Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (18 page)

The man, roughly Dale’s age, swiped his napkin across his mouth. Studying me from underneath the brim of a hat boasting the twenty-two car legend, his brown eyes went flat. “Eighth place. You look a lot like Colt Hannah’s sister.”

“Yes.” I turned away to peer at the television screen. The race positions crawled across the bottom of the screen. “Hey, Marley’s running in first place.”

“Who’s Marley?” Robert asked.

“That won’t last,” the older man offered. “Ain’t neither of ‘em gonna finish. You mark my words.” I turned again to meet narrowed eyes. “They got you to thank for that.”

“Me?” I straightened. “What’re you talking about?” His eyes weren’t glassy, despite the beer on his breath.

“You’re the one’s got that site on You Tube where you posted up that drag race footage?” He wadded his napkin and hurled it onto the bar. “Jeanie, let me settle up. The air in this place just went foul.”

The bartender sat my draft and Robert’s bottle of Corona on the bar. “What’s got your britches in a bunch, Mike?”

Turning my way again, the man’s lips curled in disgust. “I looked you up. You ain’t never run a damn race that I could find. Ain’t registered with the National Hot Rod Association, neither. And, now, here you are, lookin’ just like the little college gal everybody said you was. What Dale done lost him my respect, for sure, and I been a Ridenhour fan for two decades. No NASCAR crew chief worth his salt sets out to humiliate his best driver. That shit just ain’t right. Enjoy your burger.”

He threw thirty dollars on the bar. “On second thought, just keep the change.” Before I could think of a response he barked again, raking me with cold eyes. “Yeah, like I believe you can handle a NASCAR engine? You look like you couldn’t handle a Volkswagen Beetle. Hannah cheated. Now that I seen you, I’m sure of it.” The man stalked down the aisle and out the front door.

“Crazy-ass redneck,” Robert muttered. “You want to stay or go somewhere else?”

My cheeks stung from heat. It felt as though every eyeball that peered from under the brim of a NASCAR cap was on me. Hostile eyes heated the close air inside the bar. “Are you kidding? I’ve been craving a White Trash burger for weeks.”

The burger sat cold and hard in my stomach when car nineteen slammed Colt into the wall. The camera cut to the pits. Dale hurled his hat and ear protectors.

The tow truck racing toward the mangled thirty-three car said Colt’s day was done. I took out my phone and looked up the driver of the nineteen car. He drove for Carson Racing. The same team Kolby’s brother Kasey drove for.

Three laps after the caution ended, Rowdy Collins took Marley out with a gut-wrenching spin. Seven, eight—no, nine—cars plowed into her while my heart jammed into my throat. White smoke popped, obscuring the wreck until the tangle of bent metal and screeching tires spun into the infield grass and broke apart.

Marley climbed out of her window. Ripping off her helmet, she spiked it into the grass.

“Maybe you should take the race video off the internet,” Robert suggested while we watched the wreckers clean up the mess.

“Uh, hello?” I snapped. “That only makes it look like we have something to hide.” I glared. “And we do not.”

“So, Mikey’s wrong?” the bartender asked. “You’re a racer?”

Did racing on a lonely back road count? “Amateur stuff. Give me a dark country road and a Hemi engine and I’m down for anything.”

She raised a thin, penciled brow. “Well, gee, I can say that myself. So, if it’s true that Hannah dropped Kolby’s engine into your car, tell me then, how’s an eight-second race supposed to convince Barnes that the engine can win a five-hundred-lap grind?” She grabbed a rag and swiped down the spot at my side. “No, that story don’t add up. Y’all cheated somehow. I’m bettin’ it was nitrous.”

“What kind of idiot would hook nitrous to a seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower engine and then put someone as inexperienced as y’all say I am behind the wheel?” I snapped. “Make up your mind. Either I can’t drive my way out of a wet paper bag or I can handle a rocket. You whining Barnes fans can’t have it both ways.”

She lifted the rag and hurled it into the bin at her back. “Yeah? Well, you Hannahs look to be in for a long, painful season. What I believe don’t matter. What the other drivers believe? That’s gonna leave a mark.” She winked. “Rubbin’s racin’, right?”

