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The Remaking of Moe McKenna in Race to the Altar

By Gloria Clover

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Pocono Raceway, Pennsylvania

“Don’t be that way, Moe.” Slick Charlie moved to pin her between the stack of tires and the car jack. “One kiss, babe, for the hard-working man.”
Moe McKenna raised her chin and held her smile even though she knew she was out of her league. She was beginning to understand that Charlie got his nickname from more than being the guy who serviced the underside of the racecars. “I would, Charlie.” Except she was afraid he’d want it to go further. If not now, then later. She held up her left hand and wiggled her bare fingers in front of his face. “But I’m holding out for a ring.”
He sucked air and straightened ever so slightly.
Moe found it easier to smile. “I’m a forever kind of girl. And though I think you’re awfully cute—” Cute in the fashion of a Jack Russell terrier, she thought. “—I think you’re still a sowing-wild-oats kind of guy.”
Charlie beamed at this description and straightened even more, giving her much needed breathing, if not moving, space.
When she slid away from the tool that was poking her from behind, Charlie wrapped an arm around her waist.
Moe knew better than to get caught in a partially packed semi-trailer, but when Charlie had offered her a chance to sit in Boedy Sutherland’s #52 racecar, she’d blown off caution. In the two months she’d been traveling the NASCAR circuit, this was the closest she’d been to an actual stock car and the work the crew did in the pits after a race. Often, track guards were gracious to her requests. And Boedy’s own crew had taken to getting her places the average fan couldn’t go, but Moe should have thought twice before following a man into an enclosed space.
The worst part was that if Charlie hadn’t tried to force the request, Moe would have given him a quick kiss of gratitude.
“Forever girl,” Moe mumbled to his chin. She latched onto his fingers gripping her waist, and attempted to pry them off, one at a time.
“Sassy tail,” Charlie said. “You’re no more a forever girl, than I’m Mark Martin. You’re all about the moment. Like me.” He crowded her backward.
Moe fought the tension looming in her chest. She had to stay calm or she was done for. She didn’t want romance in the back of a half-packed semi-trailer. “Not on the jack, Charlie. Not here.”
Any amount of time she could buy would give her a better chance to escape. Soon one of the other crewmembers would bring equipment from the pits.
Charlie dove for his kiss and Moe twisted her face to the left. His lips brushed the skin below her dangling earring and above the tie of her halter-top.
Panic surged through her and she lost herself to its frantic call. Her body stiffened. Her arms straightened, pushing his chest and arching herself over the equipment that was once again poking into her backside.
“Slick!”
The command, the harshness, the recognition of the voice all swept into her. Slick Charlie scurried backward. Relief grabbed for a spot in her heart but washed away in the muddy despair that swirled through her. Why Boedy? Why wasn’t life ever fair? Why did she always have such bad luck?
Boedy could cause more pain and loss to her dignity with a few choice words than all of Charlie’s disrespect had done.
“It’s just Moe.”
Charlie’s comment helped her find her backbone. Just Moe, her foot. She was a person. She should be treated with—
“Get out of here.”
Charlie obeyed the cold command without comment, and Moe made to follow him. She skirted Boedy as far as the crammed semi-trailer allowed. She didn’t have far to go, but she’d have to pass him to get there. He snagged her upper arm before she made it out of the open end of the trailer.
She shuddered.
He dropped her arm and stepped back a pace, effectively blocking her escape. “Moe,” he said and then sighed. “Are you all right?”
She gave a quick nod.
“Look at me.”
The command was back, and Moe found herself obeying without conscious thought. The guy was the biggest bully she’d ever met. Arrogant. Bossy. Complex. One of the most fearless NASCAR drivers she had ever laid eyes on. He enthralled her.
She withstood the scrutiny of his hard, blue gaze and straightened her shoulders.
Whatever he saw, or thought he saw, started a tic in his left jaw. She eased back two paces, making sure he would have to lunge for her before he laid a hand on her again.
“This cannot continue, Moe.” His words were distinct, sharp, and left no room for misinterpretation. “You have to go.”
“Please!” The plea slipped from her mouth before she thought through her defense. “Give me one more chance.”
“I’ve given you too many chances,” he ground out, fingers clenching into fists. “What was going to happen here?” He motioned toward the stack of tires. “Thank God, we don’t know, but now I’ll have to deal with it.”
“Nothing happened.”
“So you say. But how’s Charlie doing? What junk is going through his head? Where does he get rid of the frustration? The shame?”
“He said I was just Moe.” She hated the hurt that slipped into her voice.
“I heard him.” Speaking hadn’t relieved the tic in his jaw. “So was it said to save face? Or did he mean it? Or would he have reined himself in when he realized you were leading him on?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sassy tail!”
Moe gasped.
“You think I don’t hear what they call you? You think I don’t see the extra wiggle you put in your step when you hear it? What would you call it, if it isn’t leading the guys on?”
“Being fun,” Moe whispered miserably.
“And what are you wearing?”
Moe realized Boedy was too angry to hear anything she said in her defense and looked down. White jeans and a red cotton halter-top. It was August in Long Pond, Pennsylvania, home of the Pocono Raceway. Her clothing was suitable for—
“You’re wearing a matador’s red cape to every red-blooded male in the pits—and the red is not flashing STOP. It’s screaming go, go, go.”
“All right,” she muttered sullenly. He was always on her case about what she wore. It was as if he didn’t want her to be pretty.
