Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (47 page)

“Macy got a bag with all that in it before you got here.”

She’d have taken it home. I needed to go by there anyway, to make a list of graduation gifts and deposit any cash. I’d have nothing but time to write thank you notes once I got my exams out of the way.

I slid my hand underneath Dale’s. If I didn’t think too hard about why he was going gray, the touches gave him a distinguished air. “Good Lord, Daddy, we’re gonna have to beat the women off you with a stick.”

I felt Caine’s quizzical gaze, but he settled into the chair and talked to his father in a way I suspected they did every morning, until the nurse chased us away. Neither of us was anxious to watch him take his breakfast through a tube.

Caine stepped into the elevator first and held the doors, ignoring the hostile stare from the security guard. 

“I’m taking your car, but not to the house. I want it locked down till the day of the race, unless you’re on a closed course. You can drive my truck, or I’ll rustle up something else, if it intimidates you.”

“Truck’s fine. I can start hauling stuff back.” I grinned. “And filling up your closet. What did Kolby mean about me not understanding Dale’s job?”

He poked the button to go to the first floor and pulled me close. “How about I explain that later? It’s gonna take a minute that I don’t have right now.”

God Almighty, he kissed like he detailed his truck.

I
could practically see heaven from the high truck seat, but I already missed the Audi’s communication system. Groaning with annoyance, I pressed the button on Caine’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Hey, Phillip.”

“Good morning. Did I wake you?”

“Oh, no. I’m blowing past Gaffney.” I glared at the tail lights of the semi in front of me. “Okay, ‘blowing’ might be an exaggeration. What’s up?”

“Just letting you know that Kolby’s attorney hired a process server to deliver the crewman who made that video a cease-and-desist letter this morning, so he lit up my phone. Using a guy who serves divorce papers for seventy-five bucks a pop, rather than a forty-nine-cent stamp, makes it look like the letter has legal grounds, which it does not—yet. But, Barnes’ attorney has already petitioned the court to assign Kolby’s case to a judge. That’s so he can request a court order to take the video down.”

“Sorry it’s bothering him. I mean, it’s only getting about a hundred thousand hits an hour.” I whipped into the right-hand lane, hoping I could get around the damn truck, but every lane was clogged with early-morning commuters. With a sigh, I drifted left again.

“George also asked the entire crew to come in today. He knows who made the video and wants to brought along.”

“Wanna bet that George bullies whoever made it into taking it down to save Kolby’s lawyer the effort?”

Phillip laughed. “I’m way ahead of him. Last night, I copied requests from the media to use the footage off your Twitter feed. The idiots think you have it, for some reason. The guy who made it wanted me to tell you, he’s turned down any payment.”

“That’s nice of him. I bet some of them would’ve paid big bucks for it.”

“ESPN has it in hand already. I let the segment producer know the video might be tied up in litigation, but he said they plan to run with it tonight. I’m just leaving the Speedway. Jesus, think you’re in traffic?”

“That’s fantastic. About ESPN. Traffic is the devil’s tool.”

“Richard offered to hook me and Harry up for the race on Sunday. Can you believe it? He asked us to join him and his wife in their box.”

I contemplated getting off at the Boiling Springs exit and making my way down Highway 9, but resisted the urge. The reds lights would piss me off worse than the slowpokes on the interstate. “Wow, that’ll be fun.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll be at your graduation.”

“Don’t be silly. Go to the race. Graduations are boring. Gotta go, bye.”

My emotions seethed too close to the surface. I ached to cry, but I had to agree with Caroline. I feared, once I really let go, I’d never stop.

Crisp white trim on the older campus buildings glistened under the early-morning sunlight. Shade dappled the well-kept grounds. Flower beds brimmed with roses, but when I pulled through the front gates, the charming campus no longer felt like home. Rather, as I glimpsed the tall turrets on Wilson Hall through the oaks, it felt like my tenure here had been an extended vacation. And I, the weary tourist, was ready to go home.