T
he next day, after Ernie’s funeral, I curled into the corner of Francine’s sofa, thinking how much Mom would hate this cozy cottage. The furniture had been bought new around the time I’d been born, but high-quality leather—actual cowhide, no fake stuff for Francine—had held up well in a home without children.

With a sigh, I stood, offering my seat to an older woman holding a towering plate. The kitchen was crowed, so I screwed up my courage and headed for Ernie’s office, even though the sight of his empty chair was almost more than I could bear. A few men stood around the silent television. As soon as I realized they were watching the race, I turned away, preferring to inspect the wall above Ernie’s old walnut roll top desk.

Francine had made attractive groupings of the man’s collection, sparing no expense on the frames. This wasn’t the stuff sold from vendor tents on race day. Ernie collected paper ephemera that related to NASCAR—vintage rule books, photographs, driver contracts, and bills of sale for famous racecars, even invoices for parts, but something had changed.

The new item in the center boasted a frame wrapped in oak-printed vinyl. I squinted at the frame, which looked like something you could buy in any dime store, while the rest were genuine walnut.

Leaning closer, I scanned the printed page. To my shock, I realized I stared at a contract between Brad Taggert—deceased father of Marley—and his sponsor, a national bread brand. Part of a longer document, this clause required Taggert to dress as Santa Claus and hand out the gifts to children of employees at the company’s annual Christmas party. A smiley face grinned at me below his signature.

The man liked kids.

Lifting the frame from the wall, I sank against the padded back of Ernie’s chair, wondering how different Caroline’s life would be if Taggert hadn’t died at Darlington eight months before my friend’s birth.

“Hell, yeah. Hannah pulled a rabbit outta his ass today.”

I glanced over my shoulder, but couldn’t see the television for the three men who stood in front of the screen.

One guy turned away. He met my eyes with a smile. “Jesus, what a win. Can’t believe Roark’s crew got that car back on the track. Ridenhour’s gotta figure out sooner or later, he needs to cut that little bastard loose.”

“Nah. Barnes is the next Earnhardt. He just needs some time to get used to the Ford engine, is all.” The comment came from a man who still watched the screen.

“Two years and countin’ ain’t enough?” The nearby man snorted.

“What happened?” I forced the words past the knot in my throat.

The man at my side answered with a scowl. “Kolby and Jamie pit at the same time, under caution. So, they’re coming off pit row at the same time, right? Somehow, Kolby clips Roark’s left rear fender just as they jump onto the track. Spun Jamie into Rowdy Collins. About five more cars clobbered both of ‘em. Forty-six car was beat all to hell and back.

He spread his hands. “But, God Almighty damn, somehow, his crew got it runnin’ again, before the caution flag was lifted. Hell of an effort from the whole team. Hannah’s son was out there with a cuttin’ torch the minute Jamie limped onto pit row. But rather than cuttin’ a straight line, he punched holes, then ripped the metal off with his bare hands, like it was paper. Damn, that kid’s strong.”

Caine.
The vision of him bouncing a tire and rim like a ball in the Ridenhour garage brought the sting of fresh tears. 

“Hannah’s the man I’d want behind me, dude.” The third guy, who had yet to speak, nodded vehemently. “Man’s a fucking stud. That kid you’re talkin’ about’s a chip off the old block, too. Ridenhour’s gonna miss them when they walk at the end of the season.”

“Can’t get rid of ‘em fast enough to suit me. I used to think Hannah was all that, but since they started runnin’ Fords, I’m thinkin’ now, Dutch Brannon deserved the credit.”

“Who is Dutch Brannon?” I bit the inside of my cheek, fearing a long explanation on a topic I didn’t much care about.

“Dodge’s racing man. He’s the real engineer. Ridenhour’s struggled since Dodge left NASCAR.” The stranger’s irate tone made my head thump. “And don’t get me started on the bullshit Hannah pulled with that damn drag race. Makes no goddamn sense. He and Barnes ain’t gettin’ along, so Hannah cooks up a way to steal the man’s personal car? Stinks to high heaven. No wonder Ridenhour’s a sinkin’ ship. Let every Hannah go, I say. If they can’t play team ball, they need to be their own damn team.”