“I can’t let you destroy my team.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He rubbed his hand around the back of his neck. “Russ and Bobby Ray argued over who would get you past security so that you could stand beside them during the national anthem.”
Luckily Moe swallowed the “Really?” that had made it to the tip of her tongue.
“Hought begged me to keep you off camera. His wife has seen you so many times with him, she’s asking questions.”
Hought, the crew chief, was happily married and Moe’s friend. Nothing more.
“I’m not—”
Again he interrupted her. “I know you don’t mean it, Moe. You just don’t think. It’s like today. However you ended up in here with Charlie, I know it wasn’t with the intent to have at it on the car jack.”
Blood rushed into her face.
“But if you aren’t going to think for yourself, then you’re going to have to listen to someone who knows.”
“Knows what?” she asked, unsure where the conversation was going now that he seemed to have shed the heat of his anger toward her.
“Race protocol. Men. What to wear. Where to go.”
“Who did you have in mind?” Now he was scaring her.
“Anyone, Moe. If you want to stick with my team, you’re going to have to pick one of the guys and obey him. No more playing the field. No more sassy tail. You’ve been dogging us for two months. You know the guys. It’s pathetic to say, but you gotta know you can have your pick. So pick one.”
“I don’t want a lover.” Her heart sank at the thought of what he was asking of her. “I just want to be a part of the team. I want to be here in the rush.” Moe’s college roommate had scraped together the funds to backpack across Europe this summer; Moe had headed for the NASCAR circuit.
He sighed deeply then shook his head. “No. You’re a loose cannon. You’re going to have to leave.”
Just the thought of losing her dream gave her unexpected courage. “You can’t make me leave.”
“I can and I will.” He said it with the same tone of command that he’d used on Charlie.
“You don’t have that much power.”
“I do.”
It had to be bravado. He was just a driver. A good driver. Oh, and the oldest son of racing legend, Kent Sutherland. Of course, the Sutherlands, into their fourth generation of racecar drivers, were the family name in NASCAR following only the Earnhardts and Pettys in awards, applause, and fan worship.
“But, Boedy—”
His fist smashed backward into an engine crate. “You don’t get it. This wasn’t just damage to your pride. Though I’m beginning to doubt much damage there. This is messing with the team. With their performance. Their focus. Even if we could both walk out of here and pretend nothing happened, is that the best for Charlie? And what about tomorrow? Or next week? You are bad news, Moe McKenna, and I don’t have the resources to deal with you any longer.”
Yep. She felt the tears welling. She’d been shredded more thoroughly than if he’d put her in a food processor. She wished she didn’t care. She tried not to. That was always what got her into trouble. She wanted people to like her. She wanted them to find her attractive and fun. Was it really her clothes that made men like her more than women did? And why didn’t Boedy like her at all? She wanted him to notice her, but not like this. But like this was the only way he’d spoken to her in weeks.
Circumstances didn’t matter. This was her dream. He was her hope. He was the one who could make it all happen.
“I pick you, Boedy.” She said it softly to the floor. Then she repeated it louder. “Boedy Sutherland, I pick you.” She raised her gaze to his. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear. But I get to stay, be a part of your team, do something useful.”
For the first time since she’d known him, Moe watched him gasp like a landed fish.
“You, you, what?” He clamped his lips tighter than three cars wide at Watkins Glen.
“You said,” she whispered meekly.
He stepped backward into the sun, away from her.
Moe came forward, pausing at the top of the trailer’s ramp. She blinked and glanced around. No one was near. The stands had emptied. The crew must be cleaning their pit before they closed up the semis. Suddenly she wondered why Boedy was here. Usually after a great race like today, he headed out with his family. Dinner. Laughter. A full recap of the race highlights.
Moe knew, because more than once she had followed them to their restaurant of choice and then weaseled a seat close enough to eavesdrop and enjoy the lively, Sutherland camaraderie.
Usually such a fix could get her through until the next race. Sometimes, however, listening to the love bandied around the table would create an ache that Moe didn’t know how to assuage. Her desire to be a part of that beauty ate at her and wore her down. Some days she was ready to admit defeat. She’d never be accepted or loved in such a fashion.
But, then, out of nowhere, a resilience would form and she would regroup. If Boedy was her destiny, she wanted to give him time to realize it. A summer. Two months ago, that had seemed like plenty of time to catch his eye and win his favor. This morning, when he’d walked by her without even his usual brusque greeting, it had seemed hopeless. Now—she grinned her thousand-watt smile—now she was going places.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Moe, I don’t have time—”
“You said,” she repeated more firmly. He had. She was right in this.
“Not me. Any of the other guys would be pleased to—”
“You won’t expect me to sleep with you in exchange for watching over me.” She knew she had him there. She knew how he was. . .. His beliefs and commitments ran deep. She hadn’t figured it all out yet, but she knew this much and said so, “You won’t be fooled into thinking I’m leading you on.”
He stood taller and glared at her.
She knew he wasn’t angry with her, that he’d never hurt her, and that he was trying to intimidate her into backing down. She wouldn’t. This was the best shot she’d had all summer.
“One more month.” She was whispering again and she wasn’t sure why. Were they hashing out the details of a secret pact? “That’s all I’m asking for. I’ll be so good, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
To her utter surprise, he dipped his chin in silent acquiescence.

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