlin and Ghost continued at their collected pace; mindful of the muddy trail and the ever-present chuck holes. Ghost shook her fine, aristocratic head as she was anxious to join her stable mate's wild race while Caitlin firmly held her back. "Oh no you don't! Mom would murder me if I brought you back lame!" she admonished the frisky mare.

"Mick! Be careful! It's too slippery to run like this!" Caitlin hollered at her bull-headed sibling as Dega collected himself and sailed effortlessly over the wall. Mick pulled up on the other side; grinning like a fool. Going on thirteen years old, he was nearly as tall as his father and practically a cloned image with his dark, curly hair and sparkling blue eyes. When he spoke, it was with the same lilting Gaelic brogue as his mother's but with a distinct southern flavor. Always good humored, easy going and quick with a joke, he made friends easily and was a favorite mascot in the Winston and Busch garages. Looking much older than he actually was (mainly because of his height), he was on occasion mistaken for Hank Parker Jr.. Mick showed promise as a potential heartthrob if he were ever to follow his dreams and become a driver.

"Did ya see that, sis? We had two feet to spare! Good boy, Dega..!" he patted the long, arched crest of the rangy Thoroughbred. Keeping in step with the Waltrip knack for hogging the spotlight, Mick backed the horse up a few paces, circled around and together they flew back across to where Caitlin sat shaking her head in exasperation.

"That was pretty good, flyboy but if you wiped out you know dang well Mom and Dad would string you up!" While Caitlin also possessed her father's dark, attractive features, she inherited her mother's sensible, good judgment. She was also tall and slender with the same dark, curly hair. She had a quiet loveliness about her and coupled with her intelligence, she would also prove to be as popular with the lads as her brother was with the girls. She glanced at her watch as Mick reined in close to her as Dega and Ghost nibbled the stubby grass. Sighing, she turned to the direction from where they came, "We better get back. Uncle Junior's supposed to be over today to talk to Dad about his ride."

"I wonder how it's gonna turn out? Dad said Napa ain't comin' back this year..." Mick remembered not too long ago when Michael's job was on the line before and how tense and worried he was. At his young age, he already knew the business end of racing and how easily they could all be living in a double-wide next season. So many of the guys that his father associated with no longer had viable rides and were just making ends meet-not because they were inept drivers but because of the tight economy. For many of the older veterans, the environment was decidedly crueler. Sponsors were ever more willing to sign an untried rookie because he was "marketable" instead of going with a proven veteran simply because he wasn't "pretty" enough for the camera. Once one of the darlings of Hendrick Motorsports, their beloved "Uncle Kenny" Schrader now spent his time behind the wheel of Michael's Craftsman Series truck with no chance of ever looking out the windshield of a Cup car again unless somebody needed a substitute or Michael could field the odd Cup race.

"I think it's going to be ok. Otherwise, they'd have let Dad know before they got the cars picked out to go to Daytona next week for the tests. Dad said there's a chance that there might even be a job for Mom if she wants it, that is."

Both Mick and Caitlin reflected on the thought of Rory working for DEI. After she lost Erin, she resigned with Petty Enterprises, citing the need to stay closer to home with her children and her own need to heal and recuperate. Once one of the best body hangers and sheet metal fabricators in the business, Rory was promoted to car chief for John Andretti's team and in her last year with the Petty's, she worked for Kyle's team. In 2003, Kyle Petty finished the point standings in 11th place-the best he'd finished in a long, long time. Then it was over as the stress of the business took it's toll on Rory and ultimately, the life of her stillborn daughter. There was no doubt that Rory missed being in the thick of it come raceday but whether she would ever go over that wall again was another matter entirely. For the past year, she was simply content to quietly sit on the Napa war wagon; glued to her binoculars and refusing to move until the last car crossed the finish line.

"We hardly ever see Uncle Jun anymore...when we do, he always seems so sad." Caitlin said distantly as she turned Ghost back down the trail.

"He didn't do good at all last year. Dad said he acted like he didn't have the heart anymore for it." He grinned, "Maybe they'll put Dad in the Budweiser car this year!" He instantly regretted those words the minuet they came out of his mouth. Caitlin's fierce glare confirmed that indeed he had successfully planted both feet where his molars resided.

"That's a terrible thing to say! I feel bad for him...and Sparky too. I wonder what's gonna happen to him?" Junior and Steve were like family to both Mick and Caitlin. They couldn't really imagine life without either of them. Caitlin in particular liked Steve's quiet, gentle presence. She loved playing with the big Labrador, Harley or the occasional ride on Steve's motorcycle when he stopped over for a visit. It was a gentle, old fashioned crush that usually did not escape some good-natured ribbing from her brother and occasionally Michael himself.

"You're right...it was terrible. I'm like Dad, always putting my mouth in gear before I engage the brain." he grinned shyly at his sister. "Hey-I'll race ya back. Looser buys lunch at Sonic!" Before the words were even out of his mouth, Dega was already stretching out in front Mick bent low over Dega's neck and clung like a burr to the mane as he urged the gelding on.

"Ugh! You're on!" Caitlin gathered her reins and Ghost lunged forward, quickly catching up with the gelding. Together as if hitched, the two pounded down the dirt driveway to the main house and barns. Running as one, it looked more like they were in the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. As they neared the end of the path, Caitlin abruptly brought Ghost to a sliding halt as she spied Junior's ragtop Corvette pulling directly in front of them. Mick, who seldom paid much attention to the immediate world around him, glanced back in puzzlement as to why his sister saw fit to stop the race and failed to see the car directly in front of him. Junior looked up at the last moment as he saw Dega bearing down on him. "Oh my God...!" he whispered as he slammed on the brakes.

Mick turned his attention ahead as he suddenly felt Dega gather himself up. As Junior skidded to a stop, he involuntarily ducked as he caught the breeze of the 1200 pounds of horseflesh soaring over his head. As the horse safely landed on the other side of the car, Mick lost both stirrups and clung comically to the neck of the gelding as Dega dropped his head to graze nervously along the edge of the road. "Uhmm...little help here?" he stammered as he finally lost his balance and fell in a heap below his mount.

"Mick! You are such an idiot!!!" Yelled Caitlin, still in shock at being so close to witnessing her brother's near-demise, dismounted and leaned against Junior as he wrapped his arms around her; sobbing and laughing at once. "Shhhh-shhh...it's ok. It's gonna be ok.." he reassured her. "Boy! Whatchu tryin' to do??? Damn-near gave me a heart-attack!" Still holding Caitlin, he walked over to Mick and hauled the boy up by his scruff. Though he was still slender and wiry, Junior had strength of a bear and he dragged the boy to his feet like a momma cat would a kitten.

That silly, lop-sided grin split the boy's face as he cackled, "That was a helluva jump, weren't it? He cleared your head by six inches!" Junior stared at the boy in bewilderment. No fear. None. He was going to make one hell of a driver someday. This kid had the balls of a rhino! Trying to save face, he shook his head at the son of Waltrip and replied, "I dunno `bout you, kid. I think I better check my drawers when I get up to the house..."

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"I am gonna kill that boy..." growled Michael as Junior replayed the events of the afternoon. They sat in the spacious family room that looked more like a rustic pub. The walls were lined with bookcases and accentuated by the enormous fieldstone fireplace. A majestic twelve-point buck gazed down at them in frozen awe as the two men conversed in the burgundy leather chairs in front of the hearth. Rory pulled foaming pints from the small brass rail bar in the corner and joined the men; Michael pulling her gently to his lap. "I'll leave if you two want to talk shop." she offered but both men shook their heads. She was one of the few women that they actually enjoyed talking shop with. They never had to worry about a volley of bored sighs and interjection of the latest "guess who's pregnant/having an affair/who's getting divorced" banter from Rory.

"Did you hear what Mick did out on the road today?" Michael inquired as Rory settled into his arms.

"Aye and if you're gonna kill 'im, you better get in line" she muttered, slipping her arm around Michael's neck. "I can't believe the cheek on him! I'll have to send him to work for Slugger after school-that will take some of the boldness out of him!"

Junior sat back and took a sip from his pint of bitters. "This is pretty good-Guinness?"

