Thunderstruck Read Online Free PDF

shake her body. “Isn’t it awesome?”
    He laughed lightly. “Show me your new toy.”
    The massive rear doors were already open, revealing the long center hallway lined with dozens of cabinets and compartments that led to the galley and lounge in the front.
    “This is huge,” Mick said, peering up at the second level, where the two cars would be housed for the trip to Florida.
    “Never big enough,” Shelby told him. “This baby will be packed to capacity when it leaves in a few days, stocked full of engines and tools and computers and supplies and every imaginable part we might need at the track. Both of the transporters—one for the fifty-three car and one for the eighty-two car—will be our home away from home for the entire time we’re down there.”
    At the far end of the hauler, the door to the galley and lounge opened, and they were greeted by the broad smile, bald head and dancing gray eyes of Robbie Parsons.
    “Welcome to my humble abode,” Robbie said with a mock bow. “I call it the magic carpet ride.” Approaching them, he reached for Shelby’s hand to help her down into the recessed walkway as he whispered, “You got yourself a knockout, Miz Jackson.”
    For one insane moment she thought he meant Mick.
    “She’s gorgeous, Robbie.” With one hand she brushed the gleaming aluminum counter. “They really restored it beautifully.”
    “I’m Mick Churchill.” He reached to shake Robbie’s hand.
    “This is Rob Parsons,” Shelby said as they shook. “He’s been a sub driver on the eighty-two hauler, but he’s moving over to run this show as of today.”
    “Best rig I ever drove,” Robbie announced. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mick. I’m a huge fan.”
    Of course he was. Who wasn’t?
    Shelby moved deeper into the hauler, pausing to open a tool drawer here, a locker there. Everything was absolutely pristine. “I’ll have to call Woody Maxwell and thank him for taking such good care of this. For a used hauler, it’s fantastic.”
    While Mick talked to Robbie about how they stocked and loaded the transporter, she continued to the front, opening the door to the lounge. Even the leather of the wraparound seats smelled new. Stepping inside, she sat on one and tapped her fingers on the shiny top of the round conference table in the middle. The transporter lounge was a sacred place. The safe, secure belly of the beast where drivers and crew chiefs could speak their minds and owners could let their hair down.
    She closed her eyes and leaned back, listening to the occasional shouts from the crew and mechanics outside. Funny, she had a beautiful town house and a nice office, but there was nowhere on earth she felt more at home than in the transporter lounge. Ever since she could remember, this was a haven. A safe place to curl up next to her daddy. He’d give her a big soda and a bag of red licorice, and she’d tuck her feet under his legs and listen to him plan a race or discuss the fine points of Chevy versus Ford.
    And then everything changed.
    “Whatchya thinkin’ about, Shel?”
    She popped open her eyes at the sound of her grandfather’s voice. “Just getting the vibe of the new hauler, Ernie.” She patted a spot next to her in invitation. “And if you have to know the truth, I was just thinking about all those happy hours I spent with Daddy in the old fifty-three hauler.”
    With a low groan as if his back hurt, he settled next to her, then inched up the bill of a Country Peanut Butter hat to get a better look around. “Saw Mick out there,” he said quietly.
    “You mean the Thing That Wouldn’t Leave?”
    Ernie chuckled. “Thanks for giving him a chance.”
    She shot him a look. “Who says I’m giving him a chance?”
    “He’s out there. He’s askin’ questions. He’s getting to know the teams and the shop and the business.” Ernie took her hand. “When I first approached him, I thought it was pretty far out there—”
    “You found him?” She sat