In It For the Money Read online

  In It For The Money

  By

  CATHY PERKINS

  Copyright © 2018 Catherine Perkins

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author or the publisher.

  ISBN – 10: 1942003080

  ISBN – 13: 978-1942003083

  Edited by Nina Bruhns

  Cover by Gwen Phifer Campbell-Cook

  Red Mountain Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Mud on the Tires (Brad Paisley)

  A truck engine revved with a throaty growl. The crowd surrounding the obstacle course roared in response.

  Holly Price paused between two of the vendor stalls and glanced toward the boulder-strewn hillside course. What would her peers at Falcon, Inc., the Seattle-based mergers and acquisitions company where she’d worked for years, say if they saw her now? They already thought she was crazy for taking a leave of absence, crossing the Cascade Mountains into the wilds of eastern Washington, and rescuing the family’s accounting practice after her father bailed out. Finding out she was at Boulder Bounders—a Rockcrawler event—would have her declared certifiably insane.

  The sudden stir of activity caught her attention. “Another truck—oops, I mean, rig—must be starting.”

  Her friend, Laurie Gordon, braced her crutches as a group of men rushed past. “What was your first clue? The noise or the mass exodus of men?”

  “Come on, let's go watch.” Holly followed the stampede. “It's opening day. We should be supportive.” In this small town, she’d quickly learned professional service people got much more involved with clients' personal lives. Ergo, her presence at this insane truck gig.

  At least she was only expected to show up today instead of for the entire week of events. Although she probably should put next weekend’s closing events on her calendar.

  The truck at the starting zone again revved its engine. Laurie winced and shook her head. Her new orange streak glowed in the fall sunlight. Last month’s bit of bright blue hair had been replaced with a shocking orange band, which played up her bright blue eyes. Orange for Thanksgiving, Laurie had explained. “Tell me again. Why am I here?”

  “Since George Chen is one of the sponsors, I have to be here. You’re my friend and I need someone to hang out with.”

  “Who’s George Chen?”

  “He owns Cascade Precision. My client,” Holly added, noticing Laurie’s blank look. “George is manufacturing my cousin’s new suspension.”

  “Okay. Let’s go watch. At least the people-watching should be better on the course than it is here on Retail Row.” Laurie wrestled her crutches around the guy wires of a vendor tent. “Is there anything for sale that doesn’t involve oversized car parts?”

  Holly eyed a display of T-shirts...and the plastic models wearing them. “There are the oversized boobs.”

  “If I didn’t need my hands for the crutches, I’d smack you.” Laurie rolled her eyes.

  Beyond the last vendor booth, Holly saw another jacked-up truck rumble toward the enormous pile of boulders that marked the start of the rockcrawler course. The crowd shifted, watching the truck’s progress up the torturous 45-degree angle.

  Just past a short series of tented seating—the sponsors’ section and some “premium seats”—an array of parked pickup trucks overflowed the designated parking area. Men—and a few women—stood in the beds for an elevated view. More than one person had climbed onto the top of the truck’s cab. The coolers and grills gave new meaning to the term “tailgate party.”

  Determined to stay positive, Holly waved a hand at the crowded areas beside the course. She wasn’t sure what to call the space. The stands? Infield? Peanut gallery? “Trucks climbing over rocks may be nuts, but this is fun. It’s like a big party.”

  “Clearly, you don’t get out enough,” Laurie said dryly.

  “Maybe.”

  Probably.

  “‘Course, when you told me rockcrawling was a big deal, I about laughed my ass off. I mean, seriously? Rockcrawlers? I still can’t believe they drive jacked-up trucks over giant piles of rocks.” Laurie worked in admin at the local hospital. The Boulder Bounders sporting event wasn’t exactly her scene, either. “I’ve never seen so much alcohol and testosterone in the same place. It’s like a slow-mo NASCAR race with giant wheels.”

  “And rocks. Don’t forget the rocks,” Holly said. For a moment, she longingly watched the partying instead of the competing truck. She needed to, make that wanted to, invite friends over for a cookout at her house—if she could find an open afternoon in her overcrowded schedule.

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  Bringing in new clients for Desert Accounting—and then managing the work—meant she had no life.

  With a sigh, she said, “C’mon. Let’s go find George, see how much longer until his rig runs. Then I vote we find the sponsor’s tent and sit down.”

  Holly headed for the truck staging area with Laurie clumping along beside her.

  A guy wearing a Seattle SeaHawks ball cap and board shorts grinned at Laurie. “Want me to carry you, Honey?”

  Laurie smiled her three-pointed Cheshire Cat grin and shook her head.

  “You sure?” The guy upped the wattage on his own smile.

  Holly watched, amused. At twenty-eight, she was still the tall, lanky kid she’d been in high school. Laurie, on the other hand, looked like a dainty wood sprite. Men fell all over themselves to do whatever she asked. Or in today’s case, volunteered to make themselves useful.

  Holly had learned to do things for herself—and preferred it that way.

  “Give me a shout if you change your mind.” He walked away, hands thrust in his pockets, which snugged the fabric over his well-toned butt.