"Nope-it's Beamish. It's a bit sweeter than Guinness. Goes down a little easier." Rory took a pull from her own mug; resting her head against her husband's. "It's good to see you again, Jun. You should stop by more often..."

"You're right. I've always loved this place.." Junior put his glass down. Might as well get down to the nature of his business call. Both his hosts knew it wasn't strictly a social visit. He sighed, weighing his words carefully. "You probably want to know what our decision is for the upcoming season...."

Michael arched his eyebrows and gazed unwaveringly at the young man who was both one of his best friends and his team owner. It was not always a suitable combination for a personal relationship. "Well..it would be nice to know whether I'm gona be driving or if I better start filing for unemployment" Junior grinned in spite of the gravity of the situation. "You're not going to filing for unemployment! Don't be a shithead-this is serious."

"I am bein' serious! I got kids to feed! I hope we can get foodstamps- Mick eats more'n I do!" Michael was still smiling but Junior knew he was only half-joking; having had his ass on the line too many times. Junior brought out the large sheaf of contract paperwork that he had beside him on the floor. He gingerly handed it to Michael, "I know it's kinda down to the wire, but we tried like hell to get Napa to stay. It's for three years, Mike. I know you were flirtin' with the idea of going into broadcasting in a few that's why we didn't write it for a longer term. We just need it signed by February 1st so we can get things in order for Speedweeks. You can still run the test next week if you want."

Michael quickly scanned the paperwork; brows furrowing. Stunned, he looked up at Junior. "Pennzoil? They're going to sponsor the 15? What about Steve's car??" A sinking feeling akin to concrete was settling in his stomach. Suddenly, the beer lost all of it's appeal as he set his glass down.

Junior shook his head, "We're cutting it down to two teams this year. We spoke with Steve after you left a couple of days ago. I did all I could, Mike...." He actually felt like he wanted to cry just recalling Steve's stricken face as the announcement of his termination was announced. The man posted his best finish ever and now they were getting rid of him. There wasn't enough words in the dictionary to describe the feelings of betrayal Steve felt on both a professional and personal level as he walked out the door of DEI; telling all involved to take his final paycheck and shove it up their asses.

The phone in the kitchen interrupted the festivities. Rory headed for the door, relieved in someway just to escape the tension. "I'll get it-it's probably Kelley Jarrett wondering if I'd help with the Race for a Cure benefit next month." From the direction that the conversation suddenly headed, Rory wisely shut the door on her way out. Michael and Junior looked as though they had much more to discuss and the boisterous intrusion of the Brat Pack was neither welcome or necessary.

"Mike-when we proposed the transfer of Pennzoil to your car, shit- they were so happy, they damn-near pissed themselves!"

"I had a good relationship with Pennzoil when we used to run with them for Bahari" Michael looked through the pages again, still feeling bad about Steve's unfortunate situation. But it could've easily been him and business was business. The rest of the contract pretty much remained the same as his old one with Napa. The main difference was the increase in his salary percentage-that was a good change indeed. Gone were the days when he would routinely finish ahead of both Junior and Park but would be paid much, much less than either. "I think we can make this deal work, bud..." Michael signed the last page and looked up grinning. "Now do I have to shake your hand now or are you holdin' out for a blowjob?"

"You're a sick man, Waltrip." Junior stood up and offered his hand while Michael extended his own large paw in a gentleman's handshake. Still, Junior couldn't resist, "Now about that blowjob..." Michael gave him the one-finger salute and reached for the liquor cabinet, "Let's toast it, bro-I've got some really fine bourbon here..." he rummaged around among the bottles until he pulled out a very old bottle of Maker's Mark. Returning to the hearth with two Waterford crystal highballs, he settled back in his chair as he passed Junior a glass. "To DEI." he raised his glass in toast. Junior, in turn, raised his and took a sip. "Dayum! Is that 93 octane??" he squeaked in a high-pitched parody of the old Dodge commercial.

"Hmmm..actually it's about 110 proof. Drink too much and you'd probably go blind." Michael grunted as he emptied his glass followed by a pleased belch. He reached for the bottle and poured another round. "Good to see you around, bro. It's been awhile since we've just hung out and shot the shit..." He looked at Junior thoughtfully as the younger man stared off into space. The detached air of depression still clung to Junior as he sighed and regarded his old friend. "Yeah...I know. Lot of shit goin' on in my life lately...sorry I couldn't be around more, Mike."

"What's goin' on, Jun? You've just been hidin' out and face it, you're drivin' like I was back in `01. I'm gettin' worried about you, bud." Michael gazed intently at Junior, trying to see what was going on inside. Junior continued to avoid his piercing blue eyes. A line from Pink Floyd crept into his mind, hello, hello...is there anybody in there... "C'mon, man...you can talk to me."

"I don't know if anybody would understand..." Junior's voice was almost a whisper. "Just kinda lonely, I guess." he finished lamely.

"I'm not tryin' to belittle ya, but how can a cat like you be lonely? Hell, you've got more poontang lined up around than you can shake yer dick at." Sensing that now was not the time for bad jokes, Michael quickly added, "Just kidding, bud."

"I just turned 30, man-I ain't really got anybody...you know as well as I do that the girls I usually run into are all members of Brooke Gordon's Bitch Brownies. I'm tired of these airhead bimbos.."

"Airhead bimbos? That's redundant."

"You know what I mean, dipshit. I think of Dad and Teresa, you and Ro- that's what I want. A soulmate.....somebody to lean on." Junior shook his head, "That's just the tip of the iceberg of what's goin' on with me..."

"I figured there's more to it." Michael poured yet another round of bourbon. He was getting a nice, mellow buzz going and was looking forward to a vigorous romp with his mate later on. Still, he felt as though Junior was finally opening up to him. "I thought you had a girlfriend a while back..."

"Nah-she turned out like all the others-psycho. Had to get an order of protection because she ended up stalking me. See what I mean? They just want to see what they can get outta you-can't find anybody you can trust these days. There's only been one person who seemed like they really gave a shit about me with no strings attached."

"Who is she..do I know her?" Michael's curiosity was peaked as he leaned closer. Now Junior met his gaze. "Ain't a she." he said finally. Michael, now puzzled, shook his head. "Huh?"

Shaking his head, Junior leaned back in his chair with his hand over his face. "Oh man, I knew this was a bad idea..." Choosing his words with care, he continued, "You remember back in Vegas at your wedding and I got my pecker caught in my zipper?"

"I don't really remember a helluva lot from that night but yeah. How could I forget? While me and Steve were tryin' to get you unstuck, Ward Burton and Gordon were right out side the door listening to us!" he chuckled at the memory. "I'm still trying to convince Ward I ain't gay!"

Junior grew thoughtful for a moment. "What do you think of gays, Mike.?" Now that was right out of left field. Michael mused for a moment, "I guess I really don't give `em much thought at all-whatever floats your boat, man. Just stay away from my ass!"

"Seriously-if you take sex out of the picture and just look at two people who really care about-no, love each other-how do you feel about that?"

Now shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Michael pondered this last question, "If you look at it like that, I mean I'm not one to pass judgment, but I guess it's ok. Where ya goin' with this, Jun?" Hell I'm cuttin' this boy off-he's gettin' squirrelly on this stuff, Michael thought.

"How would you feel if somebody you knew was gay?" Junior asked, his gaze never leaving Michael's.

"I dunno-I'd deal with it I guess." Something was starting to dawn on Michael. He inhaled sharply as he regarded his guest. "Ofuck...Junior. I really hope you're kidding here, dude." he said softly.

As if he didn't hear Michael, Junior continued as if a floodgate had opened. "I dunno-maybe it started at Pocono, back in '02 when we wrecked. I thought sure as shit he was dead and it scared the hell outta me. Then, in Vegas he confessed to..uhm ...certain feelings he had for me.....we`ve kinda been together off an' on ever` since..." he broke off, knowing well that he may have said too much.

I ain't hearin' this, I ain't hearin' this! Michael shook his head, "Jun-who are you talkin' 'bout? Is it Steve? I thought he had a girlfriend too-shit, I saw her at the awards ceremony!"