I found a parking space behind the science building. While I locked the truck, my stomach growled. I had time to make a cafeteria run.

The low buzz of conversation and the scent of fresh bacon greeted me. My stomach rolled. Rather than head to the line for a hot breakfast, I grabbed a plastic tray and trotted to the pastry table. I was scanning the doughnut selection—something I could take into the exam with me—when I heard my name.

Joelle Fitzgerald met my eyes, then leaned close to the student ahead of her in line. I couldn’t tell who she spoke to, but her voice carried, despite the clatter of pots and silverware.

“Of course I saw her on television, but what’s all the drama, anyway? Her stepfather probably slipped on his own wad of tobacco. He’s lucky that young driver didn’t really kick his ass.”

Joelle smirked and turned her back. I thought about confronting her, but since arguing with a pig was a losing proposition, my only debate was whether to aim for the bitch’s head or her ass.

Ass.

I lifted the plastic tray, but before I could swing, someone behind me snatched it from my hands. Peering over my shoulder, I met the disapproving eyes of the college president.

Oh, shit.

“Assault is never the answer.” Dr. Jamison’s lips formed a taut line. My cheeks caught fire. Joelle’s trilling laughter tempted me to jump her ass anyway. “I’d think you, of all people, would know that, Miss Hannah.”

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. The dining hall was never loud this early, but the large room fell utterly silent.

“Ladies, come with me.” The way the head of the college stressed the word ‘ladies’ made my ears burn. Surely someone, somewhere had written some wise and pithy saying that being ladylike was overrated. Unfortunately, Dr. Jamison and Francine Tipton had fed me the majority of my quotable quotations, and they were of one mind on how a lady conducted herself. I doubted any of Dale’s pithy racing quotes would help.

While I stalked down the center aisle behind Joelle, I felt the weight of every stare, but I still thought one of my red boots would look nice up her ass.  

The president sailed into her office, gesturing toward the pair of wing chairs facing her desk. I slammed into the closest one and stuck my feet under the edge of the desk, forcing Joelle to go around.

I gripped the chair arms. “She said that Dale had—”

“I heard what she said. Unfortunately, character is weighty matter. Can’t install it on an unstable foundation.”

Joelle gasped. “My character’s in question here? I guess you don’t know what little Miss NASCAR wrote on my car. Fortunately, I took pics.” Joelle scrolled through her phone, then slid the device across the desk.

Dr. Jamison leaned over to peer at the screen. Her brows rose. I wanted to give her a defiant look. Joelle
was
a cunt. I just couldn’t quite make my eyes meet Dr. Jamison’s. I admired this woman more than anyone I knew, except Dale. 

“I see.” Straightening her spine until I thought surely it would pop, Dr. Jamison put the fingertips of both hands together and stared. I couldn’t help it. I squirmed like a naughty toddler. “Shelby, I think you intended to strike Joelle.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I had every intention of striking her. And, I can’t say I’m sorry for what I wrote on her car.” I darted a look at Joelle. “If the shoe fits and all that.”

“Redneck,” Joelle fanned her fingers and inspected her manicure.

“Miss Hannah, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that women lose ground every day in the fight for equality. If we could just stop tearing each other down, I’d be more hopeful that we could prevail. And need I say, that after four years here, I fail to grasp why we’re having this conversation.”

Dr. Jamison sighed, but she focused on Joelle. “Ms. Fitzgerald, it might interest you to know that both sides of my family raised tobacco for centuries in North Carolina, beginning in 1764. If the treasure chest underneath your family tree had indeed been filled as many generations ago as you like to pretend, you’d also have ancestors who grew the crop. Therefore, you’d know how hypocritical such people look when they ridicule tobacco users. But, I see that’s news to you.”

It took me a second to figure out why Joelle stiffened.
Oh, honey, did she just say your family was new money?
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
Talk about a rich girl bitch slap.

