You Have My Attention

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Summary: Why, yes, I’m bitter about the Busch race, but I’m trying out this ‘optimism’ thing. Thus, this was born. Always look on the bright side of life!

AUTHOR: Samantha
EMAIL: oklahomie00@yahoo.com
RATING: NC-17
CHARACTER: Dale Earnhardt Jr/Michael Waltrip, Michael POV
CATEGORY: Shameless smut, throw in some angst. Also, sugary-sweet.
DISCLAIMER: 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: Well, this was sort of a challenge, but I enjoyed it. Struggle means I’m learning, right? Although not a song-fic, I was listening to Green Day’s "Wake Me Up When September Ends" when I started on this, so that may explain a few things. Also, Michael’s POV.
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Well, goddamn it.

I mean, just…Goddamn it.

There aren’t even words. No man has ever invented up a word for this; there’s not anything to say about me being out of the Busch race this early except—well, you get it. Was it Boris Said? God Almighty, but is he overrated, or what? That boy ought to look out for all our best interests and stay on the dirt tracks. From what I saw, he flat-out wrecked DJ, right in front of me, and gave me nowhere to go. How… selfish of him.

Still, I must be ‘me’ for the cameras, so I plaster on a phony smile and interview about how I’m just so excited about the Best Western Aaron State Farm Whatever Whatever Fill In The Blanks car, how well it was doing, how I’m so excited for the Cup race, and so proud of Buffy for helping me. Blah, blah, blah, it’s the same story I never bother to change. I’m energetic, good ol’ Mikey Waltrip, that youngest Waltrip, the goofy one. I’m the baby, the funny one, the handsome one. I’m Darrel’s younger brother, I’m the one that won that race Senior died in. I’m up beat, perky, hilariously dumb. I’m all these things I am not, and I’m too far in to ever be me again.

And sometimes, this inevitable truth just depresses the hell out of me.

So I congratulate the crew, stupid smile still plastered on. Because I’m optimistic, remember? I shake hands and hug Tony Jr. – who is there just for the convention of it -- and we kid about work and racing and beer, and trucks, because this is always what we talk about. It’s always the same day, over and over, until I’m either dead or I quit, become a recluse, whatever. It’s just like the ad says, Every Day Is Race Day. Sometimes it’s the race for the cup, race to save a sham of a marriage, race to support your family, race to stay alive. Only, I never win, even if I do.

I change in the bathroom into a dark polo shirt and jeans, Levi’s, and I manage to do something with my hair. Like I’m trying to fucking impress someone.

I’m certain existentialism is supposed to happen around this point in my life, but aren’t I supposed to buy a Charger and get over it? Well… I guess, when you race them for a living is when it gets fuzzy. The one thing I’m good at is the one thing keeping me from being happy. Fan-fucking-tastic.

So when I trudge into the infield, eyes fixated on the increasingly interesting ground, I’m surprised by his hand on my shoulder.

Junior.

Well, now, this is a horse of a different color, him coming to see me. Our minimal interaction should by all means be even lower by now, but he’s been showing up more and more the past few days. Maybe something’s up?

"Oh, hey, Junior," I remark. I can’t say I want to chat it up with him right now, I’m having a fit of depression wash over me just looking at him. Him, with his boyish good looks. Him, with his famous name. Him, a legacy without even trying. He probably couldn’t last a day without some random woman offering herself up like a blooming onion at the Outback. He’d suck at being me.

Junior does not read my mind, so he says, "You okay?" It kills me that I’m hating him while he’s actually concerned. Another thing to put on a growing list.

"No, I’m fine." It’s not exactly a lie, relatively-speaking. I think I’m in excellent shape, so I’m okay.

"Man, come on, it’s all over your face. Tell me about it." Well now, did Junior just read me? Has hell really frozen over? I smile, just at the absurdity. Junior feels my pain, like he really gets me. "Let me help," he finishes. Oh, it’s one of those things. He pities me. Well, fine, I think by now I’m the perfect candidate for pity. Let him feel as sorry for me as he wants.

"Yeah, come on in, though. I’m tired as all get out."