"He's just as confused as I am. I mean, we're together as a team all year-hell I'm closer to you guys than I am my own family. I'm confused as fuck-I mean if Daddy was alive, he'd probably disown me! I'm just really, very confused right now and I don't even know who or where to turn to anymore. I just feel like whatever I do is wrong no matter how you look at it." Michael stared blankly at him, trying to absorb what was being said. " Michael, please! You gotta try and understand where I'm comin' from here..."

"I'm tryin' to understand. But this is hittin' me like a ton of bricks! I wanna understand. I just wish you tried to talk to me about it before." He sincerely meant this. He had known Junior since he was 10 years old-practically the little brother he never had. "How long have you felt so ..uhm ..confused? Is Steve the first guy you've ever felt that way about?" He knew Junior had always been a little different growing up; preferring to hang with his close circle of high school chums or fiddle with his computer until the wee hours instead of chasing girls like most kids his age. Even now, totally belying the "image" of the most eligible bachelor and nightclub king, Junior would often rather stay home, playing video games or entertaining his many cats.

Swallowing hard, Junior knew this was the one question he didn't particularly care to answer. Sighing, he answered carefully, "No- there was somebody else. He and Daddy were real close and I always wished I could have that closeness to him. Him and Daddy weren't like lovers or anything like that but they were still soul mates. When Dad wanted to work with him, I thought it would be great because then I could get closer to him too. His friendship meant the world to me, but his heart belonged to his wife....."

"You were in love with Neil Bonnett??" Michael asked wryly. Please wake me up! This is getting so fucking weird....! In his own simple way, he desperately wanted to understand, to help Junior straighten out his life; he was afraid that one wrong comment and Junior would clam up forever. Junior put his face in his hands for a moment. Shit, I've lost him already, Michael thought furiously, "I'm sorry- you know what a dumbass I can be sometimes....."

"It was you, Mike." came the whisper. "It was always you." Neither man spoke as silence enveloped the room The ramifications, consequences and emotions swirled about like restless spirits between the two. Junior immediately regretted the confession as he stole a furtive glance at Michael, who was sitting with his head in his hand, sorting his own emotions out. "Talk to me Michael, say something- please....don't hate me."

"I don't hate you, bud. I'd never hate you. I hate the environment that we live in, that puts us in situations that we shouldn't have to be in. I hate to see you going through this, bud. Right now, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. To tell you the truth, I feel like cryin' right now." Michael rose and scratched his head, "I gotta sort my own feelings out on this...."

"You're still going to drive for us, aren't you?"

"Hell yeah, shit-I've got a family to support! But what about Steve? Have you talked to him since the meeting? I can start making a few phone calls-I know a few teams that would jump at the chance to sign him. I'd give him a ride myself in the Busch car if he'd work for me."

"He's hurt, Mike. Angry and hurt -hell, he wouldn't even talk to me when he left. I did all I could but I was out-voted. He wouldn't even take his settlement check. I feel like I'm letting everybody down lately-can't be a friend to my own friends, I ain't a boss...shit, I don't know what I am anymore..."

"I'll talk to Steve tomorrow-don't worry, I won't say a word about what went down tonight. I figured it's the least I could do..." Michael shrugged, he honestly didn't know what else he could say or do at this point. So tapped out that he couldn't even muster a witty comeback or wisecrack.

"Thanks, man. I mean it. Let's just put this behind us and take care of business"

"Sounds like a plan, bud. TCB" Michael walked him to the front door as fat raindrops pelted the porch. "Hope you and Steve can work things out...." he finished lamely.

"Tell Ro to give me a call about that crew chief position. With Tony Jr. being promoted to director, I could really use her expertise." Michael nodded, "I'm sure she'll give it some thought."

Far away, as a northern cold front collided with the warm south wind, thunder rumbled ominously in the distance; the accompanying storm was not far off.

Chapter 3: Movin' on Up

While the cold front brought blizzards to the northern parts of the country, a savage ring of thunderstorms boiled in western North Carolina. The big pine trees doubled over in the gale-force winds outside of the Waltrip estate as lightning danced about relentlessly. The horses shuffled and paced back and forth in their spacious stalls as the barn would light up in an eerie blue-white light. The stallion, Sunday Money, furiously tossed his head and restlessly began pawing the floor of his stall; inciting the others to do likewise. The horse's frightened screams could be heard plainly above the howling winds as the lone figure fought his way to the barn to check on the creatures.

Unable to sleep, his mind too cluttered with thoughts and emotions from his earlier meeting with Junior, Michael struggled against the winds as he opened the barn door. He could hear the horses from the house and he wanted to make sure it was just the storm riling them up. He could see the stallion's black head and white blaze darting back and forth in his stall. Cautiously he made his way over to the animal, speaking softly to soothe it's jangled nerves and perhaps his own. Michael was always a firm believer in the healing properties of animals. "There's something about the outside of a horse that's good for the inside of man." Mark Twain was fond of saying.

Almost ill from the anxiety of these troubling emotions that now occupied his mind, Michael sat on a hay bale outside of the stall for a moment with his head in his hands. How the hell am I supposed to deal with this? he thought. I'm supposed to be thinking about the upcoming season! The silly, juvenile jokes he and Junior shared over the years came back to haunt him when he realized that perhaps Junior was only half-kidding around. It all started with a few obnoxious posts on the That's Racin'.com message boards about an alleged homosexual relationship they shared-the supposition that he and Junior were a little more than teammates. Now, the sophomoric kidding around wasn't even remotely humorous. Write Junior out of his life, turn his back on him? No way, that wasn't going to happen. If Dale's son ever needed a friend, it was now. Still, it didn't make him feel any better as he tried to overcome years of stereotypes and good old, homophobia. Michael sighed, rising as the sharp crack of a hoof on the side of the stall brought him from his reverie. His own deep faith had gotten him through hard times before and it would prevail again. One way or another.

"Hey dude, take it easy buddy. It's just a storm-it'll be over soon." He opened the door and slipped inside; stroking the horse's neck. Outside the stall, old Beavis whimpered anxiously and slapped his tail on the floor. Indeed, the thunder and lightning had subsided somewhat leaving only the wind and rain in it's wake. Michael stood in the stall for a few moments longer, then made a round with the other horses to make sure nobody had busted a leg kicking the walls and finally satisfied that all was well amongst the equine inhabitants, headed back out in the rain with Beavis in tow. "Ol' Man-you're too old to be out in this! Plus, now you're all wet and you're gonna stink up the house!" Michael grinned, ruffling the lab's ears.

He threw his wet hunting jacket on a hook in the mud-room and noticed the glow of the hurricane lamp from the kitchen. "hmmm....I didn't bring that out, did I? Shit-I'm gettin' as senile as Darrell..." He spied Rory sitting at the kitchen table with the contract Junior had dropped off. "Hon-whatcha doin' up?" he pulled up a chair beside her.

"Phew...stinky! Ya smell like a wet dog!" Rory kissed his cheek. "I couldn't sleep either-I figured ya'd be down in the barn."

"The herd was raisin' hell-had to make sure they didn't get loose or bust a leg throwin' a fit.." He paused by the coffee maker. "Coffee, hon?"

"Sounds lovely-it's almost time to get up anyway...." The two sat quietly together, enjoying the simple pleasure of listening to the drumming of the rain outside and the aroma of fresh coffee. Rory gathered the coffee and the lamp and made her way to the family room. "C'mon luv, let's set where it's more comfortable."

"Gettin' chilly anyway-I'll start up a fire...." Rory situated herself on the couch as Michael quickly had a good blaze going in the hearth. Michael stripped to his t-shirt and briefs and curled up by her side with his head on her lap as Rory pulled a large Indian blanket over them both. She tenderly rubbed his back and shoulders as he rested his head against her.

"So...are you gonna sign with DEI as Junior's crew chief? That's a helluva offer, sweetheart..." It felt so good to feel her warm body beside him; his troubles were slowly evaporating like the steam from the coffee mugs set on the cocktail table.

"I'm still mullin'....how do you feel about it? I'm holdin' a vote with the kids tomorrow..." Rory lazily ran her fingers through Michael's thick, curly hair. If he were a cat, he'd have been purring.....

