Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (30 page)

“Hey,” the sheriff barked. “Can’t talk. Have a prisoner in the back. As soon as I get Barnes booked, I’ll call you back.”

Oh, God, Mack arrested Kolby?
“Mack! Don’t hang up. What happened?”

He hesitated. “Check your phone in two.”

“Mack?” I found my keys and pointed the remote.

“Yes?”

Jerking the car door open, I jumped inside. “Got any pull with the South Carolina Highway Patrol? I’m in Spartanburg. I don’t wanna end up in jail.”

“What’s your twenty?”

“I’m in the parking lot at Target. On Highway 29.”

“I’ll make a call. Stay put. Do not drive while you check out the link I’m sendin’. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wait. I can’t go
. How could I face Caine? Much less Jonny?

Robert jerked the passenger door open, all but yelling into his phone. “I’m riding with Shelby. Dad, Jesus Christ, did you call this or what? We’re on the way.”

I stared at my phone, wondering what the hell Mack was sending. The nineteen-second call time stared back, then the screen returned to my screensaver—the picture of me and Caroline in green robes on graduation day. I jerked my door open and slid behind the wheel.

“What are you waiting on?” Robert demanded.

“The Highway Patrol.”

While I plugged my phone into the entertainment system, the tone denoting an email sounded. I opened the text on the larger screen.
Why would Mack send a link to You Tube?
I tapped the link, then grabbed my safety harness, belting up while the site loaded.

Robert fumbled his way into the restraint. “This thing’s a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah. I wish I had the ‘Cuda back.”

Kolby Barnes knocks out crew chief
, the title screamed. The clip already had nineteen thousand views and it’d only been uploaded seventeen minutes ago. Swallowing hard, I slapped Robert’s hand away from the screen and touched the play button.

The opening frames were blurry, but the red-and-black Ridenhour crew uniforms finally came into focus.

“Mother. Fucker,” a man cried. “Gimme a goddamn break. Did the little prick really go after Kasey again? With Jamie runnin’ up front?”

“He needs a spankin’ and a pacifier,” a different voice stated. “Oh, shit. Look.”

The focus shifted to Richard Ridenhour. The team owner’s congested, purplish shade reminded me far too much of Ernie’s complexion during his final heart attack.

“Stand down! Stand down!” Rick cried, motioning the pit crew away from the wall. The team owner ran toward the concrete barrier separating the pit box from the crew area. Dale burst into the frame from the opposite side, dodging a huge metal toolbox like the one I’d sat on at the Christmas party, only taller.

“Rick, calm down!” Dale’s cry was overwhelmed by the roar of an engine. My stomach dove when the screen whirled through a forty-degree spin, but when the frame came into focus again, the twenty-two car limped into the pit box. Crumpled metal peeled back to reveal a hissing radiator. A strip of rubber flapped on the right front tire, which was flattened to the rim. The car lurched to a halt.

Shrugging off Dale’s hand, Richard threw a leg over the wall, struggling across. The old man righted himself beside the car and drove his fingers through the net covering the window, ripping the flimsy barrier away.

Thanks to the throbbing engine and hiss of steam, the audio couldn’t pick up the driver’s words. Kolby ripped off his helmet. Rick shoved his shoulders inside the car, blocking the view. A moment later, he backed away. The person filming shifted to his right a couple of steps.

Richard wrenched Kolby through the window like a rag doll, one arm locked around the young driver’s neck. Barnes’ legs were still in the car when Rick balled his fist and drove it into Kolby’s midsection.

“Jesus, he’s strong for an old man,” Robert muttered.

Harder, Richard.
As though he heard, Rick slammed his fist into Kolby’s gut again.

Dale leaped the wall.

“No, no, stay back,” I whispered, wishing I could turn back time. Rick landed a couple more punches. Kolby kicked free of the window, but he made no attempt to strike back at Richard. He grabbed the older man’s arm and ducked out of the choke hold—then threw himself at Dale.