I realize Buffy will not be in the coach, nor Macy, as both are with DeLana Harvick, watching the race with her. So… It’ll just be me and him. That’s an interesting prospect, him and I doing the whole buddy pal deal. It’s never happened before, why does he want it to happen now? Junior confuses the hell out of me sometimes.

So in we trot, Junior in street clothes, a blue tee shirt with ‘Snap-On’ on it, and blue jeans. Probably Wranglers, he’s such a sponsors whore. Which is good, because he probably learned it off DW and me. We’re real bad over that. So at least I have a legacy, no matter how tiny and insignificant. Good for me.

I grab a Coors Lite, distinct in my selection, out from our fridge. I want to see if I’m right, and that he’ll balk and choose thirst. Surprisingly, maybe to both parties, he does not, but instead chugs the beer like he’s expecting there to be a 100 dollar bill at the bottom. He crushes the can when he’s done. I sip my own Coors, proud of myself for kicking that sobriety habit. I supply Junior with the rest of my can, now just testing his limits. It’s one thing to split a Miller with Rusty during a rain delay when neither of you are supposed to drink—it’s quite another to just chug the last half of another guy’s beer, just because he offered it. But, Junior does, and then down’s another beer. All this takes up about 10 minutes, neither of us saying anything.

"You know, in Japan." There’s a definitive end there, so that I will push on.

"In Japan?"

"Yep. In Japan, when you drink from the same glass as someone, they call it an indirect kiss." Junior smiles at the thin air, like this is the best news he’s gotten.

"Okay. So?"

"So, we? We just indirect kissed."

It’s obviously the alcohol, everyone knows Junior’s the easiest drunk either side of the Mississippi.

So, drunk Junior has downed another, making that 3½. He finally looks up at me. "So I wanted to talk to you." He hops up onto the counter and motions for me to do the same, but I instead lean against it, so we’re pretty much level. "I wanted to talk to you about Martin. You know, Truex." I nod. "What’s up with Martin, man?" Now I am on my second Coors, so I have no qualms answering this one.

"He’s kind of an asshole."

Junior doesn’t freak. That’s as surprising as the rest of all this, that he doesn’t straight-up leave. Instead, he shrugs, looks at the ring of beer that’s always left on the top of the can. He swishes it around for a while, then whispers, "Yeah," so that it’s barely audible. "Yeah, he is." Then, the last of beer number four is gone. Junior does not reach for another, but instead lowers himself off the counter, out of the kitchen, and onto the couch. I follow, careful to mind all the glassware.

"So, he finally break your heart?"

It’s not like I didn’t know they were going at it, almost from the very beginning. Junior’s no good at secrets, so I was really careful about making sure the media couldn’t catch some of their crazy shit. Little things, too, like a hand on an arm, how they always touch each other’s face, I had to balance it out and double up on being effeminate. Y’know… "How can you say Junior’s gay, you seen that teammate of his?"-type stuff. And I’m not about to guilt Junior. It was a favor.

But now, with him sitting on my couch looking dejected – which I now realize, that’s what’s wrong – I wish I hadn’t. I wish the media had found out. I wish they would lynch Truex, skin him alive, because he hurt Junior. After all I did to make sure this wouldn’t happen, it did, Martin Truex hurt the only thing that really matters. To me. And it’s with this revelation that I sit down next to him. And, might I say, he is shocked. I guess he imagined he was good at lying. "How’d you… How’d you know?" I smile. He’s so dumb.

"It’s hard not to know some things."

Junior is flabbergasted in every sense of the word. He runs a hand through his hair. "How long?" I have to think.

"Probably since he started, in all truth. Y’all always seemed to have a thing going." Junior’s look of confusion quickly turns into panic. "You won’t tell a soul—"

"Boy," I say flatly. "You think I’d wait this long to say anything?" Junior looks to agree, because he settles back into the couch, looking dazed.

"So what’d he do to you?"

"Do you honestly want to know?" I nod. Junior tenses up, like he expected me to say no. I’m still wanting to wring that Truex’s neck as he says,

"Well, see… Um, this is embarrassing."

