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have to answer to the same public relations czars.
Not that image was first and foremost on Kendall s mind. She just didn t want to hear Tuesday s
graphic description of fictional sex with Evan. Why, she wasn t sure. It wasn t like it mattered
anymore who Evan slept with. It hadn t for ten years. But still. Just still.
 I thought you said he probably sucks in bed.
Tuesday dangled her feet off the wall, her boots scuffing the wall.  Oh, I would just make him lie
there while I took whatever I wanted. My submissive sex slave.
 Oh, Lord. Kendall rolled her eyes.  If you think Evan Monroe is down with being submissive,
you need to start wearing a helmet.
 Wearing a helmet when? I m not a driver.
 Wearing a helmet when you re walking because clearly you banged your brains up somehow if
you think that man would just lie there and do what you say.
 And how do you know so much about what Evan Monroe would or wouldn t do?
Kendall couldn t see Tuesday s eyes behind her sunglasses but she recognized that tone. Her friend
was suspicious and tenacious in ferreting out secrets. It s what made her an amazing racing journalist
and gossip blog writer, known online as Tuesday Talladega.
Striving for nonchalance, she fought the urge to tug on the front of her jacket.  Come on, it s
obvious. He s a walking egomaniac alpha male. Like every other driver in the series.
 Mmm-hmm. If I didn t know better, I d think there was more to this story.
God, she was going to blush. Twenty-eight years old and she was going pink in the cheeks.  No
story! And don t you dare write me into your blog, speculating about me, or I will egg your house. I
know where you live, you know.
Tuesday just laughed.  Please. You would not. And you know I won t gossip about your personal
life. Unless it s really, really good.
 That s reassuring. Kendall had read Tuesday s blog many times. Her friend was snarky and
biting and raised questions that got people thinking, and not always in a positive way. She did not
want to be on the receiving end of that wicked pen. Or keyboard, as the case may be.
Shifting on her feet, Kendall gave in and yanked at the front of her fire retardant jumpsuit. She was
starting to sweat. Glancing at the track, she noticed Evan was pulling in to pit and talking to his crew.
His brother, Elec Monroe, was already pulling onto the track in his number 56 car.
 I m kidding, Tuesday said, waving her hand in dismissal.  I do talk about your career, but I have
to. Everyone would notice if I omitted discussing the most intriguing bit of news to hit stock car
racing in years. A female driver in the cup series, hello, it s a major sound bite. But I ll never trash
you, scout s honor. I am a loyal friend.
Tuesday didn t sound offended, but Kendall still felt guilty that she had implied she couldn t trust
Tuesday.  I know. You are a good friend, and I m damn grateful to have you around to keep me sane.
But I don t want to be the biggest news to hit stock car racing just because I have a uterus.
 I don t think it s your uterus most men are concerned with. It s your vagina. Va-jay-jay. Your man
hole.
Nothing like saying it like it was. Kendall was about to tell Tuesday exactly what she thought of the
expression man hole when she heard a strangled laugh from behind her. Great, someone had heard
them.
 Is this what happens when we let a woman driver into the cup series? Instead of chassis and
boiler plate restrictors, we talk uterus and va-jay-jay?
Oh, freaking fabulous. That wasn t just any someone. That was Evan goddamn Monroe. Right
behind her.
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