"Ro-you've been on an opposing team since we've met. I personally think this is great, hon! You've been dyin' to get back in the thick of it and face it, you're just not cut out for the domestic goddess routine." Michael tenderly took her hand and gently kissed her; his full, soft lips lingering as he gazed into her eyes.

"I know Junior's gung-ho on this too, but if he thinks for two seconds I'm gonna coddle him, he's got another thing coming....I know I can get that car to victory lane but I'm not sure if he's gonna like how I do business. He'll have to listen to me and do as I tell him-none of that "My daddy said this or daddy said that!" Michael chuckled at that-it was one of Junior's favorite ruses to override Tony Jr.'s decisions on the track. He could already visualize some explosive battles in the works.

"mmm-mmmm..you're tough, lady! Feisty! I like that.." Michael grinned that lazy, seductive grin as he wrapped his long arms around her. It was the foreplay equivalent to "gentlemen, start your engines" as far as Rory was concerned as she sought his lips; the feel of his hot breath on her neck and intense gaze igniting her. Michael pulled her onto his lap as he continued those long, deep soul- kisses. His hand drifted slowly between her thighs as she pressed against him, moaning softly.

"MOM! DAD! Power's out!" yelled Caitlin as she charged down the stairs. Rory and Michael exchanged bewildered looks-all the joys of child-rearing. As their brood got older, intimacy was getting harder and harder to find. Both glanced at the clock on the mantle- 6:00 had arrived in all it's annoying, chaotic glory as both offspring thundered into the kitchen. "We'll get `em off to school and finish where we left off..." she grinned as she stole one last, lingering kiss; her tongue tenderly parting his lips. Michael sighed and rested his head against her, "Promise?"

"Of course, darlin'. When we're rid of `em, you're all mine..."

"Shit! I just remembered-we're supposed to talk to Teresa today about our contracts..." he grumbled as he untangled himself and rose from the sofa. Rory gazed at him in loving amusement as she threw the blanket over him. "Oul Pedro's gonna have to take a raincheck!" she grinned as she regarded his aroused member while tracing its outline against his briefs with her fingertips.

"Pedro's on the prowl, baby-Teresa just might have to wait!" he growled as he playfully nipped her neck and pressed himself against her. Rory caught a glimpse of Caitlin behind Michael standing in the kitchen, patiently awaiting breakfast. "I'm serious, luv. Go take your shower-I'll get the kids fed and off to school." After all these years, they never grew bored with each other; much to the chagrin of some of the other racing families who were often left dealing with infidelity, divorce and assorted other woes, the Waltrips always managed to keep their love as fresh and spontaneous as the day they met. Michael sighed and gave his wife a gentle kiss and a pat on the rump before he wandered back upstairs.

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"Alright-here's the proposition: your Uncle Junior just offered me a job as his crew chief. How do you both feel about me working again?" Rory regarded the two sleepyheads as they stared up from their bacon, eggs and sausages. "It would mean I would be gone quite a bit during the week and don't even talk to me on race day! I'm basically gonna be Junior's babysitter for the next 36 weeks and yer Dad's gonna be the one to shuttle you all over for your extracurricular events. Which, I might add, will be coming to a halt as neither of us have the time to be runnin' yer wee behinds all over." She paused for a moment, allowing Mick and Caitlin a few moments to absorb her words. "But-if either of you have any reservations about this, I won't consider it. You're far more important to me than the whole lot at DEI."

"uhm..that's great, Mum. Please pass the ketchup, will ya?" mumbled Mick as he stuffed a biscuit in his face, still half-asleep. Rory looked to Caitlin, who was buried in her biology textbook. "Yeah-go for it, Mom. Knock `em dead."

Rory regarded the two with arched eyebrows as she nursed her third cup of coffee. "Well now! Ain't democracy grand...don't blow a gasket celebratin' here.." she muttered flatly. Kids! In one ear and out the other....

"You know, I'm makin' history here! There hasn't been a woman crew chief on the Winston Circuit before." Her response was a couple of primeval grunts and the sound of scrambled eggs being slurped up. "Well, if you two are ok with breakfast, I think I'll go upstairs and chop yer father's head off with an ax now..." She cast a quick glance back to see if either had picked up on the ruse, but they were both now engrossed in textbooks. Caitlin reading ahead and Mick desperately trying to find his homework. Shaking her head, she ascended the stairs to their bedroom; God love 'em, the little pricks!

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Four hours later in a spacious walnut paneled conference room, both Rory and Michael sat across from Teresa Earnhardt, Ty Norris, Tony Eury and Junior as they finalized their contracts. The stately room was full of numerous trophies and various awards and photos hung on the walls At the forefront, an austere oil painting of Dale himself graced the wall in a heavy gilt frame. Below, were smaller portraits of all of the DEI drivers and their cars; each accompanied by a small brass plaque detailing their accomplishments. Michael's championship trophy occupied a special place of honor behind a glass case in the corner, along with the 2004 Daytona 500 trophy.

Teresa offered the couple a glass of wine; smiling warmly. "I'm so glad you've decided to join us, Rory. I know what a valuable asset to Petty Enterprises you were and how highly Dale regarded you."

"After all he did for me, I figured it was the least I could do. I thank you for the opportunity-I will warn you though, I'm not the easiest person to work for. I can promise you that you'll see that car in the winner's circle this year but my orders must be followed." Rory said quietly. She was putting her cards on the table now-better to let them know what they were in for... "We can give it a year-if I can't get this team to produce, then I'll be gone. Simple as that."

Teresa was impressed-she sounded so much like Dale and from what everybody who had ever worked with Rory said, her work ethic was much the same as his. "You might get some resistance from the crew...they're kinda set in their ways, so to speak. They might not care for the idea of setting a car up for a woman..." Rory's eyebrows shot to the moon at that statement.

"Whatever decade are they livin' in, now? I'll not stand for any of that-if they won't work for me, then they'll be gone too!" the feisty wife of Waltrip snapped. "There's a long line of good lads out there who would give their bollocks to work on that car!"

Michael sat back, amused. He knew more than anybody in the room that it would be a fatal move indeed to cross Rory when it came to her cars. Her cars became her children for the racing season and woe to anybody under her charge that dared to challenge her. The fact that her driver was also her boss did not phase her in the least. He also knew he would need to be on his toes this season, lest he planned on staring at the ass-end of the Budweiser Chevrolet for the duration of the year.

Teresa rose from her chair and warmly extended her hand to Rory, "Then I guess it's a done deal. Welcome to Dale Earnhardt Inc., Mrs. Waltrip."

"You won't be disappointed, I promise you that. Come December, we'll be the toast of the town!" Rory grinned confidently.

Ty looked over at Michael, "I trust you found our terms satisfactory, Michael?"

"Hmmm? Yeah! Everything's fine.." Michael was so focused on his wife's deal, that he completely forgot his own. "It's gonna be great working for Pennzoil again-I've already been in touch with their PR and marketing division, along with some of my old contacts. I'm really confident that this is gonna work out great."

Ty nodded, "It was tough loosing Napa, but maybe if things start looking up again, they'll give us a call. I told `em not to forget us."

"After all Michael's done for them, they better not..." Junior muttered. It was still a bitter pill to swallow after all these years of loyal service from DEI. He wondered how Steve as fairing, having not heard from him since the day of the initial meeting. As if reading his mind, Michael spoke up. "Talked to Kyle Petty earlier this morning-he wants to put Steve in the 43 this year. If Steve agrees, they'll probably wrap it up by the time we get to Daytona." Junior met his gaze and whispered, "Thank you." Michael smiled and nodded in acknowledgment to his friend's concern.

"Well then, I guess I can go ahead with our press release and put an end to Jayski's speculation fest that's been center stage for the past six months." Teresa said cheerfully, "I'd like to thank you both for your dedication and look forward to another successful season." Junior escorted Michael and Rory out to the parking lot.

"I wanna say `thanks' again for helping Steve out. I mean that.." Junior shifted uneasily, still remembering last night's confession and not at all sure he did the right thing by bringing out feelings that perhaps should have remained buried. One look at Michael's kind, understanding expression told him otherwise as his old friend gently put his arm around Junior's shoulder.

