Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (50 page)

The reporter lifted his head from the pad he scribbled on. “So, the race is confirmed?”

Caine leaned to the mic. “Has the car been authenticated? If so, by who?”

“Dutch Brannon’s flyin’ in tonight to look at it. Based on the photos I sent, he’s pretty excited.”

I raised a brow at Caine, who reminded me. “Brannon is Dodge’s racing guru. One of Dad’s best buddies, actually. Haven’t seen him since Dodge pulled out of NASCAR.”

“Build ticket’s in place, stapled under the back seat.” Kinsey sounded like a kid at Christmas. “Those notorious numbers on the frame and engine match, plus, there’s a handwritten account of how the car failed to make its appointment with the crusher. Quite an engaging read.”

The reporter tapped his pen against the pad. “The odometer registers fewer than two miles. Car’s been stored in a controlled environment since the day it was built. Looks like it just rolled off the line.”

Several whistles filled the air. Kinsey gave his colleagues a smug grin. “Dutch says it’s worth over six million dollars, if it’s the real deal. I have documentation suggesting it’s worth as much as ten.”

“Then, the race will take place,” I assured them. If nothing else woke Dale, maybe the 6k ‘Cuda would get the damn job done.

“Who owns it?” Caine demanded. “Where’s it been all this time?”

“Owner wants to remain anonymous, but it’s my understanding, the car won’t change hands unless you win. Barnes wouldn’t reveal what the agreed-on sales figure was.”

Did it matter? What was Caroline’s work worth? Millions, I’d gathered from conversations the guys had had in the last two days. That was, if she had the money to file for the patents and testing, and if a car manufacturer saw the potential in... whatever the hell she’d done. Life was too crazy at the moment to even ask. Besides, I doubted I’d understand one word.

Assuming the reporters were done asking questions, I was about to thank them for coming, when another reporter said, “That’s a lot to put up against an R8 worth, what? Two hundred grand? What am I missing?”

No, no, you don’t get that part of the story just by asking nicely, when we’re writing it in blood, sweat, and tears.

“I didn’t set the terms of the bet,” I reminded them. I ached to accuse Kolby and Niles of trying to steal trade secrets, but, in case we were wrong, why tip anyone off that there was something in the Audi worth stealing?

I kept telling myself that Goodlowe Albright would’ve asked, if he was as smart as they kept saying. Niles never saw the car do better than an eleven-second run. Caine was thrilled now that I’d had their friend kicked off the crews. He swore Niles wouldn’t have time to find whatever the fuck it was we didn’t want anyone to see in the window of time the German had given himself to inspect the cars.

“Shelby, how about an interview?” The man in the rear waved a hand and introduced himself as the guy Caroline liked from ESPN. He smiled. “C’mon, woman, stop playing hard to get.”

“Right now, my brains feel like scrambled mush. You’d be better off interviewing a sea sponge. Dale’s your story, not me.”

“We need to get back to the ICU. Thanks, fellas,” Caine tugged me away from the podium.

“One more question, Shelby?” another reporter called. When I hesitated, he rushed on. “Do you have any comment about the fact that hat sales are down thirty-eight percent on the NASCAR website, compared with this same week last year? Are you aware that retailers are complaining about lost revenue? A whole bunch of vendors are getting hung with All-Star hats. That’s money they won’t earn, if they don’t earn it this week.”

I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Aren’t you punishing the little guy here? England already made his ruling. Your fans, Dale’s fans, well, they want to hear you lift the boycott.”

I need you to open your eyes, Dale
. Thirty-eight percent? I had no idea how many dollars lost that might be.

If anything I’d said was costing George a dime, I wanted the situation to continue. This wasn’t about me, however.

“NASCAR is a family, I’ve heard Dale say, from the drivers to the team owners, to the guy selling souvenirs in the tent closest to the parking lot.” Mr. England saw no need to change his mind. I think that’s everyone’s loss, but I agree. Continuing the boycott is pointless.”

