Malahide, Ireland December 2000
An icy, Nordic wind whipped across the Irish Sea; nearly knocking the breath out of the slender woman as she made her way from the General Post Office with a thick, brown envelope clutched protectively near her bosom. "Fragile: Photos" were stamped on the face of the envelope and the return address of Sherrill’s Ford, North Carolina warmed her heart against the cold. Breaking into a trot along the narrow gravel path, she headed towards the old pub in which she resided in the second floor flat above with her sister-in-law’s small brood and her own young son. It was nearly half-noon, yet the heavy black skies that threatened an impending gale, turned the mid-day light to almost dusk. Fishing boats were already calling it a day and coming into the nearby harbor early; seabirds already roosting ahead of the storm.
The pub was crowded with the regulars and the smell of a savory stew simmering and fresh brown bread wafting in from the kitchen enticed even stalwart old Father McManus in from the cold. There he sat, amongst the fisherman, farmers, musicians and old folks, puffing on his pipe. Bridy was behind the bar, delicately perched on a step-ladder as she festooned the archway above with strands of evergreen, ivy and a few sprays of mistletoe. Grinning as she spied Rory rushing in in the front door with a fresh arctic blast of wind, she hollered above the jukebox, "There’s Herself! Bringin’ the cold in with ya! I hope you’re brinin’ more than due notices from the GPO..."
Rory tossed her coat on a nearby barstool as she situated herself next to Fr. McManus and began shuffling through the mail. "Aye...ye got a card from yer Mum, one from yer brother, Liam and a bill for the phone....request for food donations from St Vincent De Paul...an’.." The Father sat gazing curiously over his pint as Rory continued to sort through the stack.
"Jaysus, sister....what did he send ya...we’re all waitin’!" Bridy laughed as she hopped down from her perch and pulled a pint for Rory and herself a glass of sherry.
Smiling softly, Rory eagerly into her own envelope just as the door burst open once more and a lad as long-legged and rangy as a young colt, charged through the room. Tossing his school books on a table and scrambling to the chair beside Rory, he snagged the envelope from his mother’s hands. One look up at the gently disapproving countenance of the Father and the envelope was shyly passed back to his mother’s patiently waiting hand. "I’m sorry Mum...I just knew it was from Da."
"That’s ok, luv...I couldn’t wait to see what he sent us." she gently ruffled his thick, curly hair. She pulled him close and softly kissed his forehead. "Now then, let’s see what we have..." A thick packet of photos accompanied a beautiful Christmas card and a few pages of handwritten letter were carefully exhumed from the brown paper. "Look-there he is with your Uncle Dale...." she whispered as she reverently inspected each photo, then passing them on to young Mick who shared them with Bridy and Father McManus. Handing the rest of the pictures to Mick, she began reading his letter. "Oh...listen to this-Dale’s signed Michael to drive one of his cars for the next two years! This is wonderful!"
"Mum..? Who’s this?" Mick held up one photo featuring two young girls on the front porch of his father’s estate.
"Your sister Caitlin, you goose!"
"No-I know who Caitlin is. This girl -with the pretty hair."
Rory took the photo and smiled, "Aye...’tis Taylor Nicole Earnhardt-yer Uncle Dale’s daughter. Lovely child...she was just a baby the last time I saw her..." Rory absently gazed out the window as the realization of how much time had indeed passed since she left America. It seemed an eternity ago that she had left North Carolina to settle her mother’s estate with her brother, Kevin. They had returned to her native Belfast in October of 1991 to put things in order and to retrieve what belongings they wanted to keep. While attending a forum presented by Sin Fein leader Jerry Adams, both had been caught up in a riot. A soldier from the Royal Ulster Constabulary had been shot and killed. Rory wound up arrested as they found an antique handgun belonging to her father that she absent-mindedly placed in her handbag. Eight long years she languished in the notorious Long Kesh prison on trumped up charges; freed by the death of her IRA soldier father and the death of her brother Kevin.