"Helpin' Steve out was the least I could do, bud. Now let's just concentrate on keeping this team on the right track."

Junior grinned wryly, "What do you know `bout bein' on the right track?? Didn't they used to call you, Wrong Track Waltrip?"

"Dipshit!" Michael laughed as he pulled Junior's hat over his eyes.

"Fartknocker!" came the surely response. It was beginning to sound like old times again. Rory grabbed her keys and headed for the parking lot, shaking her head. Michael gave him one final swat upside the head and jogged up behind Rory; wrapping his arms around her as he finally caught up.

"I don't know about you two! I think Dale should've sued MTV for copy write infringement over the Beavis and Butthead show-he had the prototype all along with you and Junior!" she scolded. Michael chuckled softly and kissed her cheek. "Aww, honey. I'm so proud of you, I could just bust.." Rory's exasperation over her husband's juvenile display melted as she snuggled against him.

"Do you think I'll make it? I'm not sure if Junior's crew is going to take a liking to me If I can`t work with the crew-we`ll have no team."

"You'll do fine, baby. I have all the faith in the world in you." He planted a tender kiss on her lips.

"Well now, I guess that faith is all we need, then!" They leaned against the old Bel Air as they regarded the immense DEI complex in front of them. "Look at us, baby...we're movin' on up in the world! Didn't think that was possible a few years ago.." he murmured as he rested his chin against the top of Rory's head.

"Movin' on up! I like the sound of that!" she chuckled, "C'mon, luv- I think it's time to head home and let Pedro out to play."

"mmmm...now I like the sound of that.." he whispered, softly nuzzling her neck. "Might as well enjoy it now while we can-season starts next month."

They headed back to Sherrill's Ford, both lost in daydreams of glory and immortal, timeless speed as the specter of Daytona loomed large on the horizon.

Chapter 4: Unrestricted

As the masses descended on Daytona for that annual rite of spring, the critics were out in full-force as well. Every notable Winston Cup team from Andy Petree to Yates was on the warpath to break the strangle-hold that DEI held over Daytona. Since 2001, the only time a non-DEI car claimed victory, was the 2002 500 by Ward Burton and the 2004 Pepsi 400 as Mark Martin passed Michael on the last lap for the victory as the Napa Chevrolet limped home on 7 cylinders and a flat tire. During that race, both Junior and Steve had fallen victim to the Hendrick team's blocking folly that collected 14 cars in the ensuing melee. But that was the only time and DEI was just as dominant at Talladega. Thus, in their infinite wisdom and bowing to pressure from all sides, Nascar tentatively abolished the restrictor plate rule at these tracks. Many drivers had their reservations as cars quickly accelerated down the stretch during testing. Both DEI cars were clocked at speeds exceeding 212 mph-and many wondered whether it had been a really sound decision after all to get rid of the plates or whether Daytona would claim another life before the powers that be wised up and put the driver's safety first.

Jeff Gordon initially sat on the poll during the first round of qualifying-he clocked in at 214 mph. Michael shook his head, this is insane! Somebody is going to wind up dead, sure as shit this year...

Ty walked over to the yellow and black Monte Carlo and leaned in the window. "Michael-I think you pretty much know what you have to do here. This whole organization is riding on you this year-do you understand?" Michael coldly stared back, "You've got to be kidding, Ty. This is insanity and you know it. What are ya gonna do if you have to scrape me and JR off the wall with a spatula??" Ty said nothing as Michael hooked up his window net and fired the engine.

As the Pennzoil Chevy tore down the stretch, the world became a blur. Careening into the towering banks, she clung to the asphalt as Michael clung to the steering wheel-for dear life. There was no comparison to the way he was used to handling this track. He honestly couldn't remember driving Daytona without the plates-but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. The cars they drove now were so much different than those raced 15 years ago. As he entered the third turn, the car wiggled for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to scare the daylights out of Michael as he clutched the wheel. He managed to save the lap as he barreled around for the second time-picking up speed as he went.

In the booth, Darrell excitedly watched his brother's car sail by. "Looks like we've got a new pole sitter!" he crowed triumphantly. "215.732!" In the stands, the die-hard rail birds that came out for the qualifying cheered lustily.

Larry MacReynolds eagerly awaited the 15 as it came in down pit-row. Behind the wheel, Michael was anything but jubilant. Dizzy and somewhat ill, he slowly climbed out of the car and rested his head against the roof as he sat on the window sill for a moment; waiting for the world to stop spinning long enough to get his bearings. Brows furrowing, Slugger gently laid a hand on his driver's shoulder, "Mike! You ok?" Michael slowly nodded, "Get me some water, I just feel a little sick right now..." Larry waited in the wings as Michael unfolded his long limbs from the car before he wandered over for the inevitable interview. This was going to be interesting, he thought grimly. Larry was vehemently opposed to removing the plates as most of the veteran drivers and crew chiefs were. This track was never designed to accommodate these kinds of speeds and neither were the cars. There was far too much downforce built in-the holdover from the plate days-if the cars ever got sideways now, they would become a missile into the stands; the existing catchfence would never contain these lethal projectiles. Then there was the toll on the driver. Larry watched as one of the most physically fit drivers on the circuit now sat sick and disoriented on his pitbox-what would this do to somebody like Jimmy Spencer? The thought of a driver having a black-out or worse was too frightening to comprehend.

Cautiously he knelt by the foot of the Pennzoil war-wagon. "Hey, Mike." Larry said softly, "I was gonna ask you if you would mind sayin' a few words about your run-looks like you've got the poll..." Michael stared blankly at him. "Uhm...if you'd rather be left alone, I'll catch you with you later..."

Michael shook his head, "S'ok, Larry. As you can see, our little Pennzoil Chevy raised the bar so to speak in qualifying....wanna say thanks to Slugger and the boys for puttin' her together for me."

"What was it like out there without the plates?" Larry pressed. God knows, if anybody knew Daytona, it was Michael.

"Well, to tell you the truth and I might get slapped for this-if you ignore those annoying black spots that kept starin' back at me in the middle of the track and that equally annoying ringing in my ears-I guess it's drivable." Michael glared into the camera as the realization that the lives of every one of his fellow competitors were being compromised once again for the sake of the almighty dollar and higher network ratings. These people wanted to see bloodshed on Sunday-not a race! "There's other things Nascar could've done with these cars to improve the racing without compromising safety. As far as I'm concerned, somebody done fucked up and dropped the ball on this one." Larry winced at that one-this was a live take. Still, he managed a smile for the sake of damage control, knowing that a Waltrip was never one to hold back. "Well awrighty! Now tell us what you really think, Mikey!"

Larry's smile faded when he saw the cold look in Michael's eyes. He wasn't kidding this time as he turned to Slugger, "Might wanna throw some stiffer springs on `er and bring that nose up. We don't need to be plowin' up the track anymore.." Slugger nodded and the crew began pushing the car back to the garage. Michael turned to Larry, "If all 43 of us survive this weekend, it will be a goddamn miracle." As he left to join his wife at the Budweiser pit box, Larry MacReynolds felt his blood run cold.

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Junior had just stepped back away from his car and was about to make his way over to the hospitality tent for a cold one when he spied Steve exiting from the Petty garage. "Hey!" he called, trying to get the other driver's attention. Steve coldly turned his back and retraced his steps back towards the hauler. Still angry, still hurting and betrayed; as far as Steve was concerned, Junior was the last person he wanted to see. "Fuck you." he muttered under his breath as he opened the door to the driver's lounge. A slender hand on his shoulder caused him to pause momentarily.

"I said `HEY'!" Junior reiterated. "I just wanted to congratulate you on your new ride. I'm glad you got hooked up."

"No thanks to you!" Steve snapped, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get a little rest before we qualify the Busch cars." Junior hung his head and stared morosely at his feet. "Steve-I said I was sorry... I did all I could do-I don't know what more I could've done...I just kinda wanted to hang out with you, if it's ok and talk some things over..."

"What's there to talk about? We're done...it's over." Inside, Steve's heart was breaking with each word he said. "It's about time I moved on anyway...."

"From DEI or just me?" Junior looked directly into Steve's eyes, trying to find some remainder of a shard of the friendship and closeness they once shared. It was like looking into the eyes of a wounded animal.

