Running On Empty

By Sarah Richmond

Aspiring off-road racer, Tom Guthrie, is down on his luck when he takes a temporary job as a driver’s ed instructor. Well-heeled New Yorker Elizabeth Claymore arrives in southern California to open a West Coast extension of her successful Manhattan art gallery. The hard-charging business owner discovers Californians do everything in their cars and she hires Tom to teach her how to drive.

Tom decides the only thing Libby can drive is a man crazy. The woman has an opinion on everything, including him. When Libby persuades him to take her to a practice race, Tom gives her the ride she won't soon forget. Convinced she could use a little fun in her life, Libby decides Tom is the man for her.
Tom’s next race is in the Baja, and Libby knows she can help him win. Tom thinks it’s a bad idea having her on the crew. She can’t handle the down and dirty, and the Baja 500 isn't a race for amateurs.
Libby won’t take no for an answer, and she’d about to turn Tom’s world of off-road racing upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Richmond
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780986167126

Sarah Richmond

Sarah Richmond is Senior Lecturer at University College London. She received her PhD in philosophy from Oxford University. She coedits the academic journal, Sartre Studies International.

Book preview

RUNNING ON EMPTY

By Sarah Richmond

What is it that women want?

Sigmund Freud

Running on Empty

ISBN: 978 1 55404-222-7

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Copyright © 2005, © 2015 Sarah Richmond

First Electronic book Publication February 2005

Revised Edition, electronic book publication March 2015.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to acknowledge the cover created by [e-mail]; Editor LaRee Bryant; cover art from Dreamstime: Lucas Oil Off Road Series (LOORS) Challenge Cup 2012 copyright ©Doug James|Dreamstime.com and to Richard K. who helped with the off-road racing details.

What the Reviewers are saying:

With two appealing lead characters, a colorfully descriptive setting and an interesting glimpse of off road racing, RUNNING ON EMPTY is a lively, entertaining romance.

The Energizer Bunny has nothing on the heroine, Libby Claymore. The spoiled, wealthy Ms. Claymore—who has never taken no for an answer—is a nicely sketched character. Her boundless energy, her optimism, her approach to life makes her character the heart and soul of this story.

Down-on-his-luck, go-with-the-flow off road racer Tom Guthrie might be a less dynamic character, but their opposites-attract relationship is an interesting study in contrasts.

RUNNING ON EMPTY isn't bogged down with a lot of unnecessary secondary characters. Ms. Richmond wisely chose to concentrate of Libby and Tom. The result is a fast-paced, often humorous romance.

Debbie Jett for Romance Readers at Heart

Dedication

Dedicated to my friend Richard K

CHAPTER ONE

Tom Guthrie liked the low-lying fog that blanketed the Southern California coast each spring. The locals called it June Gloom, a good description that fit his mood. He swung open the glass door of Bernie’s Best Driving School with a chip as big as a California redwood on his shoulder. Melody had left him almost six months ago, and he still was bummed about why.

Got a live one for you. Bernie interrupted Tom’s thoughts mid-way between regret and good riddance.

The owner of the driving school sat behind a metal desk with an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips.

Teenager? Tom asked.

Naw, older woman from New York City. Paid in advance.

Tom stood hunched over with his hands on his hips.

The lady requested a stick shift. Bernie chuckled to himself, cleared the gravel in his throat and handed over the paper work.

Tom looked it over. He knew the type. Never driven a car in her life and now that she’d found herself in SoCal, she was ready to cut loose in a sporty convertible. Miss New York would be better off in a nice American boat-sized automatic. Something she wouldn’t get too hurt in when she made that left turn in front of an unsuspecting fellow road warrior.

Hey, Tom. Try not to screw this one up.

Bernie’s throaty laughter echoed in Tom’s ears as he left the office. There wouldn’t be another screw up because he needed this job. Nothing would come between him and the new love of his life: a 1968 Mercury Cougar with gleaming chrome bumpers, duel carbs and 427 cubic inches of pulsating V8 engine.