  “Then again...” Laurie leaned on her crutches, an appreciative expression on her face.

  “Isn’t the line, ‘Just whistle?’” Holly smirked.

  She led Laurie past the line of vendor tents to the prep stations. The security guy patrolling the pit area glanced at their color-coded sponsor-level badges, nodded, and walked away.

  “These badges are awesome.” Holly straightened the lanyard holding her pass. “They’re like the Open Sesame magic words of all passes.”

  “Ignoring the mixed metaphor, Security Dude probably figures a couple of women can’t do much damage,” Laurie drawled.

  They strolled—or rather, Holly strolled and her friend hopped along on her crutches—toward the prep spot where the jacked-up Ford truck George Chen had entered in the event was parked.

  “Isn’t it against the rules for George to be a sponsor and a competitor?” Laurie asked.

  “You’re asking me?” Holly shrugged. “It isn’t like the scoring’s subjective. No Russian judges here. The rig goes over the rocks in X minutes, or it doesn’t.”

  They skirted a pair of trash barrels near another competitor’s pit position.

  Laurie nudged an elbow into Holly’s side. “Look. Other people are buying George’s car part thingie for the suspension… thing.”

  A box with the Cascade Precision logo—a stylized mountain peak in the center of a round gear—poked out of one of the trash barrels.

  “Excellent. The distributor—Mikhail Petrov—is here somewhere. He’s the one selling the part.” Holly waited for Laurie to maneuver around the
trash pile. “He’s really— I started to say jacked up...”

  “Yeah, that would be totally lame.” Laurie rolled her eyes again.

  Holly smacked her shoulder.

  “Hey, injured woman here.”

  Holly might’ve been kinda, sorta, partially responsible for Laurie’s ankle injury, but that shoulder tap hadn’t hurt anything. “You asked for it.” She leaned closer. “And I’d rather think of it as Tate’s new suspension part. This could be his big break. I’d love for him to make his name as a car part designer.” She glanced around for the Chen rig. “He should be around. He’s driving today.”

  Laurie cocked her head. “Wait a minute. Tate Price? Your cousin’s here?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that?” Holly’s eyebrows twitched. Tate was another big reason she’d had to—wanted to—show up today.

  “Ah, no.” Laurie stopped, balanced on her crutches. “I haven’t seen Tate since high school. I thought he was doing some kind of extreme sports?”

  “He is. Or he was. Driving on the extreme sport circuit. He finally admitted he needed a job with a regular paycheck and benefits.”

  “Always a plus.” Laurie wiped her palms and hopped forward.

  Both of those items would be nice, Holly reflected. Her current temporary status meant no salary and no benefits. If she was going to stay in Richland and take over Desert Accounting permanently, it was definitely time to re-negotiate her agreement with her mother.

  A truck hood slammed and Holly glanced at the two men climbing into the monster rig. She edged to the side of the asphalt strip to give the truck room to pass.

  “Anyway,” she said, “after Tate invented the part, he and George got the suspension ready for production. Then Mikhail hired Tate to work in sales for his company, Quality Distributing.”

  Laurie carefully moved behind Holly while the truck lumbered by. “In other words, Mikhail hired him because Tate knows the drivers and the sponsors and can convince them to try the part that George is building and Mikhail is selling.”

  Holly grinned. She loved the way Laurie could zing back a one liner that summed up the situation. “Well, when you put it like that...”

  They both laughed.

  “As far as this goes—” Holly waved an all-encompassing gesture, taking in various climbing and mudding courses, the vendor area, and seating.—”I’m not sure who approached who. Mikhail’s company is the main sponsor though.”

  To complete the incestuous nature of small town life, Holly’s cousin would be driving George Chen’s rig in the competition. Landing the sponsored position was apparently a coup, because Tate had been thanking her—um, why are you thanking me instead of George?—for the past month.

  Although in the Captain Obvious category, Tate’s day job at Quality Distributing clearly lacked the adrenaline buzz of the racing circuit.

  “They’re all hoping to get the circuit people excited about the new suspension during events like this,” Holly said. “I haven’t been involved in the marketing plans, but I’ve seen Cascade’s advertising invoices. I hope the part sells well.”

  She and Laurie rounded another tent and reached the Chen’s prep spot.

  It was empty. No rig, no Chens.

  A guy Holly had met earlier that day was straightening tools and repacking gear. He turned, then tossed a casual salute as he recognized them. “They all headed over to the course. They’re up next.”

  Guy-speak for, “Get your butts up there so you can watch and ooh-aah later.”

  “Thanks,” she called in response, and once again changed direction.

  Mikhail had lined up an army of volunteers to make sure the event ran smoothly. She wasn’t sure if this guy fell into the free labor category, or if he’d been hired to keep the rigs running.

  A sharp whistle cut the air—not a catcall but more a “Hey, you,” attention attractor. She and Laurie turned back to the mechanic. Holly raised an eyebrow, unsure what the guy wanted or how she felt about someone whistling like they were calling their dog.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “If you see Price, tell him another driver wanted to try his new suspension. We finished installing it a few minutes ago. Pretty slick to change out.”

