Rescue Me

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Summary: “He puts his hands on my face, holding me still, and kisses me like he's drowning and he needs this to stay alive. And, hell, maybe he does.”

AUTHOR: Gwen
EMAIL: gwen@cryptoffic.com
RATING: NC-17
CHARACTER: Dale Earnhardt Jr./Tony Stewart, Dale Jr. POV
DISCLAIMER: I only wish I owned these guys. But, I just play with them and put them back, all happy and shiny. They belong to themselves, their families, their sponsors, their fans, their creditors, and NASCAR. And, to each other, in my world. I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place after the Phoenix race. And, I hope that you Jeff Gordan fans don't take offense--none is intended. He won the race, he tied the record. It just all made for a good story line. :)
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Phoenix Desert, April 21st, 2007

It’s getting late and it’s getting cold and there are probably a hundred people looking for me right now, but I can’t seem to give a fuck.

Cause there’s still beer in the bottle, the hood of this car is comfortable, there’s a trillion stars in the sky over my head, and the desert is still and quiet.

And, best of all? I can’t hear Jeff Fucking Gordon’s voice out here. I can’t hear the PA system at the track, blaring out the fact that he tied Daddy’s win record tonight. I can’t hear the press sucking up to him and his fans cheering him on. I can’t hear him making pretty speeches about how much he respects my Dad, while he’s waving a #3 flag over his head.

Hell, I played the corporate game, just like they told me to. I trotted my ass over to Victory Lane, shook his hand, and congratulated him.

Fucker.

Another long swallow of Bud and I guess I should have worn something warmer than this t-shirt, cause nighttime in the desert can be a bitch.

But, I’d done good to grab a shower and change clothes before taking off. All I knew was I couldn’t stay at the track another minute and I needed to run while I had the chance. Too bad for Truex that he’d left this sweet rental where I could get hold of it. He’ll be pissed, for sure.

I knew somebody had to break that record, sometime. The rational part of my brain knows that. And, even though I wouldn’t have ever wanted it to go to Gordon…well, the best man, and all that shit. 

But, it really’s not even him.

It’s just…I’m not ready. Not yet.

I don’t want to let any of it go. I want to hold onto it…all of it…just a little longer.

I didn’t have him long enough. And, I don’t have him now, so at least I want to keep what I can…even the records and titles. I can’t talk to them, or touch them. But they’re part of him and it hurts to let go. And, DEI?? Not without a fucking fight will I let that go. Teresa’s dreaming.

It’s dead quiet out here, and I’m surprised to see headlights coming my way. I thought I’d driven to the end of the fucking world. Or, at least, I’d tried to.

And, it’s a testament to just how many beers I’ve had that I don’t move when the SUV gets closer. If it’s somebody out to cause trouble? Well, bring ‘em the fuck on. If I can’t hit Jeff tonight, I’ll take the next unlucky son of a bitch that gets in front of me.

But, when the vehicle pulls to a stop and the driver cuts the engines and steps out onto the sand, I relax.

Smoke.

Probably the only person in the world who would have kept looking till he found me. And, for sure, the only one in the world I’d be glad to see right now.

I sit up and swing around so I’m sitting sideways on the hood and watch him walk towards me. No hesitation. Confident and sure of his place in my life, and I’m good with that.

He stops in front of me, just inches away. Takes the bottle out of my hand, empties it in one long pull, turns, and fires it in the direction of a huge-ass boulder that’s sticking up out of the sand. We watch it shatter against the rock, breaking into a million tiny pieces. 

It feels good. Solidarity. He’s as mad as me, almost. For one thing, it’s because if I’m pissed, he’s pissed. But, for another, a hell of a lot of people are gonna be saying it was Tony’s win tonight. That’ll be the hot topic on everybody’s agenda for a long time to come--was Hendrick able to pull off buying that last, late caution that laid the race at Gordon’s feet? Who the fuck knows.

He turns back to face me and I hope he’s not considering throwing me next. Tony’s anger management diploma is still sometimes just a piece of paper.

But all he does is lay a hand on my thigh. Warm and heavy through my jeans and it grounds me. I open my legs to give him room, grab onto the tail of his shirt, and pull him closer. Not that he needs any encouragement. He kisses me like he means it. Slides his tongue against mine and lays a hand on my crotch like he’s staking a claim. The back of his neck is warm underneath my hand and I’ve got a death grip on his shirt and, yeah. This is what we need. This…this…us. This one thing we can hang on to that nothing and nobody…not Nascar, not Jeff Fucking Gordon, not Teresa, or anybody else…can take away or screw up. 

Breaks the kiss, licks a long stripe up my throat, presses his hand against my dick, and was that a “growl” in my ear?

Well, whatever the fuck, it’s working cause I shove him back long enough to slide off the car hood and then grab for him again. But, he’s concentrating on my zipper and, as hard as I am, I just hope he don’t nick anything I can’t live without. 

And, they don’t call him Smoke for nothing, cause before I can draw a good breath, my jeans are down and he’s on his knees in the sand and the prettiest mouth in Nascar is wrapped around my cock and I’m seeing all kinds of stars.

I forget about the track. I forget about losing. I forget about Teresa and the titles and the records, cause there’ll be a time for dealing with all that. Right now my world has narrowed and all I know is Tony. And, I could try and dissect that feeling and list all the reasons why he’s the most important person in my life, but it’s fucking hard to concentrate when he’s doing miraculous things to my cock with his tongue.

I’m way too wound up and he’s way too good at what he’s doing for this to last long. All the warning I get is his hands tightening on my thighs, before he swallows and sucks and I’m grabbing his hair and yelling something about Jesus Christ and all his saints and it’s a damn good thing he’s holding me up, or I’d hit the dirt. 

All I can do is stand there, dazed and trying to remember how to breathe, while he tucks me in and zips me up and then he’s up and in front of me, all big, dark eyes and shaggy hair, damp with sweat. 

He puts his hands on my face, holding me still, and kisses me like he’s drowning and he needs this to stay alive. And, hell, maybe he does.

Maybe we both do.

His body is almost thrumming…intense energy and adrenaline that a race always leaves us with, even without all the crap that went along with today’s fiasco, and I’m thinking I better do something quick.

I pull away from him long enough to undo his jeans and take him in hand and I love that quick little gasp and moan he makes.

Tony’s never quiet. Never.

He holds onto me while I’m jacking him. Wet, sloppy kisses that have nothing to do with finesse and a whole lot to do with want and need. Hot, urgent whispers in my ear. Teeth against my neck and, yeah, that’s gonna show tomorrow and screw whoever don’t like it.

Then I tighten my hand around him and he’s pushing against me, his whispers ratchet up a few thousand decibels, and he’s coming like the proverbial freight train.

Coming long and hard and he’s shaking in my arms, so I hold on to him , for long minutes, until we’re both still again.

After, when we’ve wiped off and straightened up and settled down, we’re stretched out on the hood of Truex’s rental, fresh beer in hand. 

Watching the stars and not having to talk about any of it. Knowing that we’ll deal with whatever is there to deal with tomorrow, and we’ll be okay.

We’ll be okay, together.

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Gwen - gwen@cryptoffic.com