"You think I care? Continue."

"We… Normally, we’d hook up after qualifying but before the Busch race."

I blush at how candid Junior is being with me. I was expecting some abbreviated cliff-notes of the situation.

"Well, I went to go see him, and there was… Reed was there."

I’m shocked, so I can’t help it when I spit out, "Reed? Sorenson?" Junior just nods. "Reed and Martin were… together?" Again, Junior nods, looking hurt. I awkwardly pat his shoulder, unsure of what to do with this newfound knowledge. Junior has more to say.

"They were making out, the kind of hot-and heavy type." My blush deepens as I nod. "And, I called out Martin’s name, and Reed freaked and booked it out of there. So, I guess I flipped out, because Martin, he kept saying, ‘Baby, it doesn’t matter’ over and over and—" Junior’s voice cracks, so he lowers his head and takes a ragged breath. "And I was just so furious, I kept asking how he could do this to me. But he just kept grabbing at me, telling me he loved me, and it… It was so degrading. That’s what happened to so much work… He screwed it all up to be with some rookie driver he just met." Junior spat out the last few words. I pull him into a hug, a default for this kind of situation dating back to being the College Guy Friend. It lasts maybe ten seconds, before we slowly pull away, Junior now facing me. He looks red, and puffy-ish, but still like Junior.

"Do you need me to go kick his ass?"

This causes Junior to laugh, a hollow pithy laugh, but nonetheless a laugh. "If you can wreck him without getting black-flagged, I’d appreciate it."

"Hey, yeah, you gonna be able to get into a stock car tomorrow and race?"

"Yeah, don’t you worry about me, I’m not the one crashing all over the place."

"I’m out of your hair in 2006, so you need not fret."

Junior looks up at me.

"Sorry about that."

And just like that, like it’s the next natural step, he butterfly-kisses me. I mean, not like I didn’t want it to happen, but that’s awful fucking abrupt, you know? He looks abrasive, but my lack of loosing my shit gives him courage enough to do it again, harder, this time wrapping his fee arm around me.

For that blissful few seconds, I can just not give a fuck and kiss him back. I need this as much as him. He breaks the kiss to breathe my name, but now I want, I’m ready, so I grab him back and silence him. Time for me to get what I want, finally, because I’m damn tired of waiting. He wraps his hand around my waist. And this is probably as far as this is going to go, but we both hurt too bad for anything else to work. So this doesn’t need to mean a lot. I found my own damn loophole in God’s plan—Junior.

So his hand on my stomach is like a Band-Aid, and his kisses on my neck heal me. This is real, this is important, this is life-altering. Now, maybe, I can feel. This is my legacy, this is what I’ve got, and I don’t need anything else.

Junior.

That’s the name on my lips. That’s the weight on top of me. I feel him, hot and desperate, trailing his kisses down my abdomen, probably some technique he picked up from Martin. And God, that Martin had him for so long pisses me off, but now he’s mine; he doesn’t want him, he wants me. He came to me, at the end of the day. I’m his comfort. I’m his trust.

Now it’s only denim and cotton separating him from me, and he’s anxiously tugging at the button fly I cleverly chose to fit this situation, and I’m slow, because I just realized what he’s planning. And, well… How long has it been since I got a blowjob? Now I’m anxious, because counting back it’s been a good ten years.

When Junior finally gets to me, he doesn’t seem to have a second thought about deep-throating me, which throws me off, because damn he’s good. Buffy was never particularly excellent, and any past girlfriends where pretty bad because of their inexperience, but Junior knows exactly what to do. It’s almost a disappointment when release does come.

Almost.

Junior’s hot kiss tells me everything, how much he needed this, how much he continues to need this as he tugs at his own jeans. I realize he wants the same treatment, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll be any good at this. Junior’s the first guy I’ve been with. I sheepishly tell him this in between kisses, so that he settles to guide my hand down and let it do the work. Now, this, I’ve had to be good at, and within minutes Junior’s seed spills all over me, my waist, my hand.

And we laugh, because that’s going to be a bitch to clean up, and we both know it.

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Samantha - oklahomie00@yahoo.com