Page 3 of Down & Dirty

“Micah needs both his parents,” I said, hating every second of this conversation. “And he loves seeing his grandparents. We’re lucky they made the trip from California to Maryland, so we’d like to make sure they get some time.”

Tommy shoved the door open and jostled the trailer as he descended the stairs. The white T-shirt he wore sported a shotty screen print of his own face, the cheeky grin he used to win me over back when we were kids emblazoned across his chest like a warning sign I was too young and foolish to understand back then. His frosty box-blond hair fell in his eyes as he leveled mewith a petulant glare. “They came to see your brother’s race. Don’t act like they’re here for Micah.”

A quick glance behind him showed Micah was still inside packing his tiny backpack and I let out a muffled curse. “It’s not a competition, Tommy. Two things can be true at the same time.”

My parents adored my son. His father, on the other hand...

But still, they’d always done their part to keep things civil. We’d never been married, and our arrangement on custody worked since I was on the racing circuit with my little brother, Ronnie, most of the year. We all knew that Tommy was the least stable variable in our delicate arrangement.

“Don’t shrink me, Sky,” he grumbled, wrapping an arm around Geena’s shoulders. “He’s packing up his stuff. Just chill out.”

I’d chilled out for half an hour. After getting there a half hour later than we’d agreed because I knew better. I was hungry, tired, and annoyed. If I was any more chill, I’d be on ice.

“Mommy!” Micah squealed, as he burst from the trailer and leapt down the stairs, his pants sporting new grass stains on the knees and marker all over his hands. He wrapped my legs in a bear hug that was getting stronger by the day, and looked up at me with eyes the same shade of blue as my own. “Imissed you.” For a five-year-old, he was an ace at the guilt trip.

And I didn’t have any doubts about where he’d learned that little skill.

“Me, too, bud,” I said, knowing full well it had only been a day since I’d seen him. I took his backpack from him, opening the front pouch to make sure his inhaler was still in the right spot. Micah’s asthma had been acting up more and more, and seeing the rescue medicine there settled a rattle of nerves I’d grown used to whenever I was away from him.

“We’ll see you in a couple of days at Crawfordsville, okay, little man?”

My son knew the names of the towns we traveled to for racesabout as well as he knew calculus. But he nodded emphatically as he gave his father and Geena each hugs.

“See you in Indiana,” I said, with a nod as I took Micah’s hand and led him toward my car.

“Mommy,” he said as soon as we’d climbed inside and he was buckled in. “Guess what daddy got me.”

I braced myself. Tommy had a bad habit of giving Micah gifts that I’d have to take away. A paintball gun in the hands of a five-year-old was a bit much, even for a woman like me, who’d grown up around motocross and hunting.

“What, sweetheart?” I asked, putting the car in gear and keeping my eyes on the road so he wouldn’t see the aggravation on my face.

“A paint set.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a long thin watercolor palette, holding it up so I could see the slurry of colors dripping out of the plastic cover.

“Wow. That’s great.” I forced myself to look back at the road and not the colored droplets streaking down my center console.

“Dad said if I couldn’t shoot paints, I should at least be able to make pictures with them.”

Of course he’d said that. Nothing had ever sounded more like Tommy Bridges, motocross wonder kid and champion pain in my ass.

“I bet you’ll make some really pretty pictures with that.”

“I made one for Grammie and Grumps.” He fisted a page of watercolor paper in his chubby little hand and I tried to see it in the dashboard light.

I had no idea what it was. “Looks great, kiddo.”

We’d arrived at the hotel my parents had booked us all into for the night. This place had an indoor pool and breakfast in the morning. There was even art on the walls that hadn’t been fished from a dumpster. It was a far cry from the side-of-the-highway, polyester blanket type of joint I would have chosen, and Ronnie would have been fine in his trailer. But Grant Stone wasn’t about to let his family stay in a fleabag motel.

And I wasn’t about to tell him how often we did just that so I could pocket some extra cash.

My job was to keep Ronnie from railroading his own career on the motocross circuit. I was essentially his assistant-slash-agent-slash-lawyer-slash-babysitter. And my dad helped supplement what Ronnie paid me to keep us afloat. Once Ronnie got a few endorsements, we’d be in better shape, but for now, things were what they were.

“There’s my boy!” My father bellowed from the living room of the hotel suite as we entered.

Ronnie rolled his eyes at my father’s greeting for Micah. He went over the top to make sure my son felt loved, and I adored him for it. Ronnie was a big boy and he got it. Most of the time.

“Grumpy!”

It took all of two seconds for the dripping watercolor palette to make another appearance and I watched with a laugh as my mother swooped in with some paper towel and a dirty look in my direction.

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