She belonged to him and the credit union that loaned the money to buy her. He intended to keep her in the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed. That would happen only if he could maintain a positive cash flow, leaving him to coddle clueless ladies in the art of driving an automobile.

He slid behind the steering wheel of a Honda Civic with Bernie’s Best Driving Academy painted on the door. The sign assured Tom a wide berth in the street and on the freeway, evoking both fear and respect to all who saw it. This wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it paid a decent wage while he waited for the powers that be in the racing circuit to decide if he was disqualified for the Baja 500. Although the wait was killing him, he’d learned not to beat himself up over things he couldn’t change.

Otherwise you can take this crummy job and shove it, he said to the demure compact he drove with such careless disregard that he was surprised she’d survived his three days as a driving instructor.

He turned the corner of 4th and Palm and searched the pink stucco buildings for a street address. When he came to the right number, he pulled over to the curb. Cramped in the ‘gray ghost,’ Tom stepped out of the car and stretched his six-foot frame. The morning gloom had lifted, replaced by a bright sun that bathed the high-priced condos in white light.

Tom took the work order out of his shirt pocket and checked the stats again. The lady’s name was Elizabeth Claymore. He strolled over to the iron security gate and buzzed her number.

Who is it? a woman’s voice asked over the intercom.

Bernie’s Driving School, Miss Claymore. Ms. Claymore, he corrected himself. His lack of political correctness had messed up his last assignment. How was he supposed to know that she was a he?

I’m not quite ready. I’ll be down in a minute, the voice answered.

No surprise there. One fact of life he’d learned early in his thirty-two years. Women kept you waiting.

Women, he said out loud, reminding himself how they always lived up to his low expectations.

Palm trees shaded the quiet street, and Tom leaned against the car. He got paid by the hour and could wait.

The psychologist in group therapy had said Tom needed to express his emotions. What did the doc know about what Tom needed? His ex had cleaned him out lock, stock and espresso machine. What crumbs she’d left, the attorneys had squabbled over like pigeons in the park.

Tom gut had been in a twist that day in Laughlin when he’d seen his ex arm in arm with Kevin Weyerhauser. So blind-sided he’d ignored the idiot light on the Ford Ranger and burned up an engine. He’d stewed plenty when he was disqualified from the race.

That was history. Since then Tom had kept his cool. No way was he going to let anyone play him again.

Besides, he was about to even the score. He’d formulated a state of the art fuel additive that would give an engine that extra endurance needed in today’s down and dirty commuter traffic. With the Baja race, he’d have the opportunity he needed to prove his invention to investors. The money would roll in like waves at high tide.

What would he do with all that dough? He smiled to himself. He hadn’t dreamed that far ahead yet, but the possibilities would be a pleasure to contemplate. Old Kevin, with his toothy grin and family bankroll, would have to show Tom the respect he deserved.

And Melody? He’d show her who was the better man.

Tom peered at the empty sidewalk on the other side of the gate. No Elizabeth Claymore. He checked his watch and shook his head.

What’s keeping you, Ms. Claymore?

As if she’d heard him, a woman emerged from the second condo on the left. A high-class kind of woman who walked with poise and confidence while she held a cell phone to her ear.

His mood picked up considerably when she headed his way. A look of recognition illuminated her face. She smiled and waved. He watched her close the gate behind her. He sure did appreciate a fine pair of shapely legs.

His client looked dressed for a board meeting in a black power suit with a long jacket and short skirt. Black strappy high heel shoes adorned those long legs. They were the kind of shoes that would completely distract a guy about to close a multi-million dollar deal.

Geez, how’s she going to slip the clutch in those?

If that wasn’t enough, the client wore a string of pearls that peeked through a cream silk blouse. He liked pearls on a lady when the occasion called for them, but this was a driving lesson, for crying out loud.

High-pitched barking diverted Tom’s attention. A middle-aged woman had rounded the corner walking an irate Chihuahua pulling on his leash. His owner wore tight Capri pants and a tee that showed her bare midriff. The little mutt jumped up on his client’s expensive duds.