The phone rang, freezing the video. “Use the car system and find the video again,” I spat, unplugging the phone. Robert’s fingers hovered over the dial, so I spun it to the app screen myself. With a nod, he tapped the You Tube icon.

“Hello?”

“Shelby Roberts?”

“Yes.” The brusque male voice had to belong to one of the local highway patrol.

“This is Dr. Jared Erikkson, Dale Hannah’s neurosurgeon. According to his employer, Mr. Hannah assigned his medical power of attorney to you. Do you understand what that means?”

He did what?
“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Hannah’s unresponsive. The rescue squad intubated. My exam leads me to suspect a bleed in his brain and a fractured skull.”

My head thumped in sympathy, then settled into a steady throb.

“Before I run any tests, I want your permission to put him in medical coma. The purpose—”

“Isn’t that what they did to Sam Oshmann?”

I almost snapped at Robert
—damn his football obsession—
but recalled that Oshmann played wide receiver for the Carolina Panthers. A gut-wrenching tackle from two sides at once knocked the player’s helmet off. His head hit the hard artificial surface in the Georgia Dome, resulting in a severe concussion and two fractured vertebras. His rehab had lasted six months and counting, but he expected to play again next season.

“Yes.” Relief throbbed in the physician’s voice. “He’s my patient as well. The procedure was highly effective on Sam. Mr. Hannah’s injury is similar.”

The baking interior didn’t help my hot flash. “Do it. Do it now. I had a mild concussion in December. I believe the injury was more severe than was diagnosed. Everything I’ve struggled with since are things that would keep Dale from doing his job and that cannot happen. Put him under.”
Hell no. Dale already had to give up driving.

He read out my email address. I confirmed it was accurate. “I’ll have a nurse email you the consent form and I’ll be in touch. Oh, one more thing.”

The doctor paused. So did my heart. “You should know, before Mrs. Ridenhour had the paperwork faxed over, I explained this procedure to Dale’s wife. She and one of his sons were opposed.” The call time flashed onscreen, before I had the chance to ask which stepbrother would cuss me out. 

Dale. Oh, God. Dale
. I stared at Robert, trying to swallow hard enough to send my heart back where it belonged. “Do I want to finish watching that video?”

“If I were Barnes’ attorney, I’d ask the judge to take it down. It’d be prejudicial to a jury.”

Whatever.
“Okay.” I shoved the key into the switch. The engines roared to life. “I... can you just ride back with Switz? I’m okay. Really.”

“Shelby, honey. I’m going with you.”

Even while my heart warmed at the concern in his eyes, my brain flashed an image of Caine and Robert, stuck for hours in a silent hospital waiting room.
Not happening.
The phone dinged.

I felt for the digital pen I still carried in my purse, a relic from the days when I’d needed people to sign release forms for the ‘Cuda Confessions videos. People stopped to stare at the Audi, too, but it summoned only envious looks and not stories.

While I scrawled my name, a hard rap on my window startled me. I wrenched around. A crisp gray shirt, black tie, and gold-plated badge with the state seal of South Carolina in the center filled the window. I lowered the glass.

“Miss Roberts?” the female highway patrol officer asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m your escort to the state line. NCHP will meet you there.”

Goddammit
. No time now to get rid of Robert.

This is the choice I made. For Mom and Dale. Might as well live it.

“Okay. I’m ready to roll.” I tapped the screen to send the permission form and hurled the pen into Robert’s lap. Sucking down a deep breath, I jammed the transmission into reverse and screamed out of the lot behind the Crown Vic.

I
fumed when the light turned red, slowing our progress before we even made it out of the parking lot.

“Thirty seconds left in the clip.” Robert hovered his finger over the button. “Ready?”

I nodded, wishing I’d worn jeans rather than a dress, so I could wipe my palms. He tapped the screen.

After Kolby struck Dale, Dale buried his left fist in Kolby’s solar plexus. He followed that shot with an uppercut to Kolby’s jaw.

“Ouch.” Robert winced. “Man’s got one hell of a one-two punch.”

