Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (71 page)

I straightened. “My car! You bought my car back?”

Jesse cut off any response from Caine. “I told ‘em no, honey. Can’t sell that car.”

I sank against the cushions again, wondering if he’d just dropped in to jerk me around.

“But. They put the car on my mind, so I took her down to the corner store for a sip of gasoline and some air in the tires. Ran right into two little ol’ girls.”

“Do not tell me you wrecked the ‘Cuda.” Caine dropped his face into his hands. “Do you have any damn idea how hard it is to get parts?”

Jesse let out a long-suffering sigh. “They was strollin’ out of the front door of that convenience store, all decked out in their flip flops and shorts. Looked to be about thirteen.” He held up a hand that was only missing a scepter. “So, the mouthy one.”

He addressed Francine. “You know how there’s always quiet one and a mouthy one, right? Just naturally drawn together, I reckon. Fire and ice. Anyhow, the mouthy one yells.” Jesse cupped his hands around his mouth. “‘Hey! Old man! Why you drivin’ Shelby Hannah’s car?”

Caine dropped his hands. His brows nearly touched his hairline. Colt fell against the den wall, holding his gut and howling like he was in pain.

Dale managed a sympathetic expression. “That had to leave a mark, Hancock.”

Jesse drove his hand into the pocket of his pants. He tugged a ring of keys free and sailed them into my lap. “You ain’t kiddin’, brother. I still got the bruise.”

My ‘Cuda.
Asshole hadn’t even changed out my key fob. My house key still dangled beside the ignition and door keys.

“Reckon I’ll tear up your check.”

I jerked my head up at Dale’s statement.

“Yeah, I noticed you never did cash it.” Hancock snorted. “Not havin’ the damn title in hand made it kinda hard to jack the price up on Caine.” He straightened and pointed at Dale. “All that bullshit you fed me about problems findin’ the original title? Like they don’t print new titles every damn day down at the Department of Motor Vehicles?” He gave Dale an injured look. “Tell the damn truth. You never intended to sell the car back. You just ran out of garage space, asshole.”

Jesse jammed his hands in his pockets, the very picture of a man taken advantage of, but his eyes—so like Caroline’s—twinkled.

“That original title, though,”—Dale adjusted his cap and his gaze moved to me—“it’s got some damn valuable signatures on it. Richard Petty got that car as a gift straight from Plymouth in ‘71. In ‘90, Earnhardt bought it for his daughter. He sold it to Jesse the next year, because she wanted somethin’ brand new. Then, in 2000, Hancock went stupid and I won it off of that drag racer he was backin’ that nobody’s never heard from in years. And, now, you’ll ink your name underneath mine, Shelby.”

It's the legends that sell these old buckets of rust.

Liar told me the car didn’t have a legend until the drag race.

You played me again.

I bounded off the couch, unsure who to hug first, but Hancock was closest. I worked my way around the room, finishing on my knees beside Dale. “Thank you. I’m gonna make you proud, I swear.”

“That’s a downhill trip, honey.” Dale patted my arm, but the warmth in his eyes took my breath. “Go on, burn some rubber. When you get back, you can tell me what that band on your left hand might mean.”

I kissed his cheek, then traced one white streak at his temple. “I’m afraid our family tree’s gonna look more like a vine. When I write the announcement for the paper, it’ll say you’re the father of the bride
and
the groom. And if anyone doesn’t like that,”—I scanned the room, smiling at each familiar face—“well, those folks can kiss my red-headed, college-educated, NASCAR-man lovin’, country girl ass.” 

Francine fell sideways onto the sofa arm with a shriek of laughter. “Best line I ever heard uttered at a commencement,” she gasped.

“No.” Dale’s eyes rounded. “Shelby said that? At her fancy college graduation?”

“No, no.” Francine’s breathless words were hard to make out. “Dale. She got President Jamison to say it on her behalf. From the stage.”

“No shit?” Dale drawled, wide-eyed. He stuck both arms out straight. “Girl, me and Jesse done pulled some stuff in our day, but honey, we ain’t worthy.” He bowed several times, setting off another round of laughter.

Francine clutched her tummy and rocked. “Haven’t laughed this hard in years.”

