Tex was a sports car with fenders that went on for miles. The shiny black paint job she was fond of wearing made his engine thrum. She was driving by him with her racing team, sponsored by Freelancer Office Supplies. Church saw her glance at him; his cobalt paint job must have caught her eye.

He was still racing on the local circuit on weekends, but he worked for the support staff of the Freelancer team as his main job. Tex's eyes lingered on him for only a moment; he knew the way she disdained him for hesitating when they were both offered the chance to race on the national circuit. By the time he had decided to make the move with her, it had been too late. So he had to settle for helping to load the trailers and prepare the pits before each race.

He sighed as she passed him by, without giving him a second glance. As if a little coupe like him ever had a real chance to be with a hot car like her. He started going about his duties, but slowly, so he could watch her as she did her practice lap around the track. She never gave him another glance, but he knew that look on her hood. She knew when he was watching her and it made her extend those fenders just a little more, raise her chassis slightly so he could get a look at her tires. She liked to toy with him. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he liked it when she did.

"Ready to lose today, dirtbag?" Sarge, the crew chief for the Red Hot Mufflers racing team, was a gruff old pickup, painted a bright red. He was one of the most loyal to his brand that Church had ever known—almost to the point of fanaticism. As big as racing was, it was still only a sport. Sarge's over-enthusiasm often made Church wonder just what kind of brain injury he had suffered back in his army days.

"Shut up, you old commie red," Church shot back. He was used to all the trash talk, but he had picked the wrong insult today. Sarge bristled, his tailgate dropping a bit to slam shut again dramatically.

"I'll have you know I fought against commies before your chassis was even bolted together!" Sarge bellowed. "Red Hot Mufflers is a brand, and being red is a matter of pride for our team! You don't even paint yourself in your team colors, you little traitor!"

Chuch ignored the old truck, though he heard Simmons, a low-slung maroon sedan, babbling in praise of Sarge's superiority in insulting him. Simmons was such a kiss-tailpipe. "You're so right, Sarge, sir! It's important to show team support through paint colors. It's good for team morale and for rooting on our racers."

"That's enough, Simmons. Go find Grif. All the other forklifts are here at the ready. I think he went and hid in the trailer to take a nap—again!"

Soon the Freelancer Office Supply pit stop area was all stocked with tires and gas and Church was able to head to the inside of the track to watch his girl race. He only regretted that he wasn't a fork-lift during races so he could touch her tires whenever she made a pit stop. Or maybe it would be better to be on the detail crew, so he could polish her fenders and her headlights. The fantasy lasted only a moment, but he felt his hood heat up and he quickly distracted his thoughts from it. She hadn't let him get that close to her—not in that way—in a long time. Not since she had made the move to become a big-time racer on the national circuit and left him behind.

He watched her waiting in anticipation for the pace car to begin its circuit. She was so restless before a race, her fenders quivering in excitement, revving her engine. She loved racing, loved the thrill and the danger inherent in the high speeds.

Now it was main event time. The pace car had led the group around the track, the green flag had flown, and she was in her element. Church couldn't take his eyes off of her. She glided into the pits for a tire change and Church saw Tucker give him a glance of satisfaction. Tucker didn't deserve to be a forklift. It was so unfair. Later, Church knew, Tucker would come up to him and brag that he had changed Tex's tires that day. He liked to think he was so original when he made innuendoes about her treads, always crowing his punch-line as though Church didn't know it was coming. Tucker had so little imagination.

It was getting closer to the end of the race and Tex was really close to the lead now. She had never won first place yet, and Church knew that was her number one goal. He'd watched her make more and more risks to try and make it happen. It made him nervous, some of the moves he saw her make. Now she was nearly hood-to-hood with her main rival. O'Malley. Church hated the sight of that car. He had such a temper, but he had this penchant for eyeballing Tex's quarter panels in a way that Church couldn't stand. He still felt possessive of her, even though he had no reason to be jealous since she had broken up with him.

Church didn't know how he saw the intention in O'Malley's motions that day—how he could tell from his darting to the side that O'Malley had something truly evil planned—but as soon as he saw what O'Malley was preparing to do he lunged forward to plant his tires on the chainlink fence. "Tex!" he screamed.

There was no way to warn her. O'Malley's feint had fooled her, and as she prepared to pass him he dodged back into his lane. And that was when it happened. For Church it was as though it happened in slow motion—the little black sports car tumbling end over end, vaulting over O'Malley as he cackled, her descent into the sidewall, and the sickening crunch as she came to a stop.

He was helpless to do anything for her, being on the other side of the fence and the track. He could do nothing but wait in despair to learn whether she would be all right.

That, and plan how his payback would come.