But it was all soon over. In a couple of months, they would be on their way back to North Carolina and Michael. For a year, she stayed with Bridy as she adjusted to the new concept of freedom. For years, Michael himself knew not whether she was dead or alive as every letter she had written had been confiscated by his new wife. It was through an accidental discovery of these missing letters that brought her back to him. And Mick, who not only bore his father’s name, was also the spitting image of him. Unusually tall with the same sparking blue eyes and hair as dark and brown as java, he thrived on every bit of information about his father. His bedroom was covered with pictures and news clippings taken from Winston Cup Scene. It was no secret that Mick wanted to drive race cars someday and now with an impending move back home to what many referred to as "Race City USA", perhaps he would be able live his dreams.
"She’s beautiful, Mum...like a princess. Will I meet her? Do you think she’d like me?" Mick looked up from the photo he had been studying. Her son’s question broke Rory from her reverie. Hugging him close, she whispered, "I’m sure she’ll like you, Mickey. I’m sure she’ll come to love you as much as I do."..........
*****************************
Atlanta Motor Speedway, 2012
As he sat quietly in his car, Mick had no idea why that old memory popped into his head. He shouldn’t be thinking of the shades of the past, of Taylor Nicole Earnhardt or anything else except this race. His first Cup race-how he had looked forward to this day. He had paid his dues-raced karts, sprints, ARCA, Busch and finally the holy grail of stock car racing: the Cup ride. It was ironic that he was making his debut at the same track as his father did in 1985. It was fitting somehow. Strangely, two of his childhood idols also found both their career beginning and ending race here in the fall of ’92-Richard Petty and his mentor, Jeff Gordon.
Mick impatiently drummed his fingers lightly on his steering wheel as he endured yet another off-key rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" and the Invocation. He glanced up the line of cars in front of him, trying to see his father’s car. The indigo blue tail of the #3 Napa Chevrolet could barely be seen from Mick’s 19th starting position. At 49, many wondered when Michael Waltrip would join his irascible old brother in the broadcast booth. He had finally tied old Darrell for championship titles won. It had taken him nearly thirty years to do it but he wore down his critics; proving them wrong about his "one-trick pony" status and finally winning their respect. He was still in remarkable shape for his age and when most veterans began the eventual slide, he was still a good bet to win at least a couple of races a year.
"Gentlemen-start your engines!" rang the command as clear as a bell. Mick flipped the ignition switches of his #5 Hendricks Monte Carlo and beast awoke, snarling to life. He knew Taylor was there, out on spring break from Cornell University. She would be waiting at the end of the race. "But not for me", he sighed. Angrily he shook her image from his head. Focus, dammit! he thought furiously as he eased the sleek car out onto the apron with the others; snaking back and forth as he cleaned his tires. Two rows ahead, rode the man who seemingly replaced him in her heart. Why was this bothering him now? People change...Taylor changed...life goes on.
The colorful parade of cars made one more lap and the ahead, the green flag waived them on. The crowd rose to it’s feet as they cheered their heroes on. The stands shook and reverberated from the energy of the crowd and the roar of 43 800 horsepower engines. Energy so intense, it almost took on a life of it’s own. Mick saw an opening just below Elliot Sadler and he dove for the apron, making it 3 wide in a very gutsy move for a rookie. He found himself directly behind the 25 of Kyle Busch; the same Kyle Busch who had seemingly swept Taylor off her feet. As if he had a guardian angel riding with him, Mick’s radio crackled to life as Jeff Gordon’s voice snapped, "Don’t do anything stupid, Rookie! Keep your nose clean."
"You mean I can’t rough ‘im up just a little?" Mick snapped back sarcastically. Of course he wouldn’t wreck his own teammate. The 25 was plodding and Mick’s car was handling much better; obviously the faster of the two. Irregardless, Mick was going to move the slug if he didn’t move aside.