Marley leaned on Francine, howling, but she lifted one clenched fist. “Rednecks. Lowering standards everywhere.”

Colt and Caine high-fived. “My work here is done,” Colt announced.

I fluttered my lashes at Hancock. “Colt made me from scratch in a bowl, you know.”

Dale’s phone rang. He tugged the device from his back pocket and read the name with a grin. “Looks like Mr. Brannon wants to jaw-jack.” He waved. “You young’uns go tear up some asphalt and howl at the moon. Me and Phillip’s got some arm-twistin’ to do and Francine ain’t never gonna get a better shot at Jesse than right now.”

“Oh! Your car keys.” I skipped to the kitchen to snag her ring off the board.

Harry held out his hand. “She’s not ready to drive after dark yet. I’ll drive her to your mom’s place and drop off her car.”

I half-hoped Jesse would stick his foot in his mouth, but Hancock wisely kept his mouth shut about the majority shareholder of NASCAR, Inc. being unwilling to drive in the dark on roads she didn’t know by heart.

Extending a hand to Caine, we darted through the front door. The front windows and porch lights reflected in the gleaming purple body of the car parked along the road. Jesse had the top down. The nose pointed toward Central Heights Drive. The white racing buckets Dale had chosen for me at eighteen were still in place. I gripped the roll bar and perched on the edge of the door, swinging my legs over the side.

Caine followed. My grin was so wide my jaws ached when I slid behind the wheel.

Fastening his harness, Caine asked, “Where to?”

“Does it matter?” I jammed the key into the switch, reveling in the rumble of the big block Hemi as it caught. “Jesse kicked in a full talk of gas.”

Caine relaxed against the high seat back and rolled his head in my direction with a smile. He dropped his hand atop mine on the shifter. “Not to me. I got everything I ever wanted. A smart redhead who knows her way around a stick, a full tank of gas, and a bunch of Carolina backroads. Throw in some country music and I reckon I can ride forever.”

While he tuned the stereo, I pushed in the clutch. Stiffer than the Audi’s, and more finicky, but God, how I’d missed this car. I took in the low ranch-style home cut into the slope, thinking back to the first night I’d seen the House of Hannah.

A young girl had taken her first steps down a treacherous ramp toward womanhood and then tripped over that threshold. The road beyond had been full of pot holes and hairpin turns that led to a cul-de-sac about a mile away, as the crow flew. Funny how that spot had been a launching pad, rather than a dead end. 

I’d sit down among the remnants of Ernie’s truck and start my book as soon as the pieces were in my office. A book that I sensed wouldn’t be a story as much as a confession about the rough and tumble race from girl to woman. I vowed to hold nothing back. I’d write down my head-on collisions with life, racing, and sex—gas fumes, mangled metal, and all—because the best parts had been sculpted using twisted pieces salvaged from the wreckage.

I had the perfect title already picked out.

I dropped my wrist on the wheel, gripped the shifter, and shouted to be heard above the thumping music. “I’m gonna need gas or ass if you wanna ride with me, Hannah. And my tank’s full.”

“Huh. Let me think.” Caine rubbed his chin. Warmth raced over my skin in the wake of his heavy-lidded gaze. He started on my face, slid from my breasts to my boots, and back to my face. “Your three weeks ain’t up by a long shot. But, I’ll take the ass option, if you’ll start me a tab.”

I
n the bedroom that I’d pretty much always shared with Caine, one way or another, Dale lifted the gallon of primer with the same grace as before the injury. I envied him the treatment he’d received, making his recovery so much easier than mine, but was delighted he’d bounced back so fast.

He grabbed the roller and tackled the black section between the two front windows. I balanced the bucket on the ladder and fanned the bristles on the angled paintbrush.

“Looks like this is gonna need two coats.” He paused to take the can from me. Scanning the label, he scowled. “I reckon ‘low odor’ is code for ‘half-assed coverage’?”

We painted in companionable silence for a bit. “Don’t suppose I get a head’s up about what’s on the agenda for the Ridenhour party today?”

“Nope.”

“What about Dodge?”

“If you hear the fax machine start spittin’ out paper, that’s our cue to start buildin’ Dodge cars.”

“I thought all the NASCAR cars were just alike?”