"Stop kidding yourself, man. I thought at one time there was something we could build on, but face it-when it all comes down, I was just another fuckbuddy. I really cared about you, Dale. But it's like you only reciprocated when it was convenient for you. It's like you don't know how to love anybody other than yourself. You never let anybody in. Nobody gets the key to the heart of the great Dale Earnhardt Jr." Steve's fury was building, "Except Michael, of course. I swear, if he wasn't married, you'd be falling all over yourself to suck his dick!"

"Leave him out of this!" Junior hissed, "Jesus, I didn't think you were the jealous sort, Park!"

"Oh come off it-whenever he whined for a better car, it was his. When he couldn't drive his way out the fucking garage, you kept him on....What the fuck, Junior? You two always got whatever you wanted, I got shit every fucking time!" Steve knew better than to go there but he was so hurt and angry, all he wanted to do was hurt somebody back.

"Mike is one of the best friends you ever had! How can you stand there and say this shit? If it wasn't for him, you'd be sitting on your ass with your mother watching the race!" Junior yelled. The commotion was drawing the unwanted attention of a few bystanders. Junior decided it was best to end the conversation now before any more dirty laundry was given air time.

"Ok Steve-whatever. Have a nice life! When you can pull your head outta your ass, come talk to me!" Steve watched him go and brushed past his crew chief to the lounge. His throat felt as though somebody was trying to choke him as he sat on the couch , buried his face in his hands and sobbed quietly. It was said that nobody has ever died from a broken heart-but then again, they probably never had one.

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9 cautions, one red-flag stop and 170 laps later, Michael was heading for his third Daytona 500 victory. He outclassed, out distanced and out lasted at least 15 cars that were now little more than crumpled, smoking wrecks. There was still no word on the severity of Tony Stewart's injuries as the Home Depot Chevrolet plowed through the inside retaining wall and into one of the stationary wreckers. From 205 mph to a dead standstill and no word as to whether he was dead or alive. Michael eased off on the throttle momentarily as he searched for the nearest car. His head was pounding and he felt as though he would vomit at any moment; every joint in his body ached from the tremendous G-forces taken in the turns. If he made it through this ordeal in one piece, he would be sure to rip Mike Helton a new one for this slaughter on wheels posing as a race.

Catching some of the wounded, lapped cars, he checked up. Fatal move as a sea of red filled his rearview mirror. Gunning the engine, he dipped low near the out of bounds line as Junior went high against the wall. Inside the Budweiser Chevy's cockpit, Junior was screaming, " I knew I should have taken 4 tires on that last stop! I'm coming in!"

"Are ya loose?" Rory's calm voice answered.

"No!"

"Is it pushing?"

"No!"

"Then you'll stay out there and like it-only 35 more laps to go-now dig in!"

"Look-Rory, I respect the hell out of you-but I'm coming in! My Daddy always said-"

"Junior-now listen to me carefully-I don't give a fiddler's fart what yer Daddy said. I knew your Daddy too and I know he'd say keep your fucking ass out there! Don't even think of givin' me any more shite now! Go on and get after `im!" Rory snarled. "If I see that car coming down pit-row, I'm shovin' that goddamn contract right up your skinny arse!" She cast a worried glance at the darkening horizon- rain was coming soon and she hated like hell the thought of the racing ending now-they had a good run going.

Suddenly, as Junior was about to make his pass on the Pennzoil Chevrolet, the 15 turned violently towards him; it's right tire shredding. Junior stared helplessly as he charged ahead of the wounded car and took the lead. He cast a fearful look in his rearview as the wall of cars behind them closed in and the sounds of metal-on-metal and screaming tires as wheels locked filled the air.

Chapter 5: In The Name Of The Father

"Heads up! Keep going, Junior!" Rory yelled, standing on top of the war wagon as an avalanche of cars slid down the bank on turn 4. She paid no heed to the yellow Chevrolet that was now spinning like a top amidst the stampede. Through the smoke, it was almost impossible to distinguish anybody except the red streak that now thundered down the front stretch. Her brows furrowed as Ty Norris' voice came over her radio, "Ro-Michael's just cut a tire-that's him out of control! This could be bad..."

"Awright-I'll get ready to leave if need be." She turned to the new car chief, Jim "Bones" McCoy. "Bones-get ready to take over for me lest I have to scrape my husband off the wall." The words were barely out of her mouth when the ass-end of the 15 made contact with Mark Martin's front bumper; sending the car around like a pinball to bounce off the outside retaining wall and straight back to the apron and the remains of Todd Bodine's car at close to 150 mph. As the rest of the pack dodged the 15 on all sides with the shrieking crowd on it's feet, Pennzoil Chevrolet hit the nose of Bodine's car so hard, it literally became air born. Inside the cockpit, Todd stared in utter amazement as his car became a stunt ramp that sent the 15 sailing over his hood and cleanly clearing the pit road retaining wall. As the caution lights flashed, Michael straightened the rampaging beast out and regained control as he settled the car in his pit stall.

As if nothing had happened, Michael roared to the crew, "Right sides only and get my ass back out there! I'm still on the lead lap!" Slugger broke his own stupor and hollered, "Now! Move it!" Then the car was off the jack and with tires spinning to the shouts of "Go! Go!" and was soon back in the lead pack.

Inside the Fox Studio booth, Larry MacReynolds looked over to his colleagues, shaking his head, "If I hadn't seen it myself, I never would have believed it! Whatcha say, DW? ....uhm...Darrell?" When there was no response from the normally vocal commentator, both Larry and Mike Joy shifted their attention to the seat beside them. "Darrell?!?"

For the first time perhaps in his life and the second most unbelievable moment of the day, Darrell Waltrip had passed out and upended himself on the floor; both feet comically sticking up above his chair. Mike Joy turned off his mic, "Should we try to wake him up...?"

Larry peered over at the inert and silent form on the floor, "Nah...he'll live. Shit, if it was Benny Parsons, we'd be givin' him oxygen right now....Let's just finish the race in peace."

Mike Joy cleared his throat, "Green flag's out and 20 more laps to go! Michael Waltrip is still in contention after that unbelievable pit stop and he's now in 11th. Dale Jr. leads and here we go!"

A sound of something stirring on the floor and a mumbled "What the hell was that?? What's goin' on?" Bewildered, Darrell Waltrip pulled himself upright and re-adjusted his headset. "Did I just pass out or somethin?"

"Don't worry, Darrell." Larry patted his shoulder. "We'll catch ya up after the race.." Darrell shook his head, "I'm gettin' to old for this..." He eyed the vision of his brother's yellow Chevrolet streaking alongside the pack, now nipping at Kurt Busch's rear bumper. "Didn't he wreck or somethin a while back?"

"It's a long story and I promise we'll catch ya up..."

Kurt Busch looked up and shook his head-oh no, this shit ain't happenin'. This ain't gonna be another DEI walkover. He took his Ford to the floor and dug in as Michael stuck beside him, trying to wear him down. His water temperature was dangerously high-230 and rising-he couldn't keep up this pace much longer. The 97 continued to struggle alongside the Pennzoil Chevrolet, valiantly but doing little than impeding a much faster car. Resigning, Busch looked up as Michael furiously motioned to him, get back! Jack Roush's hope faded and took it's place behind the charge of the 15.

Junior looked up as his own car was also in danger of overheating. The 15 bore down on him and soon drew alongside. No plates-no more need for a drafting partner as they hooked up as if hitched. Michael had already won this race three times-Junior still looking for his first. It had taken his father twenty years to accomplish what his son and his best friend had done. The critics who proclaimed DEI's demise at Daytona with the abolition of the restrictor plate now sat open mouthed as both cars streaked home three seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. No drafting this time. No team work. Racing at it's purest, most visceral form. Both evenly matched cars matching stride-for-stride; missiles both beautiful and deadly close together. Three more laps. Two. The white flag was now waving as Junior pushed his car for all it was worth while Michael dug in mercilessly. All bets were off as timeless mortal combat took them to the checkers. The 15 slipped for one fatal half-second and that was all it took to put the nose of Junior's car over the line.