Resting on his own laurels, Jeff had retired to co-owner status. He was acting as a spotter for Mick, having brought the boy up from an apprentice, shop gofer and eventually a driver for Hendricks Motorsports. He had recognized the natural talent in Mick, who had often been compared to his uncle Darrell Waltrip. He was a good kid but a handful at times. And Kyle’s romancing of Taylor had only added fuel to a combustible situation. So far, his steady hand as coach, mentor, and boss had managed to keep Mick focused.
Mick had managed to pull slightly ahead of Kyle as the field whipped down the backstretch. Kyle’s car was just beginning to come to him as it began to pick up a little more speed of the turns and the previously loose condition had now become tighter. Kyle had no love lost for Mick either, dismissing him as "ARCA material only"-not fit to drive with the "big dogs". Mick’s car wobbled in front of him, now loose as the 25 took the air of his spoiler. Elliot’s Ford also started to slide as it made contact with the 5, effectively cutting the rear tire. Mick gritted his teeth as his car began to turn sideways, his first Cup race would soon be over...praying that it wouldn’t be his last as Kyle gave his bumper one final, hard smack.
No one paid any mind to the slender, young woman in the baggy sweater as she walked down pit row behind the assembled "war wagons". She had literally grown up in a world that many could only dream of from afar. She could walk among the heroes while the fans could only watch and live their dreams vicariously through them. Darrell Waltrip and Richard Petty had changed her diapers. Her childhood playmates were the sons and daughters of Terry and Bobby Labonte, Kyle Petty and Bill Elliott. Most importantly, she was the apple of her father’s eye-Dale Earnhardt.
A few friendly calls rang out and she waived back in turn. As she walked by Chip Ganassi’s station for the #40 Dodge, a long, well-muscled arm reached out and embraced her in a bear hug.
"Waaaaalll...looky here!" came the familiar Tennessee drawl, "How y’all been, darlin? I swear if’n I was 35 again...."
"Hello Sterling." Taylor gave his weathered face a kiss and returned his hug. "I know....if you were 35 again, I’d be fightin’ Paula off with a stick!"
Sterling Marlin grinned, "It’s good seein’ ya-we all miss ya somethin’ awful ’round here....y’know, Steadman’s out there today in the 1 for DEI this season...."
"He is? That’s wonderful! I knew he’d make it someday...is Rory his crew chief?" Taylor dearly loved the feisty little woman who’s sharp tongue and fierce temper could make the most grizzled veteran car inspector turn tail and run, yet so soft hearted, she once bottle-nursed a stray kitten during the entire running of the Brickyard.
"Nope-she won’t give up her post with Brendan still in the 15-ol’ man Stoddard is runnin’ that show. Y’know...there’s two sets of fathers and sons out there today...." The old veteran had since retired and looked wistfully out at the thundering herd as it passed the frontstretch. "Justin and Bobby....Mikey and Mick..." he added with a wink. "Rusty’s boy, Steven is out there too....buncha ol‘ boys carryin‘ on that family tradition!"
Mick. Taylor looked down towards the backstretch as she saw the orange and blue 5 making a run for the inside. Why did she ever push him away? At one time, it was something she had to do-for both of their sakes. She was two years older than he was and was bound for prep school and college; his life would be forever tied to the track. By most standards, they were simply too young to really understand the love they felt for each other-they had their whole lives ahead of them. Lives full of promise and far too much at stake to throw it all away. While Taylor threw herself into her studies, Mick pined away for her, heartbroken. Eventually, time eased the pain and loneliness as his role at Hendricks Motorsports grew and Jeff Gordon had taken him under his wing. The time apart allowed both to grow as individuals but Taylor wondered if it had perhaps driven too much of a wedge between them. And she knew the friendship she had developed with Kyle Busch had only deepened the gulf. She had an independent streak in her, no doubt inherited from her strong-willed mother. Any man who wanted her heart, would have to fight for it-one way or another. Still, this was Mick-who had pledged his love for her at the tender age of only thirteen. He had endured more life-altering events in his brief existence than most would endure in a lifetime. He was light-years ahead of most adults in his insight and maturity.