“New regs next season. We’re goin’ back to havin’ the car look like the stock model. ‘Bout damn time. Who wants to pull for a cookie-cutter car that looks just like all the rest? Can’t complain about the safety of ‘em, but makin’ ‘em all the same was disrespectin’ the fans and the manufacturers.”

The door bell rang before I could respond.

“I’ll go. Bet that’s Caine’s order for more Hannah-Built caps.” Adding ‘find a drop-shipper’ to the list of things to do I’d started in my phone, I headed through the foyer to the front door.

Unremarkable brown eyes peered over a cardboard box.

“Hey, Shelby. Is, um, Dale around?”

I nearly tumbled over the sill. “What do
you
want?”

“Uh, came to see Dale, if that’s all right.”

I didn’t know if that was all right.

The paint roller clattered into the pan. After a moment, Dale appeared in the hallway. “What’s up, Kolby?”

Relief surged in the driver’s eyes. “Hey, Dale. How you doin’?”

“Can’t complain. C’mon in the den. What’s in the box?” Dale turned away. I wanted to bar the damn door, but stood aside. To my astonishment, Kolby swiped his feet on the welcome mat before he stepped inside.

Barnes thrust the box into my hands, but the flaps were interlocked, so I couldn’t see inside. Bigger than a breadbox, the carton weighed next to nothing. The contents rattled like a snake. He followed Dale into the den. I trailed the driver, feeling like the hired help.

“Just stuff Shelby left in the Audi, boss man. You ever known a woman to move out without leavin’ half her shit?”

Something flickered in Dale’s eyes while he settled into his recliner. “Can’t say I’ve had many women leave me.”

“Ouch.” Kolby’s grin faded. He dug a finger into the neckline of his Red Bomb T-shirt. “Reckon that’s another part of my character I need to work on.”

I carried the box to the kitchen table and lifted the flaps.

“Twenty-six hair bows and fourteen ink pens,” Kolby announced, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Two paperbacks and three empty lipstick tubes. What’s up with those, Shelby? Mind if I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

From the corner of my eye, I watched Dale gesture with a sinking heart. Barnes could’ve tossed all of this stuff.

“Listen, Dale.” Kolby scooted forward on the couch. “Think you’ll be back by Darlington? I really wanna win that damn race. That track takes nerves of steel and a perfect strategy. If you ain’t there, I come up short both ways.”

I held my breath. Barnes’ lips stretched, reminding me of Mack Brown. “I got an unbroken string of DNFs at that track.”

Dale scratched his chin. “Better plan on runnin’ the Lady in Black with David.”

“Yeah? Okay.” Kolby hung his head.  

Thanks to Ernie, I knew the nickname hearkened back to the days when the owner covered the track with fresh pitch before every race. But, who was this impersonator and what had he done with Kolby Barnes?

Kolby sprang off the couch. “Listen, chief. Where you hidin’ the John Deere? I ain’t gonna make that party today, because I come to cut your grass.”

My mouth fell open so far, he could’ve driven that big tractor inside.

“Nah. I’ll get around to it.” Dale adjusted his cap. “Caine and Shelby got me paintin’ right now.”

Barnes swept the Ridenhour cap off his head. “Your shrubs need trimmin’, too.” Red blotches popped out on the driver’s throat and lower jaw. “I’m real good with hedge clippers.”

I fiddled with the empty tube of MAC lipstick, unsure why I’d kept the damn thing.

“Nobody never give me nothin’,” Barnes blurted. “If I got it, I had to scrap for it.”

Kolby’s grammar was usually better. Sweat popped out on his upper lip, giving a bedraggled air to his thin moustache.

“My mama.” His Adam’s apple bounced. His voice scraped the inside of my skull, leaving an echo of pain that wasn’t my pain. “She died givin’ birth to Kasey. My dad had to get a hardship discharge from the Navy. He liked the military. More’n he liked us, I reckon.” Kolby plucked an invisible thread on his shirt. “Said he wasn’t raisin’ no pussies.”

Barnes dropped his hand and turned in my direction. Shards of bewilderment churned the brown irises.

“So, he’d buy one of somethin’ he knew me and Kasey both wanted. Whoever won, got it. Sometimes a new Power Ranger or G.I. Joe. Sometimes it was dinner.”