As the Budweiser Chevrolet took it's playful romp in the infield, spewing turf in all directions, a rumble of thunder sounded in the heavens above. To this day, some said it was the sound of Earnhardt laughing his ass off. And that heavy anvil cloud that hung over the Nascar official's suite looked mysteriously like an extended middle finger.....

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Michael jubilantly pulled beside Junior as the other car headed for victory lane. Gleefully streaking the side with a huge, black donut and triumphantly shaking his fist at his friend, the 15 finally came to a stop on pit row. As he clambered out of his car, his first instinct was to embrace his wife who was now joyfully throttling Junior. Everyone within a 100 foot radius were already bathed in Budweiser and champagne as the confetti floated about like a snowstorm on acid. Junior held the tiny but powerful woman tightly, almost crying, "Thank you, Ro...I couldn't have done this without you. Thanks for believin' in me..."

"Don't be slackin' off on me-we still have 35 more races to go..." She grinned and took a slug out of the big champagne bottle, "Eeechhhhh! Horsepiss! Shite tastes like horsepiss! Give me a bloody beer!"

Now came the hat dance, the photos, the endless interviews. Michael waited patiently in the wings after congratulating his teammate and rival. Yes-it was promising to be a long season and an exciting one at that. Junior wrapped his arms around Michael's sweaty form, relishing the bonding between them. After the war, they were still friends and the bond was thicker than blood. Michael looked into his old friend's eyes-so much now like his late father-and that resemblance sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He was certain that somewhere the old man was toasting them both on a job well done and reassured that his legacy would continue for years to come.

Rory stole up behind Michael, lost in thought at the moment. Boldly seizing his sleek buttocks, much to the delight of the media and crowd still gathered. she wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head on his shoulder. "Looks like I've got my wife back!" he grinned as he scooped her into an embrace. Already somewhat inebriated by the beer, Rory pressed against Michael. She loved being close to him after a race; aroused by his energy and the exotic mix of sweat and adrenalin. "Can I steal you away for a bit, luv?" she whispered as Michael gently brushed his lips across her mouth. Junior stood by, entranced and a bit enticed himself by the deep love shared by the couple. Slugger glanced at Junior, "That's ok-you don't have to give me a kiss!" Their gazes followed the two as they exited for the sanctuary of the Pennzoil hauler.

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Michael was glad to be rid of the drenched firesuite as he peeled off the layers of clothing. "Hon, we gotta be at Teresa's for a bit of a wrap party-they're all expecting you, sweetie." He rested his chin on the top of her head as she nuzzled close to his bare chest; tenderly kissing him. "Are you sure they need us there?" Her hand slowly drifted between his legs as she seductively began to fondle him. Pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him deeply, gazing longingly into those deep cerulean blue eyes, "Are you sure, luv?" Michael gently pushed her down on the lounge couch, "I don't think they'll miss us for a few minutes..." he whispered huskily as he began pulling her coveralls off.

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Fashionably late, Rory and Michael finally found their way to Teresa's yacht as they found the party in full swing. Junior looked up from his crowd of well-wishers and raised his glass to the couple with a knowing, wolfish grin on his face. His victory lane embrace with Rory still lingered on his mind as he admired her svelte form that was now completely decked out in a red-leather mini dress. Her long, curly dark blonde hair was piled in a messy but seductive French twist. Michael's arm was wrapped protectively around her slim waste as he escorted over to where Junior sat, still grinning. "Hey bud, sorry we're late. Got a little tied up, y'know..."

"I bet. Which one of ya got tied up and what did you use? Bungee cord? Handcuffs?" he cackled.

Michael grinned conspiratorially with a dirty wink, "That's for later, bro."

Wincing at the visual, Junior arched his eyebrows, "Really? Can I play?" he inquired, trying to hide the hunger in his voice. The tension was getting a bit heated and he wasn't quite sure if he overstepped his bounds as he glanced from one to the other.

Rory walked over to Junior as she slipped her arm around his waste. "That depends....are you game?" she said softly into his ear as her delicate tongue caressed his earlobe. He swallowed hard as he looked up at Michael-no way had he expected this response. He hesitated enough to warrant the response from Michael that nearly sent him to his knees, "Well, JR? Whatcha say? Last I heard, an Earnhardt never backs down from a challenge." he smiled that lazy, seductive smile.

Junior quietly grinned at him, "I'm game, dude. Let's git it on..."

WARNING: This Portion of Chapter contains extreme sexual content & mild slash. If you are under age or this isn't your preference, please continue on to Chapter Six

Chapter 5a: A Walk on the Wild Side

Junior made his way through the crowded yacht as the music continued to pound away into the night. The night turned out unusually warm for a February evening, even for Daytona. After the brief thunderstorm passed, bringing all outside festivities to a halt, the quarter moon shown brightly as it chased the stars around. He must’ve chatted up everybody within a hundred mile radius of the track or so it seemed. Enjoy it, you’ve earned it and it took Dad twenty years to do it, he thought as he sought out Michael and Rory; still wondering if they were still planning on that post-party get-together. Wondering wasn’t exactly the word for it, more like anticipating their company like a child would anticipate Christmas Eve.

Finally, he spotted Michael holding court with a dozen of his fellow drivers and assorted hangers-on from the Speed Channel. Rory stood by his side, delicately holding a champagne flute to her lips. Spying Junior in the wings, she smiled and winked. Junior made his presence known as he nodded and motioned with a tilt of his head. “Speak of the devil-hey JR!” Michael hollered across the room. So much for being inconspicuous. Junior sighed and resigned himself to more aimless banter as he joined Michael in the corner. Fifteen more minutes passed of reliving the race, congratulatory banter and ‘wouldn’t your Dad be proud?’ before Junior grasped Michael’s arm and whispered, “I’m cuttin’ outta here-head over to my condo for a nightcap?” he grinned and slyly ventured, “Still wanna play, Mikey?”

Michael said nothing, just the barest trace of grin curling the corners of his lips as he motioned for Rory’s attention. “All set to head out, hon?” he gently bussed her neck , “JR wants us to stop by for a bit....ok by you, babe?” Rory slipped her arm around his waste and finished her glass, “If you’re up to it, so am I. Let’s go-the night ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Michael gave Junior a poke in the ribs on the way out, “So we’re heading for the condo now! Sweet-what happened to your coach?”

“Little more privacy. You never know who’s gonna be bargin’ in at the coach...” Like Steve, Junior thought grimly; the argument outside the Petty’s garage still fresh in his mind.

“I’m starvin’-couldn’t touch those nasty veggies an’ dip! Dried up ol’ cheeses...I should cook us up somethin’” To say the little Irish spitfire was a bit on the tipsy side was an understatement. Michael, who could drink his weight in beer without any noticeable effect, affectionately patted her rump, “What ya got at home, Budman? My woman wants to cook for us!”

“I’ve got some pasta....typical bachelor stuff. Here-” Junior suddenly grabbed a large bowl of iced jumbo shrimp, “Got shrimp!” he crowed. Together, the three revelers hit the gangplank and the dock. Outside, Junior’s Corvette stood waiting.

“How we all gonna fit in that?” Michael inquired. Junior shook his head, “Awww hell, Rory can ride on your lap.”

“Been on his lap already. Push over, I’m drivin’!” Rory plopped herself in the driver’s seat. Junior shrugged and gingerly situated himself on Michael’s lap. He had barely sat down before the sleek, black beauty shot toward the highway.

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“Well now, that was grand!” Rory grinned as she finally pulled up to the condo parking lot; picking a wayward shrimp out of her cleavage. Michael cheerfully leaned over and delicately took the crustacean from her fingertips with his teeth. Patting his cheek, Rory shook her head as he munched away , deftly spitting the tail over the windshield, “You’re so bad...” she chuckled.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Junior was already through the door and on his way to the kitchenette with the bowl of bedraggled shrimp. Rory joined him as she rummaged about the cupboards, “Aha! Here’s some marinara sauce and some linguine-that would go nicely with the shrimp. Got any hot sauce?”

“White or Red?” he grinned wickedly.

“That was very bad...naughty, naughty...” she pinched his rump as she busied herself with the late dinner. “Now go on and entertain my husband before he gets into mischief. I’ve got dinner all under control.” Junior joined Michael in the living room, who was going through the extensive CD collection. “Nice set-up!” Michael whistled low, admiring the sound system.