As if reading her thoughts, Sterling nudged her gently, "You know...ol’ Mick still has it bad for you. What the heck do you see in Son of Keebler, anyway?..."
"After I pushed him away like that? I’m surprised he doesn’t hate me. And it’s not what everybody thinks about Kyle...he’s a great guy. He’s smart, funny...just different from most of the guys around here. But that’s it-we’re just friends...Sure we go out but it ain’t serious...." She broke off as a cloud of smoke appeared on the backstretch. "Shit...looks like somebody’s bought it..."
Sterling gave her a leg up on the pit wagon as she grabbed his binoculars. As she struggled to hear what was happening over the PA, Sterling was monitoring the scanner. From their vantage point, it was difficult to see all of what was transpiring on the other side of the track.
Sterling’s brows furrowed, "Sum bitch...speak o’ the devil..."
"What’s happening?" Taylor yelled above the din.
"Pile-up...four cars...sounds like Elliot and Mick just got together and Kyle knocked Mick into the wall....the 5 done got tangled up with Vickers when he slid back down the wall....caution’s out..." He might as well had been talking to himself; Taylor was off and running to the infield care center.
***************
On the track, Kyle had escaped relatively unscathed. The nose of his Chevy was slightly caved in but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with a little pounding from a well-aimed sledgehammer. It was easy to forget that he had also once been a "damned rookie"-seemingly too young to have earned the right to compete at this level. A crimson blur cruising beside him suddenly swerved dangerously close. Looking up, he casually flipped the bird to Dale Earnhardt Jr. "Simmer down, you old fool" Kyle muttered. Junior never did care for him or his brother, Kurt and the fact that he had just wrecked his best friend’s son and he was still dating Taylor did not sit well at all. He cast a glance towards the inside retaining wall as the safety crew began putting the tow truck’s hook under the front axle of the 5; a cocky smirk spreading across his narrow face. So engrossed was Kyle in the activities surrounding his fallen teammate’s car, he failed to notice the tall figure that walked up from the apron.
"Dirty bastard!" Mick snarled as he brought his fist crashing down on the hood of Kyle’s slowly moving car. Startled, Kyle’s face blanched under his helmet face shield but he kept his exterior composure while his very innards were quaking. Two track officials gently but firmly urged Mick back to the ambulance for his ride to the care center. Looking up in his rearview mirror, Kyle swallowed as Mick cast one more furious glare in his direction before he turned away towards the officials. As if to drive home his status as a marked man, the 25 shuddered as Junior pulled alongside with his own warning. As he watched the departing tail of the Budweiser Chevrolet, Kyle muttered, "Fuck....I’ll show ‘em...fuckin’ rednecks are not going to get the best of me!"
"That wasn’t necessary....you didn’t have to hit him." Robbie Loomis’ voice admonished over his radio.
"Tell him I’m sorry and I’m begging forgiveness for my life." Kyle muttered sarcastically.
"Kyle...you’ve both got a nice invitation for a pleasant little get together in Mr. Helton’s neighborhood after the race. So take my advice and be a good boy." Robbie snapped. "We don’t need any more fines from you, got it?"
"Roger dodger, old codger." came the growled reply. Good, he thought, at least Jeffy’s pet project has his ass on the line for once too. Stupid rookie....
*************************************
Forty laps left to go and Kyle now found himself in a rather unpleasant position once again. His car was dying-badly loose and it felt as though he was losing a cylinder. But he was bound and determined he was going to make a pass on the strong-running Napa Chevy. Further ahead, lay a pack of stragglers-cars a lap or more down and tightly bunched; a rolling wreck waiting to happen. Michael made his usual move to the top groove and was moving like a freight train. The 3 wasn’t particularly fast but once it got rolling on those long green flag runs, it was hard to beat. Kyle made his move to the inside; ready and hoping to pass. Furiously, Michael waived him back. Obstinately, the 25 clung to the side of the 3; refusing to give an inch. For a half-dozen more laps, the two raced as if hitched. The 3 began pulling away but Michael was running out of track as the slower vehicles slowly began to close the hole that would put him in contention for the lead. Further ahead, Bobby Labonte and Steven Wallace were at least a lap shy in their fuel mileage and the Napa Chevy had more than enough for the end. Michael was running out of time and he knew it.
