Sweet Carolina (15 page)

Dell let her go. What choice did he have? She
was right. Her reputation had to be above reproach in this business
or the other owners would force her out, maybe NASCAR itself. On
the other hand, he'd get slaps on the back and brownie points for
screwing the boss. It wasn't fair, but that's the way things were
around the track. Wasn't his dad's life proof enough? Caudell
Senior slept with every track bunny who hopped into his line of
vision, and he'd basked in the sunshine of masculine approval
because of it.

“Well, fuck,” Dell said, tossing his now
empty beer bottle into the wastebasket.

* * * *

Her lady parts were still throbbing from
Dell's attentions the next day when she set out for the owner's
meeting. She checked and double-checked her appearance before
leaving the hauler, as if she expected to find a big red letter “A”
on her forehead. Assured she looked normal, as normal as any woman
could in a roomful of mostly middle-aged men, she pushed the door
open and stepped inside. Heads turned as she made her way as close
to the front as possible. Her size put her at a disadvantage among
the men who were her counterparts, but she refused to be
intimidated. She was one of them, and they'd better get used to
it.

Caro acknowledged a few of the other owners
who spoke to her and waved at another across the room. Butch Renfro
stood on the opposite side. She caught his eye and inclined her
head in a polite, but not exactly friendly greeting. He smirked,
then turned his attention to the man on his left. Caro inwardly
shrugged; certain now Russell had delivered her message. She wasn't
going to sell. Not unless there was no other option. She refused to
dwell on how soon it might come to fruition.

The meeting was as boring as ever and Caro
found it difficult to concentrate on the agenda. Snippets of her
time in Dell's bed kept creeping in, stealing her thoughts.
Finally, the meeting was over. Caro waited her turn to file out the
single door. Being near the front, she was one of the last to
leave. She stepped out to find Butch Renfro waiting for her.

“Ms. Hawkins,” he said. “Do you have a
minute?”

Caro kept walking. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”
Butch settled in beside her. “Besides, we don't have anything to
discuss. I'm not selling.”

“I admire your spunk, Carolina, but you and I
both know this isn't any place for a woman. Your daddy knew it too.
He must be turning over in his grave to see you dressed like that,
hanging out with grease monkeys and the like.”

Caro seethed at his chastising tone and
picked up the pace, hoping he'd get the message and move on. When
he continued to dog her steps, she stopped and turned to him.
“Look, Mr. Renfro, I have no plans to sell, not to you or anyone
else. You can insult my fashion choices all you want, but I'm not
stupid enough to sit in the pit wearing anything other than a fire
suit. As for my father, he had an antiquated viewpoint regarding a
woman's place in this world, but I loved him anyway. Maybe he
didn't want this life for me, but I aim to make him proud, and I'm
going to do it by associating with some of the most talented and
best-educated people I can. Just in case you don't know who I'm
talking about, those are the people you erroneously refer to as
grease monkeys.” She turned. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a
lot to do before they wave the green flag.”

She instantly put Renfro out of her mind when
she strode into the garage – right into the middle of chaos. Dell's
car had already been taken out for inspection. Instead of setting
up their work area, her entire pit crew stood around, shouting at
each other over the roar of engines on either side of their
assigned stall. “What's going on?” she asked, raising her voice to
be heard. Everyone stopped yelling and half a dozen heads turned
her way.

“Nothing, Ms. Hawkins.” This from the catch
can man, and the youngest member of the pit crew.

“Everything's under control, Caro,” Russell
said.

Caro eyed the silent group, uncertain whether
she should ask more questions, or let the situation, whatever it
was, resolve itself. They'd clammed up fast enough, which told her
it was probably one of those inexplicable guy things – of which
she'd already had plenty of for one day. “Okay, but we don't have
time for this. The race starts in less than an hour.” She
catalogued the faces and realized Dell wasn't among them. “Where's
our driver?”

“He's already gone out for the driver
introductions and interviews,” Russell said. Caro nodded.

