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Involuntarily, Cade Garrison’s hand jerked, causing his Sharpie to smear a jet black line across the publicity photo he was autographing. Great. NASCAR’s chief cop calling? “I haven’t done anything,” he called back to his sister.
Lately anyway.
“He didn’t say you did. I think he wants to congratulate you on Saturday’s win.”
Wary, Cade capped the marker and walked across his office, where he was spending the afternoon autographing fan memorabilia. He peeked around the edge of the door, eyeing his sister, Rachel, at her desk as she typed on her PC. “You sure?”
“I think,” she said, flicking him an annoyed glance.
“Mmm.” He didn’t think he could take seeing his name attached to a violation of NASCAR rule 12-4-A (actions detrimental to stock car racing) or hear the “you need us a lot more than we need you” speech again. It had been rumored that a continuous betting pool circulated the racing body’s offices in both Daytona Beach and Charlotte, with everyone plotting and profiting on the next time he’d face disciplinary action.
“Don’t be such a chicken,” Rachel said. “What can he do to you that he hasn’t done already?”
“I’m not chicken.” He’d marched back across the office and had picked up the phone before he realized she’d easily goaded him into answering. What had ever possessed him to hire his sister as his manager?
She’s saved your butt a million times and still loves you.
Oh, yeah. There was that.
“John, how are you?” he said into the phone with false cheer.
“I’m good, Cade. I just wanted to congratulate you on your big win Saturday.”
Unaware until that moment that he’d been holding his breath, Cade dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. It was a team effort.”
“And the press conference went well, I hear.”
“You were there, sir?” Cade asked, his voice rising.
“No, but I heard.”
Of course he had. A driver couldn’t sneeze in the garage without somebody noticing it, and—if the driver was him anyway—reporting it. He used to laugh off the scrutiny, but that was before his fall from grace. In the aftermath, he was all too aware of every move, gesture and comment he made. “My sponsor was pleased,” he said neutrally.
“And we all know how important that is, don’t we?”
Refusing to give in to the disappointment that flowed through him, he rolled his shoulder. He’d made a mistake. One he’d definitely paid for. “Yes, sir.”
“Good luck at Nashville.”
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