Chapter 5
Canaan
Sound-reduction headphones covered my ears in the middle of my pit crew.
I meditated while they performed last-minute checks on my car.
I needed absolute quiet when I was preparing to race—an often impossible, unachievable feat in the middle of a pit at a NASCAR race.
Yet, I had earphones specially made to block out all noise.
Once I slipped the soft cushion securely around my ears, I transitioned into another realm where peace and serenity reigned in the middle of chaos.
Mama G taught me the power of mindfulness.
I’d been hyperactive and on medications that only worsened my behavior as a child.
After moving in with my grandparents on the island, Mama G immediately stripped me of my ADHD meds.
She taught me to settle myself using mindfulness and breathing.
On the days when meditation didn’t work, I cleaned inside and outside our family home until my ball of energy was spent.
The mechanic shop Pops owned soon became my place of refuge as he taught me the fundamentals of automobiles.
A quick learner, I could diagnose and repair any car, even those deemed irreparable.
As a teen on the islands, I discovered the excitement and thrill of auto racing tempered my battle with restlessness.
I’d also learned that my ability to concentrate and focus was integral to my success and survival on and off the track.
I understood and lived by the creed that the most fragile part of my car was me.
Whenever I slipped inside my vibrant blue Next Generation Ford Mustang, an unexplainable force would descend over me, and I would become one with my car.
We were partners on and off the track. I devoted hours to tinkering with parts and researching innovative techniques and equipment to build the most powerful race machine.
Years of watching and helping my grandfather repair cars had led to my career, my passion.
I would be remembered in racing history even if it killed me.
As I inhaled and exhaled slowly, envisioning myself on the tropical beach of Barbados, the stress and jittery nerves dissipated in the air.
The inviting blue-green waters of the Caribbean Sea and the smell of the salt beckoned me .
. . imagine the taste of her lips, the feel of her soft, supple skin under my firmness.
My eyes popped open. Fuck. That witch Kensie, who managed to captivate me and get under my skin, invaded my dreams and meditation.
I couldn’t afford distractions. Distractions could lead to my death.
I checked the time on my specially equipped watch, which monitored my temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, and the G-force of the speed on my body.
Good. I had about an hour before the race.
I excused myself to go to the lounge area to try meditating again.
A change of scenery usually worked, and I prayed today wasn’t the exception.
I wouldn’t allow Kensie to disturb my world anymore.
I had too much at stake to waste time on love.
I knew part of the reason I couldn’t stop thinking about her was a bruised ego because I’d never been rejected, especially after the passion we shared.
The other, much scarier, part was that I thought we connected beyond the physical and wanted more of her.
No.
Obsessing about that woman would end today. It had been three days since I’d teased her in the restaurant, and she still hadn’t called me to explain about the leaked video. And I refused to acknowledge her weak-ass text.
I signaled to Malcolm that I was headed inside. He was my pit crew chief and best friend, who had his own set of headphones to guide me while I raced and to be in contact with the crew. Malcolm nodded absentmindedly, bent over the engine, ensuring my Mustang was in top form.
One of my crew rushed to me as I pushed my headphones off my ears and around my neck and headed away from the pit. “It’s your father.”
I continued to walk. “I’ll call him later.” I didn’t have time for a disappointed and unsupportive father who probably heard about the sex video.
“He said he’s pulling the plug on your racing if you don’t answer.”
I cursed, grabbed the phone from this crew’s hand, and stormed away. “Do you know what I’m about to do right now?” I asked when my father’s raspy voice greeted me, although my father didn’t respect my career in motorsports and had never attended a race.
I’d become one of the world’s top NASCAR drivers, and my father had never uttered a word of pride or congratulations on my extraordinary achievements.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Excellence was expected, not praised.
I’d opted out of college graduation, though I would have graduated in the top ten, because my father had no plans to attend.
Instead, he decided to give me half of J Oil Industries as his graduation gift.
I’d never told my father, but I would’ve preferred his words of praise, love, and unconditional acceptance.
“Judging from the noise, about to race with a car I didn’t authorize. The company is not shelling out millions for a damn race,” he growled.
“Half that company is mine. Don’t forget I made the company fifty million dollars three years ago when I tweaked one of the pipeline designs. We have more than enough money to afford my dream.” I stalked toward the stands, desperate to regain peace.
“I only gave you half because I thought that would make you join the fold.”
“I own half because my ideas also made the company a billion-dollar entity. Don’t act like I didn’t deserve it.
” Negative emotions swirled while I spoke with my father.
I took deep breaths, trying to remain calm despite the turbulence.
At least he didn’t know about the video.
“My Mustang is fully sponsored and costs our company no money. The money is for my crew. The 1995 Ferrari V12 our company bought will make history with me driving, if you even care.” I’d just purchased the four-million-dollar car in anticipation of practicing for a Formula One race.
I could always resell it later for a higher price once I won.
The 2023 V12 Ferrari wanted me to use would cost Ferrari fifteen million, and I wanted as close an approximation as possible to practice with.
“I do care when your spending affects the bottom line. J Oil Industries isn’t backing your foolish dreams anymore,” he shouted.
“J Oil Industries is representing the fastest cars in the world. You’re too stuck in your ways to see how my name in this racing world is the best advertising for our Black-owned company.”
“No one cares whether you win a damn race,” he snapped.
The disdain and total lack of interest in me only stoked my ire.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear and hissed, “In less than an hour, I’m about to compete in one of the biggest races of my career, and you’re calling me on bull.
If you pull the company as a sponsor, I swear I will sue you for breach of contract and win millions, in addition to the money you think you’re losing. Now, can I go?”
Dead silence met my question. I threw the phone hard, breaking it, uncaring now if anyone saw me. I hissed at the crew member who gave me the phone. “God himself better be on the other line the next time you interrupt me while I’m preparing for a race, or you’re fired. Understood?”
The younger man nodded, hurried back to the pit, and I trudged ahead across the track.
Great. I needed to rid myself of my father’s negative energy and my inherent restlessness with very little time.
A few fans screamed my name when I neared the stands.
Without looking at anyone in particular, I waved and smiled.
Politeness, even when I’m in a dark mood, was expected.
More than ever, I needed my quiet, and the longer it took to quell my restless spirit and nervousness, the greater the risk became.
As I entered the pathway behind the stands, a familiar woman’s voice yelled, “Canaan Jackson, answer your damn phone.”
I glanced up and zeroed in on the direction of her voice. The sight of her face stopped me cold.
Kensie Garrett.
The people around her cheered in encouragement as she gestured for me to check my cell. I yelled over the noise, “I’ll get a team member to get you once the race ends.”
She smiled in gratitude before she cupped her mouth and howled, “You got this.”
I nodded, unsure how to feel that the only woman to vex me stood a few feet away.
The relief on her face when I told her I would meet her was evident, and I wondered whether she had traveled here to apologize.
Or was it to garner more attention and fame?
Regardless of her motives, I no longer needed to meditate.
Her presence allayed any qualms, doubts, or fears about winning the race.
Now with clarity, I headed to the lounge, an extra swag in my stride. I would win.
And one sexy Kensie would be my prize.