“Good.” At least someone was doing his job.
“Let's get a move on. I know the pit stops are scheduled in the
All-Star race, but we still need to be on our toes. No messing
around. Dell needs to win at least one of the heats.”

She left to a chorus of “Yes, ma'ams.” After
a stop in the hauler for her notebook, Caro made her way to their
assigned pit stall. She had her foot on the first rung of the war
wagon when an arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back, and
over the wall onto the track.

“Stand with me,” Dell said in her ear as he
dropped her feet to the ground. “I don't want to be out here all
alone.”

Caro turned and frowned at him. “You could
have just asked,” she said, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her
fire suit.

“You wouldn't have come,” he said. “I know
you.” He placed a hand on the small of her back, gently turning her
and compelling her to walk beside him. She complied rather than put
up a fight to draw even more attention. “All the other owners are
out here for the national anthem, you should be too.”

“The other owners aren't me,” she said.

Dell dipped his head close to hers. “What you
mean is, the other owners aren't sleeping with their drivers,” he
said. Her skin flushed with heat and it had nothing to do with the
sun beating down on them. Dell's next words knocked her completely
off balance. “But you don't know that for sure.”

Caro laughed the rest of the way to Dell's
car where he arranged her so they stood hip-to-hip, facing the
flagpole. She was vaguely aware of cameras snapping around them,
but Dell's ridiculous statement drained the tension from her body.
He was right. There was nothing wrong with her standing with her
driver during the pre-race festivities, Caro rationalized. So what
if the spot she occupied was traditionally filled by wives and
girlfriends – or husbands in rare cases. Some of the younger
drivers invited their mothers to fill the spot.

The ceremony came to an end, and Caro turned
to wish Dell good luck. Before the words were out, he snaked an arm
around her and brought her flush against his hard body. She
instantly stiffened and tried to push away, but he held her tight.
She looked up at him, a protest on her lips. Dell kissed her. Right
in front of God and the elite of NASCAR. Her first instinct was to
get away, but it lasted the span of one record lap around the
track, no more, and then she kissed him back.

As quickly as he grabbed her, he let her go.
With a knowing smile, he hoisted himself through the car window and
into the driver's seat. Caro watched in muted shock as he settled
in and reached for his helmet. He paused, holding his helmet in his
hands, and winked at her. “Wish me luck,” he said.

Caro fumed. The sparks flying off her could
have fired the engines on half the cars lined up to take the track.
She took a step back as Dell heeded the order to start the engine.
The roar of fifty high performance engines firing at the same time
drowned out whatever retort her sizzled brain might have come up
with, provided her brain was actually functioning – which it was
not. The ground trembled beneath her feet, reminding her it was
time to leave. Dell smiled at her, and with a flick of his fingers,
shooed her away.

* * * *

Dell fired the engine and called himself all
kinds of an idiot. He didn't know what came over him. One minute he
was immersed in pre-race musings regarding strategy in a
winner-take-all race like this one, and the next, he was sweeping
Caro off her feet, and all because he'd caught a glimpse of her
fire suit-clad ass. Hauling her out on the track to stand beside
him wasn't so bad. He'd told the truth. Most of the owners were out
there, so there wasn't any reason she shouldn't be too.

What he hadn't expected was the way it felt
to have her standing beside him – like he was some sort of
gladiator and she was his woman. He made her laugh, and that made
him ridiculously happy for some reason. She didn't laugh near
enough these days. The Caro he remembered from their shared
childhood laughed all the time. The sound of her laughter was like
sunshine on the cold, dark places in his soul, and when it was time
to send her on her way, he couldn't not kiss her.

Her body language screamed at him to stop,
and he was going to, but something shifted and she went all soft in
his arms, kissing him back. God almighty, he was a knight in
shining armor going to battle to defend the damsel in distress. It
took all his strength to step away from her, and he soon found out
folding himself into the seat with a hard-on was no picnic
either.

Damn. He needed to concentrate. With a
million dollars at stake in the All-Star race, everyone took it
seriously. He'd be a fool not to. He waved her away and dragged his
thoughts back to where they belonged. Just because he was hell-bent
on giving away his inheritance didn't mean he wanted to live the
life of a pauper. He needed money of his own, and a million dollars
would go a long way toward his goal of living off his own winnings
rather than his father's.