“Shelby’s a scholarship student, as you know. She happens to be one by choice, rather than need. Hence, due to her current family emergency, the kitchen staff is short-handed this week. Therefore, if you expect to walk with your class, I’ll see you in the cafeteria every morning at six-fifteen, from now until Sunday. You’re excused, Ms. Fitzgerald.”

Joelle nearly fumbled her phone. “But... but, it was only a joke! You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve never worked in a kitchen!”

“In that case, in the morning, you’ll need to bring along a thousand-word essay on what constitutes appropriate humor.”

Even Joelle knew to quit when she was losing. She stalked out of the office with a dark look that boded me no good. I waggled my fingers.
Bye, honey.

“As for you, Ms. Hannah.” Dr. Jamison jerked her center desk drawer open and withdrew an exam blue book. “You told me a story to get in here.” She spun the booklet across the wide expanse of walnut. “If you expect to get out of here this weekend with a diploma, you will tell me another. It needs to be just as riveting as the first.”

One exam book? Twenty-four pages, three-quarters the size of normal notebook paper. Not to mention wide-ruled lines.
How could I hope to write anything ‘of equal merit’ to an essay that’d run over three hundred double spaced computer pages?

While I tried to work up the courage to ask what topic she had in mind, she rose and tugged the bottom of her jacket into place. “Professor Joyner and I had a chat last night. He’s agreed to grade this essay on its merits, and use the result for his two exams, rather than have you sit through them. I’m sure you want this over with so you can get back to your family. Therefore, you have this exam period to work. At one p.m., Dr. Winston expects to see you for his exam. And I. Absolutely. Without fail. Expect to see you and your mother on Sunday.”

None of that was a request. I couldn’t refuse, not after all this woman had done for me. My old high school principal could learn a thing or three from Dr. Jamison. It was odd how different she and Dale were, and yet, to me, they seemed built of the same stuff. Both gave me confidence and endless inspiration—along with the occasional bucketful of humility.

“I have a meeting that will run past lunch, so you may use my desk. Thanks to you and Joelle, my stomach’s going to growl the entire time. I’ll let my secretary know you’re to turn in the booklet to her by noon.”

Sweeping around the desk, she bent, slipping her arm around my shoulders. I inhaled her
Oscar de la Renta
perfume with a pang of loss I couldn’t decipher.

“I was very proud when I saw your press conference—even after you lost your temper. You’re a credit to Dale Hannah and to this institution. I will pray for Dale’s complete recovery without ceasing.” Tears swam in her honey brown eyes.

She’d disappeared from sight before I realized she hadn’t assigned a topic.

Which meant, there could be only one. In twenty-four slim pages, she expected me to explain what happened between the first time I’d landed in this chair, and now.

I gulped, but took out the pen Caine had used this morning, rolling it between my palms.

***

L
ater that evening, I scanned my note, crumpling the page with a cry of frustration. Who knew a stupid Dear John letter would end up being the most difficult thing I’d written today? My head pounded, but I smoothed out the paper.

Dear Robert,

I took this ring because, at a moment when I surely needed one, you looked like Prince Charming. But, Prince Charming would’ve rented a belt sander and bought a quart of paint. Because Jessica Whitley deserves to enjoy sex without recrimination, same as you and your frat brothers, but you can’t see that, so I can’t marry you after all.

Good luck in law school. Pot holes aren’t really my thing.

Shelby

I doubted Robert would connect the graffiti on his bedroom door with the note, and thus, the message would make no sense to him, but I was all worn out with what other people thought. I had places to go and no more time for the boy who might or might not have proposed so his daddy could get his name in the papers as the man to hire if you wanted to sue NASCAR.

Dead potted plants and colorful streamers littered the frat house patio. Except for the leafy trees and green grass, the place looked as derelict as it had in January. The back door sat ajar, so I held my breath and stepped inside. The soles of my shoes made a hideous squelching sound on the grubby linoleum.