Frantically, he made the call to Slugger, "Hey bro...call Robbie and tell him to get that parasite behind me! If I can get to the front, I can take him with me and we’ll both finish good!"
"Way ahead of ya, m’man. I already told Robbie that Kyle needs to get behind ya. Little prick is too stubborn and he ain’t got any car left! He’s just bein’ an A-hole!" Slugger was on the verge of tearing what hair he had left out. It would be a sweet win for the team if they could pull it off.
"Tell ya what..." came Michael’s voice, tight with anger, "If he doesn’t move pretty damn quick, I’m gonna dump his ass!"
"Do whatcha gotta do, bro."
At this point, with the leaders slipping ever further away, Kyle began to get desperate. He should have known better than to hang on Michael like this and now they were both about to get screwed out of a good finish. His thoughts were quickly interrupted as he suddenly felt a sharp bump that almost sent him spinning. The 3 began to pull away again and Kyle doggedly pulled alongside, this time setting his bumper into the side of the Napa Chevy. The opening that could have sent Michael to the front, now closed as Brian Vicker’s car drifted directly in front of them and slowed even more. Furious and frustrated, Michael had no choice but to drop in behind Kyle as the checkered flag waived.
"Finished ahead of you, old man." The words were barely off his lips when a hard jolt from the 3 sent him into the inside wall. As he climbed out of now-smoking car, Kyle was muttering a plethora of condemnations to the driver of the 3. As he walked back to the garage, Michael stepped directly in front of him and stuck one long finger in his face, "Don’t you ever-EVER get underneath me like that again or I swear I’m gonna really hurt you!" he growled. "You just cost us both a good finish!"
Kyle glared and pushed past him, shaking his head. What the hell did Taylor ever see in Mick or his father?
**************************
Mick had just emerged from the care center; a fresh ACE bandage on his hand to remind him of his own foolishness. Hurting, frustrated and simply just wanting to go home and drown a few sorrows, he was inevitably set on by the usual media patrol from MRN and FOX Sports. Being ever his father’s son, Mick immediately put on his best sponsor-friendly face and answered all questions with the polish of a veteran. He had also grown into the role of one of the sport’s newest heartthrobs as a throng of eager and squealing fans gathered for autographs, pictures and perhaps a little more. As tall, dark and handsome as his father with still a soft Gaelic brogue flavored with Southern sweetness, Mick’s presence ignited many a heart. This was one aspect of his profession that Mick hoped he’d never grow weary of as he excused himself from the microphones and turned his attention to his adoring followers.
Taylor watched from a distance, hoping to catch his eye as he busily signed autographs and posed for photos. He looked up for a moment and a brilliant smile flashed her way as his eyes sparkled in recognition. But his expression quickly darkened as Kyle’s voice came from behind her. "Hey! Kurt has room for one more in his helicopter. Let’s head out now and we’ll be back home by 7." Taylor’s heart sank as Mick turned his back away from her as he headed towards Michael’s hauler. With a sigh and a heavy heart, she walked back to the Roush compound with Kyle.
The Tuesday afternoon, following his Atlanta debut, Mick busied himself about the horse barn cleaning out the stalls. He always enjoyed the feeling that good, hard work brought -the feeling of a good sort of being tired. It was always peaceful here; a good place for a man to do some thinking. And he had plenty to think about. He had received a stern warning from Mike Helton regarding his display of anger by confronting Kyle on the track. Yes, he supposed his presence on the apron in front of a line of moving cars could have caused an accident. But he was only letting off a little steam-nobody got punched except Kyle’s car and he ended up with a mildly sprained wrist for his troubles. Sometimes he wondered if the powers that be were only hurting the sport he loved by stifling the drivers under a ton of rules and regulations. When he remembered the stories Michael and his uncle Darrell told him about the fistfights, brawls, and general hell-raising ...now that was racing! How he wished he had been able to grow up in that age; to run with those men who made it all possible.