  “I will.” She waved her thanks.

  Laurie nudged her. “Pretty cool. People like it. Word of mouth advertising is the best.”

  They picked their way through the crowd to the sponsor’s tent. The seats and tables under the awning were already coated with dust. Driven by the ever-present eastern Washington wind, dust was a local fact of life. Grit tossed up by the trucks’ wheels added an irritating texture to the air that Holly could taste. It tickled the back of her throat.

  “You do realize how this so-called sport got started, don’t you?” Holly nudged Laurie toward the bar, hoping there was something to drink besides beer.

  The bartender wiped the counter and watched their approach. “What can I get you?”

  Holly leaned against the bar. “Water, please.”

  He cracked open a bottle and slid it across the bar. “Anything else?”

  Taking a long pull from the water bottle, Holly examined the other beverage choices. Local award-winning wines, several regional microbrews. The wineries and breweries were places she frequented, owned by either clients or people who were becoming friends. In spite of feeling out of place at the truck event, she’d begun to feel strangely at home in eastern Washington.

  Strange to be back in a town she couldn’t wait to leave after college.

  Strange to find she liked the place.

  Strange to admit she was seriously considering making her temporary position running Desert Accounting a permanent transfer.

  After she renegotiated her salary and benefits.

  She smiled at the bartender. “Chardonnay, please.”

  Replacing the empty water bottle with the wine glass, she leaned against the counter and waited for Laurie to make her choice—a viognier varietal from a local winery. Then she picked up both wine glasses and led the way to one of the tall tables inside the tent, where they would be protected from the worst of the dust and grit kicked up on the course.

  “So?” Since there were no chairs, Laurie leaned against the table and sipped her wine. “How’d the sport start?”

  “Well, two guys were sitting on their back porch, drinking.” Holly raised her wine glass and Laurie clicked the rim. “One polished off his beer, belched, and popped open another can. He pointed at the vacant lot next door and said, ‘Betcha I can drive my truck over those rocks.’“

  “You’re lying.” Laurie narrowed her eyes.

  “Swear to God.” Holly raised her right hand. “And since God takes care of idiots and drunks, the first one made it over—alive—and his friend and all their friends had to try. And then their friends.” She waved at the scene spread out before them.

  “Well, it’s clearly a guy’s wet dream. Trucks and beer.” Laurie glanced around. Men crowded around several of the other tables. “Then again, this could be a good place to meet men.”

  Holly eyed the guys in the immediate area. In contrast to the professional-looking slacks and blazers she and Laurie wore, they were surrounded by a sea of blue jeans, Carhartts, sweat shirts, ball caps and boots—with a little hunter orange thrown in, just because it was late fall and therefore open season to hunt something.

  She didn’t consider herself a snob, but... “I’m not sure...”

  “You do realize half of them are actually stockbrokers or engineers who work at the nuclear site.” Laurie sipped her wine.

  Holly waved a dismissive hand. “Details.”

  “Holly.”

  She turned her head at the call. George Chen hurried across the lawn toward them. He barely topped Holly’s own five feet, eight inches, but lean and fit, he somehow looked taller. November sunshine lit the hint of scalp at the crown of his head. The balding spot was his sole concession to middle age. “Having a good time, girls?”

 
Women, Holly silently corrected. Women. She caught Laurie’s eyeroll and bit back a burst of laughter. “It looks like a good turnout, George.”

  He crossed his arms and rocked on his heels as he surveyed the crowd. “The vendor booths are busy, too. You two want to walk over with me? Pretty things like you would really help me draw a crowd to our setup.”

  One chauvinistic faux pas she could forgive. Two goofs in a row pushed her buttons. She forced a smile to her lips while visions of Rigid Tool calendar babes scrolled through her mind and she tried to think of a diplomatic way to say, “Are you freaking crazy?”

  “Chen.” Another man gestured, a broad sweep of his arm. “We’re up.”

  “‘Scuse me, ladies.” George hurried to join the group of men.

  “Who’s that?” Laurie gestured toward them. “The blond-haired one.”

  “That’s Mikhail Petrov. The distributor I told you about.”

  “Hmm... He’s kinda hot if you like that German assassin vibe.”

  Holly turned to examine her friend and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, now there’s an attractive character assessment. Assassin?”

  “Like that guy in the James Bond movies. Aloof. Self-contained.”

  “Assassin?” Nothing about the type attracted her.

  “It was a movie.”

  “You’ve lost it, girlfriend. Maybe we should look for the guy with the ball cap and the tight shorts.”

  “He had potential.” Laurie’s voice took on a conspiratorial, incredulous tone. “Did George actually just invite you to go play chick-magnet? Or would that be man-magnet?”

  “He knows better than to really ask that. He wants to live until tomorrow. Besides, neither one of us has the enhancements the job requires.” Holly glanced at her chest. “Well, I don’t. You’ve got that cute pixie thing going. You aren’t dating anybody. Go meet a stockbroker.”

  Laurie laughed. “Right.”

  Holly again scanned the guys around them. “Clean up a few of these guys, and I could—”