“Took me years to put this together! Check this out-” he picked out some vintage vinyl featuring the soulful crooning of Marvin Gaye. “This whole set-up can filter out all the little scratches and pops on the record-sounds just like an original master.” Junior was rather fond of the old records his father owned-he had grown to enjoy that rich, mellow tone over digitally enhanced CDs.

Michael removed his dress jacket and fine silk shirt to just a simple t-shirt and kicked back on the couch. He had helped himself to the liquor cabinet and was enjoying a glass of Jack Daniel’s finest; it had been a long day and right now he couldn’t think of a better way than to spend the rest of the evening with his best friend, a good meal and later making love to his wife. He had only been half-kidding about sharing some of the action with Junior but as long as Rory was ok with it-could be fun. Michael himself was much more open-minded when it came to sex than most people realized; totally belying his conservative “good old boy” image. He had something of a kinky streak and was always willing to try something new. If it feels good and nobody gets hurt, go on and do it. And Rory-God, all women should be as free-spirited as she was. Adding Junior’s admitted bisexuality, he also realized it could very well be an evening they wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

Junior was somewhat lost in his own thoughts. His eyes kept drifting from Rory, who was still puttering about in the kitchen to Michael’s lanky form next to him. God, the man never ages! he thought as he regarded those broad shoulders and tapered waste to those mile-long legs. “Dude, you still runnin’?”

“Hmmm? Oh yeah-when I can. You should try it with me sometime. Bought me one of them Bow-Flex machines for the coach too.”

“I did run once and it damn-near killed me! I still don’t know how the hell you run that Boston Marathon every year! Shit-look at you, man! Not an inch of fat on ya! Don’t know how ya do it..”

“I’m probably in better shape now than I was 20 years ago-check it out-” Michael stood up and removed his t-shirt, proudly showing off his sculpted, wash-board abs and broad, muscular chest. “Shit-when I was your age, I was a ball of lard!”

“Dayum!” was all Junior could manage.

“Just give up your six-pack and bag of chips a day and start runnin’ with me sometime. I’ll get your scrawny ass in shape!” he grinned. “Better check on the woman-smells like dinner’s almost done.” He wandered into the kitchen as Rory pulled the steaming pot of pasta into the sink to drain. She regarded his shirtless body with arched eyebrows. “Startin’ without me, are ya?”

Michael chuckled as he wrapped his long arms around her and pressed his groin against her buttocks. She could feel him harden as she almost swooned. That delicious sensation of a newly aroused cock always thrilled her. She felt his hot breath on her neck, “You ok, baby?”

“Mmmm-I’m ok, luv. Get me some plates, will ya?” she whispered.

“Hey, what’s cookin’?” Junior wandered in and rummaged around for a couple of wine glasses. “I’ve got some Chianti-I hate the stuff, but I know you two like your wine.”

“I’m cookin’ Shrimp Diablo over Linguine-it’s spicy, so you’ll like it. It’s almost done, Jun, if you want to get me some silverware.”

Junior shuffled through the drawer, “Shit-I never cleaned ‘em up from the last throw down-all the stuff is still in the dishwasher.”

Rory shrugged, “We’ll eat with these chopsticks I found then. The Chinese eat their noodles with ‘em-so can we.”

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The dinner was an event unto itself as three happily besotted individuals attempted the arduous task of dining on linguine with chopsticks. As shrimp found it’s way into places unexpected after sliding off the chopsticks and marinara sauce wound up from one end of the table to the other, dinner was abandoned in favor of other entertainment. One plump morsel of a shrimp landed square in Junior’s lap as Rory ducked low to recover the errant little beastie with her lips. Michael sat cackling, “Sure you got the shrimp, babe?”

Rory stood up as a generous dollop of marinara sauce slopped down the front of her dress, “Oshit!” she laughed as Michael assisted her with the zipper; enthusiastically lapping up the sauce on her chest. “Damn, that sauce is good...” he muttered. Food and sex-it doesn’t get any better than this.

“I think we need to take this in the bedroom...” Michael whispered as he unhooked the belt from his dress slacks. Junior nodded and gently led them to the bedroom; pausing momentarily to light a iron rack of votive candles and incense. Nothing wrong with a little atmosphere, he thought. Plus, the soft glow complemented his beautiful guests in a most attractive light.

Rory was already on her way to the massive California king-size bed. “Sheesh...there’s enough room for 10 people!” She languidly stretched out, watching Michael remove the last of his clothing. With a low growl, he settled beside her, picking up where he left off. Junior quietly stood by the bed as he undressed, watching the couple as they writhed together; feeling like he was almost intruding on something sacred. His hand drifted to his own stiff member, gently stroking himself as Michael began to vigorously go down on Rory as if it were his last meal. Rory pressed her hips against his jaws as his long tongue flitted and darted along those delicate pink lips; caressing that sweet spot. Junior finally lowered himself along side her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, as he buried his face in her neck. She cupped his face in her hands and tenderly kissed him, gazing hypnotically into his eyes as her hands gently began their own explorations. The three of them pulled themselves ever closer, caressing each other, as their lips lingered and tasted the delights of the forbidden. Junior caught a glimpse in the large wall mirror across from the bed. Forbidden. Taboo. The sweetest taboo... He gasped as he felt his own erect cock accidentally brush against Michael’s. Michael was so caught up in his own desires, he didn’t even notice. This is so wrong, he thought as he gently began to stroke his friend’s engorged organ. He felt Michael tense just for a moment before he succumbed with a quiet moan; surrendering himself to absolute pleasure.

Rising and pushing Junior back on the bed, Rory straddled herself on top of him in the classic 69 position, burying her face in his crotch and expertly deep throating him. Her tongue made laps around the head of his member; alternating from gentle teasing to intense massaging. She eagerly pushed her dripping snatch in his face as he hungrily began to nibble away. Her sweet, salty nectar ignited him as he plunged his tongue ever deeper. He gently began to suck at her; soon tasting the unmistakable, heady, bitter taste of Michael’s cum from their previous session earlier that evening. Michael lay back as he enjoyed the show; slowly stroking himself as he watched Junior going down.

Feeling himself slowly slipping over the edge, Junior suddenly became aware of Michael’s thighs on either side of his head. Grasping Rory’s hips, Michael slid his pulsing cock deep into her, grunting with pleasure as he began thrusting and plunging into her. Junior continued his assault on her clit, occasionally running his tongue along the length of Michael’s cock as he continued. Rory continued her own task at hand-alternately sucking and licking away as Junior fell ever closer to the edge. Unable to hold back any longer, he exploded in her mouth as Michael felt his own release building. Exhausted, he slid out from underneath them and entranced by their passion, Junior settled back to enjoy the rest of the show. He idly wondered if he should take notes as he felt he was in the presence of a master watching and appreciating Michael’s knack for technique.

Michael gently rolled her over on her back as he sunk into her, long-stroking her in a rhythmic, fluid motion as his hips rocked against her. Sweat glistened across his shoulders as his sinewy form covered her trembling body. Rory wrapped her legs tightly about his flanks, digging her talons into the flesh of his broad back. On the verge of her own climax, panting heavily as she urged Michael on, “Harder, baby...give it to me...ogod Michael...fuck me, baby..” Quickening his pace, he savagely bit her shoulders as they both finally allowed themselves the mother of all orgasms. Shaking and spent, he collapsed beside her; tenderly spooning his long frame around her, smothering her mouth with his tender kisses. “Love you baby..” he murmured.

“Love you, Michael..” she whispered back.

Junior wistfully looked on, hoping that he could find a love like this. Rory gently reached over and caressed his hand. “We both love ya, Junebug-don’t you forget it.” she said softly.

“I know.” he whispered back, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. “I love both of you so much.”

On into the night, the tableau played itself out time and again. Positions and roles changed hand. Fantasies exchanged and fulfilled as new avenues were explored and new delights revealed. By the time the sun was slowly making it’s entrance known across the expanse of the Atlantic, three lovers slept soundly ensconced in each other’s arms.

Chapters 6-12