Sighing, he leaned against the back of Caitlin’s old, white mare Ghost. Looking out the dusty window, he looked out acres of rolling green fields and ancient stone walls. He remembered fondly the long trail rides he and his sister often took. And those lazy, summer rides he took with Taylor. He had tried so hard to move on with his life when she went away to school. He understood how important education was to the Earnhardts-he respected that. He respected her need to experience new adventures, see new kinds of people and experience a life that had nothing to do with racing. Caitlin had done it-she was on her way to becoming a veterinarian. And he loved Taylor enough to let her go but it still didn’t make it any easier. Seeing her again at Atlanta only served to bring all the hurt and longing back. The big mare brought her head around to gently nuzzle his curly hair as if trying to comfort him. Mick patted her nose and swallowed hard, feeling as though there had been a weight placed on his chest.
"Hey you!" Mick looked up towards the sound of the voice and grinned. His old buddy, Steadman Marlin wandered over. "Gotta take DW’s new truck over to Hickory and give ’er a few laps-wanna go?" Stedman was as easy-going as his father and just as likeable. Of medium height and skinny with a mop of sandy hair covering his eyes, he liked nothing better than lazing about on a warm day drowning a few worms over at the crick and drinking beer with Mick. At times, one could suppose that they were just shiftless by nature. But they backed it up on raceday and that was what mattered in their world.
"Sound like a plan, m’man! D goin’ with us?"
Steadman shook his head, "Nah..he’s holed up at Fat Nancy’s with the rest of the Coots." Meaning "The Old Coots"-a congregation of old, retired veterans of the track. This bunch would congregate at a number of venerable watering holes and The Cracker Barrel to discuss everything from soup to nuts, carp about the state of the sport, politics and even did a little card playing from time to time. You had to be invited to be a Coot-not just anybody got to rub elbows with this elite circle. Headed by none other than Bobby Allison, it was years before even old Darrell was allowed. Bad blood between the two was eventually resolved as the years finally mellowed the rancor Bobby felt for his old rival. Darrell grudgingly accepted his belated invite, quoting Groucho Marx, "Normally I wouldn’t join any club that would have me as a member!"
Mick chuckled as he thought about the ass-whupping his beloved uncle would receive from his tough old bird of a wife. "Aunt Stevie’s gonna kill him one of these days. She hates it when he hits the pubs."
"Shit like that done keeps me single, bro...Ain’t no way I’m ever gonna git married!" Steadman fished in his pockets for his keys, "Shoot...we ought to hit The Nail when we get back....shoot some pool and suck down a few long necks." The Rusty Nail was a hot spot for the younger drivers and their girlfriends. Even though it wasn’t far from the main drag in Mooresville, the tourists were kept in line by a strict code of conduct meaning any autograph seekers would be immediately escorted out by one of the burly bouncers who guarded the door like gargoyles. "Speakin’ of gettin’ married...saw Taylor and Weasel Boy..." He screwed up his face in a comic grimace, "Did you see her?"
"Aye...and then the little fuckstick shows up right beside her. Dad’s right-he’s a fuckin’ parasite...." growled Mick as he closed the door of the box stall. "Ach...’nuff of that ...let’s get rollin’!"
*************************************
The run at Hickory was fairly uneventful but fun nonetheless. Steadman also drove for Darrell in the Craftsman Truck Series and was currently 8th in points. He was a natural at slinging the awkward beasts around the small tracks. Mick also enjoyed a few laps but secretly still preferred the more refined handling of the Cup cars. The day was warm, hazy and still young when they finally pulled up in front of the Nail. The joint was packed as the afternoon shift was still ruminating and the happy hour crowd was just starting to congregate. Mick grabbed a couple of burgers and a basket of fries and chicken wings from the kitchen window and made his way back to the little side room reserved for pool. Stedman was already over at the jukebox, playing his usual selection of classic and southern rock.