My failure yawned at my feet. I wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt over me.

“Hey, Shelby!” Another man worked his way through the crowd. “Do you still maintain that Hannah didn’t cheat, or has someone explained to you exactly what it is Ridenhour pays Dale the big bucks to do?”

Caine wrapped his fist around the microphone and yanked it in his direction. “Look up the word ‘innovation’, won’t you? George likes to pretend that anyone can drive a car right off the showroom floor down at the Chevy dealership and win the Charlotte 600 this week, but we all know that ain’t so, not any more. These cars are hand-built from the ground up. If he’d move off the fairy tale that no one believes anymore but him, we could show folks a thing or two.”

The small podium jumped when he drove his fist down on top. “We weave through the maze of rules to find somethin’ he ain’t outlawed yet. Break new ground with solid engineering, and sometimes, sheer genius, and still, we’re labeled cheaters?”

Flashes sparked, fueling Caine’s rant. “NASCAR has to be the only industry that penalizes its best minds for thinkin’ outside the goddamn box. How does anyone win in a cookie-cutter car, if not by innovation? Dad’s the least-penalized crew chief in NASCAR—but the one with the most rules added to the book for his ideas. Why? Because he’ll point the inspectors right to what he’s done, then tell ‘em why it should be allowed. Do you blame a chained-up hound for stretchin’ his leash to its limit?”

He circled his hand. “The edge of that wore-out path around the tree? That’s where we live. Right there on the edge, brother. And to tell the truth, if we quit, you’d hate your job. Nobody’s ever been inspired by more of the damn same.”

Caine grabbed my hand and half-dragged me inside the hospital.

“Wow.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “We’re goin’ home. I ain’t sleepin’ in that damn bus another night. We’re gonna unload your stuff at the house. Then, we’ll talk.”

I squeezed his hand as we hurried through the hospital. “Nice speech.”

He huffed. “Can’t let you and Colt have all the glory.”

T
he front yard had been neatly clipped, but fat clumps dotted the shorn grass. The heavy perfume coming through the window said the job had been done today. To the right of the drive, weeds stood a foot high. I prayed none of the baby rabbits hopping in every direction dove underneath Caine’s tires. A deer raised its head, peering through the screen of trees behind the garage. The animal bolted with a graceful leap when Caine braked and slung his door open.

I stared at the plastic-wrapped cube he removed from the console. The drug store logo made my body go haywire.

“You can’t race until we know.” He dropped his head. “Unless that’s why you stayed over in Spartanburg. To—”

Stupid, scrambled brain.
I’d made up my mind to go with Caroline to the place she’d found. It never occurred to me to ask Francine to take me to the clinic in Greenville.

“No, that’s not why.” I stared at the door to the bay where Dale had swapped the ‘Cuda’s engine. “I miss Ernie. Francine and I toured his favorite spots to eat. Gorged on Krispy Kreme every night. I slept. Mostly, I slept.”

“Let’s do this, babe.” He tucked the bag under his arm, out of my reach.

My head screamed that I didn’t want to know. My stomach twisted. My knees started shaking. My soles literally itched to run up the driveway and disappear in the dark. I slid to the ground and rounded the back of the truck.

He held out one of those big, rough hands. I clutched his fingers while he led me through the carport. Dale’s truck looked almost green under a layer of pollen and fine grass clippings. The go cart had been parked by the garage at Christmas, but was now under the carport. Fresh mud caked the tires.

I pictured Caine cutting the grass, then blowing off steam by ripping through the woods. What had agitated him so? The baby? The upcoming race? My two nights spent out of touch while I hung out with Francine? The last one made no sense. We’d spent the last four years out of touch. 

“Dammit, Colt.” Caine’s mutter told me he hadn’t been the irresponsible one.

The downstairs bath jarred loose snatches of the night I’d let Mack Brown take my virginity. Was I destined to ride out every cataclysmic event of my sexual history in this room?