Bruno, get down. The woman scooped the dog up in her arms.

That’s all right. I love dogs. Ms. Claymore reached over and scratched the pooch behind his ears. Aren’t you just the sweetest little guy?

The dog looked like he was grinning from ear to ear. Sorry, we’re working on our manners, the woman said. She kissed the dog on the lips.

He’s a charmer. Ms. Claymore smiled.

Bruno laid his head on the woman’s shoulder and closed his eyes, no doubt content to be carried for the rest of his walk.

Ms. Claymore? Tom asked.

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were the finest shade of chrome he’d ever seen.

He continued his appraisal. Her dark head of shiny hair swung when she talked. Her white skin had never seen a ray of sunshine, but looked classy in that body-hugging outfit. Definitely East Coast, Tom thought, and a woman of means.

Not that he objected.

Is there something wrong? she asked.

No, nothing at all, he said. I’m Tom Guthrie.

Glad to meet you, Tom Guthrie. She stuck out her hand and shook his vigorously. Call me Libby.

This time the smile came with dimples.

Bernie sent me. I’ll be your driving instructor this morning.

I’m sure you’re the best, she said, stating the obvious.

Tom stood a little taller.

I’m out here on the West Coast to open a new art gallery. She opened her small leather purse, fished out a business card--the kind that came from a commercial printer on heavy-duty stock with raised lettering--and handed it over.

Claymore Galleries, New York City, he read out loud.

I’m the chief, cook and bottle washer, she added, with a tinselly laugh.

Tom decided Ms. Claymore hadn’t worked for a day’s wages in her life. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Stuck behind his pictures of the Cougar were his business cards. He slid one out and handed it to her. He’d done them himself on his computer, and they’d turned out great.

Team Guthrie, SCORE? She raised perfectly tweezed eyebrows.

Off-road racing circuit, he replied with a measure of pride in his voice. He closed one eye against the glare of the sun and watched for her reaction. Babes liked men who drove fast cars.

She turned the card over. Well, Team Guthrie, off-road racing is a little more than I had in mind.

The comment made him smile. The lady had a sense of humor. He liked that in a woman.

What does SCORE stand for?

Southern California Off-Road Enthusiast. In racing, to be exact, he added.

Doesn’t that spell SCORER? she asked. He saw a hint of mischief in her eyes.

Tom knew how to spell, but he checked himself. He couldn’t play this game. He couldn’t afford to with a paying customer.

How long have you been teaching people how to drive? she asked.

Long enough, he answered, his speech more clipped than he intended. Ms. Claymore had asked a reasonable question, but hell, he’d given her a reasonable answer.

She dropped the card into the purse. Her silky hair fell forward, inviting his touch. Tom had the distinct feeling she knew what she was doing, and he wasn’t any pampered Chihuahua.

You know this is my very first time, she said, her voice as silky as her hair. She closed her bag with a snap.

I promise I’ll be gentle, Tom answered.

Was it his imagination or did he detect a blush on that flawless complexion? Naw, this lady was too cool a customer to be thrown by his back-handed comment.

She blinked thick dark lashes. Okay, Team Guthrie. Let’s get started

Jump in on the other side, Tom said, indicating the driver’s seat.

"Au contraire, she said. Like I told you, I’ve never driven before and don’t know the first thing about automobiles." Despite her inexperience, she spoke without a trace of self-doubt.

Then today’s your lucky day, he replied.

She shot him a cryptic look. Tom didn’t have a clue what that meant, and had given up a long time ago trying to decipher what went on in a woman’s brain.

He believed in hands-on experience, and he didn’t make an exception for anybody.

All students start in the driver’s seat, he said. You included.

She studied his face and then made up her mind. Okay. If you think I should start in the driver’s seat, then I’ll do it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Again he heard the certainty that went with the person she presented to the world. He liked confidence in a person, but he had to wonder if she would crumble when it came time to put the pedal to the metal.

Ms. Claymore strutted past him, and he caught a whiff of a light, citrus scent. It threw his