"Jaysus...do you ever listen to anything other than Lynard Skynard?" Mick laughed as Stedman set a large pitcher of beer on the table.
"Huh....there’s something else out there to listen to?" Stedman crammed a fist full of fries in his mouth. "Shit an‘ dayum...things are greasier than Kurt Busch’s asshole..."
Mick almost choked on his burger, "Shithead! Ya almost made me choke! Thanks for the visual, bunghole!"
"Hey you two beauty queens! Mind if I join your sorry butts?" Brendan Gaughan was already pulling a chair. "Somebody needs to keep you two in line!" Even though he was a seasoned veteran, he still enjoyed rubbing elbows with the young bucks. They continued to trade barbs and down beers as the evening wound down. Eventually, they grew tired of the verbal shenanigans, swapping lies and making passes at the women at the bar.
"Play a round?" Mick was up and popping a few coins in the pool table. "Looser buys next round." Stedman shrugged. He sucked at pool and he knew it-Mick had been playing since he was a boy and knew more tricks than David Copperfield. Brendan had already spied a couple of amply bosomed females and was already on his way over to regale them with his wit and wisdom. Smoothing his dark hair down and sauntering towards the bar, he grinned his flashy Los Vegas smile at his comrades, "Well if you two gentlemen are going to engage in a round of billiards, I guess I’ll just have to entertain these lovely ladies..." Mick and Stedman grunted a reply of sorts and began lining up their next shot.
It was nearly nine when Steadman nudged Mick in the ribs as he took a pull from his beer. "Shit...will you look at that..." he muttered. "Guess who just walked in..."
Mick glanced up from his game and watched Taylor, Kyle and Kurt Busch situate themselves in a booth by the kitchen. "Aye....I’m thinkin’ it’s time for me to be headin’ home before my mouth gets the better of me." He had more than his share to drink and he still was none too pleased with Kyle planting him in the wall, let alone the fact that Taylor was with him. He quietly watched her-she seemed somewhat preoccupied as if she had too much on her mind. Taylor briefly excused herself from her company and walked over to the jukebox. Steadman nudged Mick again.
"Go on...here’s yer chance. Don’t be a pussy..." Mick took glared at him and took another pull from his beer. Quietly, he slipped up behind her.
"Hey..." he said softly. "What are you doing here? Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the track Sunday...."
Not looking up as she continued to browse the selections, Taylor shrugged, "It’s ok. You were pretty occupied with your adoring public."
"My adoring public?? Taylor-that’s my job! I have to be nice to the fans!" Mick was already getting riled. Not five minutes of conversation and he was ready to walk out. "You were pretty occupied yourself!"
"Can you blame me for leaving with Kyle? After the way you treated me?" She tried hard to conceal her smile as she heard him sharply inhale.
"The way I treated YOU?!" he almost shouted. "You’re the one who left ME...!" Taylor turned and grinned as she threw her arms around him.
"Ha! Got ya!" she giggled, smiling that Cheshire smile that he loved and missed so. "Just wanted to get you going, Michael Patrick." Mick stared at her stunned and shook his head as he wrapped her in his embrace.
"Jesus Taylor," he whispered as he buried his face in her hair. "You are possibly the most infuriating, most frustrating..." he brought his lips to hers. "...most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing." The noise, smoke and the Rusty Nail began to fade around them as they held each other for what seemed an eternity. Mick glanced up over at Kyle’s table to see his teammate glaring icily at him. "Uhm...I think your date is getting a little irritated...."
Steadman wandered over and leaned against Mick’s shoulder, "Look at ‘im...seen a better head on a glass of beer!" he snickered. "Here..take my keys, I’ll ride home with Brendan."
Mick already had his arm around Taylor as they slipped out the back door. "Thanks bro!" he called, "I’ll bring your truck to the shop tomorrow!"
"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!" Steadman hollered back, "Or anything that I would!" he grinned. Ain’t love grand?