Barnes sprawled across the hood of his car.
Stay down.
The air conditioning flowed, but sweat ran down the back of my neck.

Why didn’t the jackass making this video throw down the damn phone and help Dale?

In the background, Rick dragged his leg over the wall. His toe caught and he tumbled onto the cement. Dale glanced back in time to see Rick fall, but not in time to see why the team owner went down.

“Rick!” Dale cried. Abandoning the fight, Dale plopped his palm on top of the barrier and swung both legs over like an Olympic medalist, going down on one knee to check on his longtime friend.

Don’t turn your back. Don’t turn your back! Even you said the bastard was a snake in the grass.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

Kolby lifted his head with a shake. Pushing off the car, he screamed at the pit crew. “Get me a new round of rubber and see about the goddamn radiator.” He flung himself after Dale.

“Motherfucker can take a punch,” Robert muttered. “How’d he get up?”

Half the crew moved to service the car. The other half stayed put, including the person filming with his cell phone. Kolby landed a wild punch on Dale’s shoulder. Dale got to his feet and whirled, but didn’t have his balance. Kolby slammed his palms against Dale’s chest and gave him a vicious shove with both hands.

“Did you see that?” Robert stopped the playback and pointed to the screen.

The toolbox was right behind Dale, but Robert’s finger pointed to something more sinister. Kolby’s boot, hooked around the back of Dale’s left leg.

Algebra I had been challenging. Algebra II reduced me to tears every night. I’d outright sucked at Physics, but worst of all, Geometry had been a living hell, where every single person the class eventually caught on, except me.

Despite my D- in the hated course, even I could tell the base of Dale’s skull would clip the hard metal edge.

“Kolby put his entire weight behind that shove. Dale’s out flung arms won’t reverse his fall.” Robert laid a hand on my thigh. “Don’t watch it, babe.”

My stomach roiled. Behind me, a horn blew. I let the clutch out and hit the gas.

“Answer call,” I barked at the phone.

Francine’s voice filled the car. “I had the race on, honey. Sharing a moment with Ernie, I guess. I don’t know what to say. The announcers said Dale was airlifted to Sammy Owens and he was unresponsive. Where are you?” When she heard I was on my way to Charlotte, she cleared her throat.

“I better let you go so you can focus on your driving, then. But... if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. George can be a bully.”

“Francine! Who’s George?”

“George England, dear.”

“Current NASCAR president,” Robert shocked me by responding. He had his phone in hand, so maybe he’d looked up the name? I didn’t have time to watch him for trying to stick close to the patrolwoman.

“Yes, that’s right,” Francine replied. “He’s the majority shareholder of the four stockholders in NASCAR, Inc. Really, none of the other board members matter, since George owns twenty-seven percent of the stock, but if you think of something, please call. And honey, I’m praying for Dale.”

Bully?
Before I could ask why she thought a man I’d never met might bully me, she’d hung up. 

I raced up the onramp to I-26 West, right on the patrol car’s bumper. A few miles later, we took the exit for I-85 North. The police vehicle hit eighty-five miles an hour, then didn’t pick up speed, to my dismay.

So, England was the guy who’d decide whether Audi got in. I almost called Francine back, then realized that Dale’s injury, coming so close on the heels of Ernie’s death, might be too much for her to deal with. God knew, I felt the same way.

I chafed under the SCHP’s escort’s sedate speed. We’d barely reached the first Gaffney exit when Mack rang me back. “Got the prick fingerprinted, photographed, and in a cell. You watch the tape?”

“Wish I hadn’t, but yes.” I flipped the visor down, wishing I knew where my sunglasses were.

“If you want to fight England, call the prosecutor on duty. Judge Wallace knows what kind of money the sport brings to town, so you gotta play the right card. Now, I know a college-educated woman like you can think something up on her own, but there sure was a lotta kids at that race. Can you remember this number?”

Fight England? About what?
Robert questioned everything, but he didn’t say a word.
So tired of this mental fog.
Whatever Mack and Francine were talking about must be damn obvious.