The first twenty laps went without incident.
The car handled well so he decided to skip the first optional pit
stop in favor of possibly gaining track position. He'd love to win
a million dollars, but there was a bonus purse for the winner of
each twenty-lap segment too. Winning at least one would be good –
preferably the last one. That would set him up as one of the first
four to take the track after the mandatory pit stop before the
final segment.

He pitted after forty laps, took four new
tires, and managed to maintain decent track position. Going into
the final twenty-lap segment, Dell was in decent position to make a
run for the lead. He squeezed past the last three cars between him
and the race leader without incident, leaving him with a clear view
of the lead car's bumper.

“Drop low in turn two,” his spotter
advised.

“Roger that,” Dell said. It was a sound
strategy. Stater had taken the high groove on that turn the entire
race, so if Dell kept his car in the low groove, he should be able
to slip underneath and take the lead.

Dell bided his time. He only needed to be in
the lead for the last lap – that was the only one that counted.
Fifteen laps in, he made his move. Stater went high. Dell slid low
and throttled up as much as he dared. It wasn't enough. Stater came
out of the turn, throttled up a fraction of a second earlier than
Dell and slipped back down in front of Dell on the backstretch.

Dell cursed and nosed up on Stater's bumper –
fair warning he meant business. Stater took the warning to heart,
and Dell made three more futile attempts to arrest the lead. With
two laps to go, Dell threw caution to the wind.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Caro warned
through his headset.

Dell acknowledged her warning with one of his
own. “Who's driving this car?” he asked as he cut deep and low,
throttling up when reason cautioned to do the opposite. His
opponent hesitated, no doubt taken by surprise at Dell's audacity.
Stater recovered, recognized Dell's reckless bid and edged down the
track until his rear bumper was within inches of clearing the front
of Dell's car.

It was now or never. Dell pushed his car to
the limit, calling Stater's bluff. The two cars jockeyed for the
lead through the backstretch into turns three and four. Dell held
his ground in the high-speed game of chicken. Coming out of turn
four, Stater dropped low, bumping Dell onto the apron. Dell gripped
the wheel tightly and retaliated by swinging back onto the track,
right into the driver's side of Stater's car.

Metal ground against metal as the two cars
rubbed along the front stretch toward the finish line. All he
needed was an inch. A one-inch clearance to win this segment and be
one of the top four in the final segment. Dell glanced to his
right, but couldn't see Stater clearly. He calculated the distance
in his mind and counted down silently. When he reached zero, he
jerked the wheel left to disengage from the other car, and in the
same instant, he throttled up. Stater did the same, but a fraction
of a second too late. Dell shot forward, crossing the finish line
ahead of Stater by six inches.

Dell immediately throttled down and watched
as Stater shot him the finger as he sailed past him. None of it
mattered now. He had the purse for winning the fourth segment, and
he'd start in fourth position for the final ten-lap showdown.

“Shit, good driving, Dell,” Jeff said. “Bring
her in for the mandatory pit stop.”

“Coming in,” Dell said as he took a cool down
lap before turning onto pit row. He came to a stop in their
designated stall. The crew rushed to do their job, readying the car
to go back out for the last segment. He'd start fourth, ahead of
what remained of the fifty cars that began the race. With a million
at stake, everyone was pushing it, taking risks they normally
wouldn't, and as a result, the final field would be about
twenty-five cars. Of those, few had any chance of winning, but it
wouldn't stop them from trying. With that much cash on the line,
even the sanest of drivers could go a little nuts.

Some of the drivers elected to stretch their
legs during the ten-minute stop, but Dell stayed in the car. That
didn't stop the reporters from jabbing microphones and cameras in
the window. He expected the questions after the way he took the
segment lead away from Stater, who was now regulated to one of the
twenty or so also-rans starting in the back of the pack. Dell
answered their questions, ignoring the way they tried to get his
reaction to his Madman nickname.