Caine pried the box lid open.
Sweet baby Jesus, is he reading the instructions?

He set the page aside, then placed a plastic wand on the edge of the counter, in easy reach of the toilet.

I stared into his eyes, unable to force my feet across the linoleum. He crossed the tiny room and fitted his hands around my waist. I stared at the front of his Luke Bryan T-shirt, fighting to keep my chin from wobbling. He lifted me, only to lower me again. My feet landed on his steel-toed boots.

“Stay right there.” He wrapped one arm around me, then the other, pinning me to his chest. I held on for dear life, inhaling the masculine perfume that clung to him.

And we danced.

Every argument I’d ever heard in favor of—and against—abortion swelled inside my head. Both positions had the ring of ineffable truth. For the rest of my life, would those opposing stones grind at my soul and sharpen my self-pity, the way they’d done my mother? Would they pile up around my feet, waiting to trip me whenever I tried to step over them, the way they’d done Caroline? Beat me down from behind if I dared sidestep a responsibility I knew in my heart I wasn’t ready for?

Would I have the courage to put myself first, the way Francine advocated? Could I accept that, to some—possibly even Caine—that decision would make me a murderer?

While we swayed, heart to heart, some of my resentment toward Mom unknotted, because I stood in her shoes now. How could something smaller than my pinkie toe trump everything else? 

Caine kept moving until the only noise in my head was the rock-steady thump of his heart, rocking me until the ocean of his eyes drowned the last howl inside my soul. 

“Ready.” I wobbled to the toilet and pushed my pants down. My bladder turned shy, so I reached for the bag, thinking I’d read the receipt to distract myself. Something heavier than a sales slip lay inside. Cocking a brow at Caine, I drew out a tiny white...
what is that?
Black, childish printing scrawled across the front of the short-sleeved, one-piece baby garment that snapped between the legs.

I’m gonna be

an enginear

an enginier

good at math.

Tears stung my eyes, but at last, sensation stirred in my bladder. I discarded the shirt, tensing to slow my stream while I lifted the test with clumsy fingers and shoved it between my thighs.

“Three to five minutes.” Canine cleared his throat and slid a forefinger along a bold line of text on the huge fold-out page of instructions and diagrams. “Takes longer to register a result if the test is negative.”

To him, this seemed an engineering problem. If A, then B, and this test would point the direction we were to go. Not at all like I felt, which was, if A, then holy fucking hell Batman, pass me a shot of tequila. If B, keep ‘em coming.

I yanked the stick out of the stream and laid it on the bag.

“Three to five minutes?” Jerking my pants up as soon as I stood, I fastened them, then nearly tripped over my own feet trying to turn on the faucet so I could wash my hands. Awkwardness clung to me like August humidity.

If we ever have a child, finding out shouldn’t be like this.

Since when has anything ever turned out like I thought it should?

Giving the soap a half-hearted rub, I slung my fingers under the stream and wrenched off the faucet. Swiping my hands on the seat of my jeans, I turned, only to realize Caine held the tiny shirt.

While I stared, he folded it in half, then in half again, only to unfold it and start over. He pressed the garment to his chest, laid his hand at the halfway point, then let the top portion fall, but he didn’t look up.

“It’ll keep. You know, if we don’t need it now.” He laid the bundle down near the bag, then couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands. “I’ll keep too, if you don’t need me right now.”

In the back of my mind, I’d been doing what I always did, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for him to say or do something to show he didn’t want to raise another man’s child. Not that I wanted this baby. But, I sure as hell didn’t want him lying to me.

And all the while, he’d been waiting for my period to start? So I could tell him I didn’t need a baby daddy?

I stood perfectly still, sensing that what I did next affected forever. This wasn’t the moment of my girlish dreams, not here, in this shabby bathroom no one ever used unless I had some womanly crisis.

But this was the moment I had, and if I’d learned anything from Ernie’s death and Dale’s close brush with eternity, it was that the next moment wasn’t a given.