I’ve gotta get out of here
. I laid the frame on the desk and jumped out of the chair. I found Francine in the bedroom. She was seated on the side of the bed, turning the labels on the small army of prescription bottles crowding the top of the nightstand to face the same direction. All bore Ernie’s name. A black leatherette bag rested on her lap.

“Camera bag?” I asked, perching beside her.

“Nothing so useful. This was Ernie’s first cell phone.” She pulled the Velcro fastener free, exposing an old-fashioned receiver, resting beside a thin box, topped with a silicone number pad. “Thing must weight twenty pounds.” She pushed the bag onto my lap.

“Wow.” I hefted it by the strap. “I’ll keep my iPhone, thanks.”

“Ernie wanted me to give it to Dale.” I opened my mouth, but Francine waved a hand. “Don’t ask. I think it’s a joke, but I promised.”

My eyes strayed to the dresser, where small frames dotted a lace doily. “Is that Ernie? In a race car?”

Francine let out a breathless laugh. “I thought I’d left stock car racing behind when I got out of Daytona Beach. And then, I go and fall for a racin’ man.” She pushed off the bed and made the few steps to the dresser. Picking up the frame, she dragged her finger along the top edge before handing me the photo.

“Bless his heart, I made Ernie go to the fairgrounds alone. He went every Friday night for years. They used to have an oval track out there, like the one in Concord. This car in this photo was built by Cotton Gowans. He used to be a big-time name in NASCAR, both as a racer and later as an engineer. Local guy. Anyway, this fella paid Cotton to build the car, but apparently, he couldn’t drive worth a lick. He was so bad that he got himself his own little section of fans in the stands, people who just couldn’t resist pulling for an underdog, including Ernie.”

Ernie had been a casual practitioner of good grammar, at best. Francine was a sticker for proper speech. Did she realize she borrowed Ernie’s diction to tell this tale? I felt like some invisible torch had been passed.

She took the spot at my side again. Thrusting the photo into my hands, she plucked a tissue from the box on Ernie’s nightstand. “So, to make up for leaving me alone every Friday night, Ernie would get up on Saturday morning. Bring me coffee in bed. Then, he’d make my favorite omelet while he told me all about how this hapless driver embarrassed himself the night before.”

The peek into their early years brought tears to my eyes.

She dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “So, one night, the guy just finally gets it, you know? He figures out that all the money in the world won’t make him a racin’ man. He pulls up in front of his little fan section and offers to sell the car to whoever had the most cash in their wallet, right then and there.”

My eyes went wide. “And that was a race Ernie could win?”

She nodded. “I went off like a July firecracker when he pulled up on the curb, towing that damn car behind. ‘Tip’, I said, ‘even you can’t sell a damn race car’. He said, ‘Woman, hush. The race is at Darlington tomorrow. Darlington’s only good for two things, wreckin’ cars and raisin’ tempers’.”

Her laugh was more strangled sob than amusement. The way she nailed Ernie’s diction made my heart twist for our common loss. “I made him sleep on the couch.” Her smile looked a bit more genuine. “Had to make my own coffee the next morning, too. First time in our entire marriage, and the last.”

I laughed through my tears, thinking of the easy-going Tiptons as newlyweds, stalking around this little house like two sore-tailed cats.

“Anyway, the phone woke me bright and early Monday morning. When I picked up, this guy says, ‘Ma’am, my name’s Rick Ridenhour. Been up half the night tryin’ to chase down a car Cotton Gowens built. Folks say your husband just bought it. Mind if I speak to him?”

“Oh, my God,” I murmured. “Really?”

She nodded. “Rick and Dale were knockin’ on the front door before I sat lunch on the table. And people kept calling. Ernie would go to the phone, and I swear, he’d talk at the top of his lungs. ‘Pearson, huh? Well, yeah, I got that car, but I’m talkin’ to a fella right now ‘bout buyin’ it. Gimme your number in case he can’t get his heart in the right place.’”

I had to laugh at the picture of Ernie, pounding out the best deal. “Pure evil.”

She balled up the tissue and hurled it into the waste can beside the dresser. “He paid eleven hundred dollars for that damn car. Sold it to Rick for eighteen grand. That year, I earned twenty thousand dollars teaching school.”