Avoidable Contact Read Online Free Page B

REMAINING
    â€œGreen, green, green! We are green for the 24 Hours of Daytona!”
    All eyes in Daytona International Speedway focused on the sixty-eight racecars sweeping under the green flag. They crossed the start/finish line as the official clock began its twenty-four hour countdown.
    Every one of the hundred-plus people packed into the Sandham Swift tent strained to monitor each twitch and bobble of our Corvettes as they negotiated the melee. I exhaled, my release of tension echoed up and down pit lane. The field got through the narrow, tricky Turn 1 with no accidents.
    Holly grabbed my arm. Someone else pointed at the camera feed showing two prototypes shoving each other through Turn 2—only two cars ahead of Mike.
    The cars slid off-track driver’s left at the approach to Turn 3, the right-handed International Horseshoe. Mike and the rest of the sportscars checked up but weren’t impeded. We breathed again.
    Mike fought for position. Still second in class. Dogging the back of the BMW on the GTLM pole.
    â€œEasy,” I muttered. “It’s only the first lap.”
    As if he’d heard me, the half a car length between Corvette and BMW widened as both cars powered through the Kink, Turn 4, a flat-out, left-hand bend in the track’s inner loop or infield section.
    Through the West Horseshoe, Turn 5. One of the prototypes forced off two turns prior sliced through the GTs on his way back to the front. The prototype dove under our 29 Corvette, and a mechanic next to me growled, “Careful there, you sumbitch.”
    I laughed, provoking a sheepish grin from the mechanic. Daytona was big enough that unless the cars were all on the front stretch, or a car was directly in front of us making a pit stop, we could carry on conversations—and sometimes hear under-the-breath mutterings.
    Someone leaned over me to point at one of the screens. The lead BMW had bobbled under braking. Distracted? Missed a shift? Whatever the cause, he drifted wide approaching Turn 6, the left-hander that transitioned from the inner loop to the banked oval track. I tensed as Mike pounced, slipping under him and scooting away into the lead.
    â€œWoohoo!” We all cheered. I high-fived everyone around me. Regardless of what happened in the next twenty-four hours, we’d made a small mark on the race. Heavy emotion settled back on my shoulders, and I felt a flash of guilt for being happy while Stuart was hurt. I focused on the monitors.
    Mike had clear road in front of him and the BMW on his tail as he hurtled through the thirty-one degree banking of NASCAR Turns 1 and 2, the oval part of the famed pavement that hosts the Daytona 500. Clean through the Bus Stop—the left-right-right-left wiggle two-thirds of the way down the backstretch, designed to slow us before we reached the other end of the NASCAR oval. Then Mike swung back onto the banking of NASCAR Turns 3 and 4.
    He shot past a prototype slowed by a sagging rear tire. The BMW remained tucked up close behind Mike as the pavement leveled out to an eighteen-degree tilt in the tri-oval, the pointy bit in the middle of the front straight. Corvette and BMW flashed under the starter’s stand. They barreled down to Turn 1 to start the second lap.
    My heart pounded as I watched. Counting down to the braking point in my head, downshifting with Mike. Clear off the oval track banking and into the infield through Turn 1. Turn 2. BMW still behind him but not able to make a move. Turn 3.
    I rolled my shoulders. Looked at the clock: 23:58 hours left. Relax, Kate. Another six or seven hundred laps to go.
    By the fourth lap, the cluster of people in front of the monitors began to break up. Some of the adrenaline dissipated, and crew members wandered off. They prepped for the first round of pit stops, straightened or coiled hoses, and tidied “hospitality world,” the three folding tables laden with food in the corner. Holly moved to stand in the entryway of