Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (20 page)

Underbrush shut the track off from the two-lane road that ran past. The grass hadn’t been clipped. Trash littered the ground beneath the stands. The trees had leafed out since the night I’d come here with—
God, isn’t there anything that doesn’t lead back to Caine?

Why did it feel like anything worth remembering involved my stepbrothers? How could six months during high school and six days at Christmas—plus one heated night a month ago—make me ache for something I’d spent four years running from?

Throwing away my future for an iffy gamble on love wasn’t an option. Even Caine and Colt agreed. Maybe I should take Ernie’s advice and sell the fucking car. What sort of middle manager in a retail job—the only ‘career opportunity’ I’d been offered to date—needed a race car in her garage?

I searched inside for the fire that’d burned in me when I first arrived in Spartanburg, that determination to get my diploma and get the fuck away from my family for good.

Nadda.

I’d applied for exactly zero jobs outside North or South Carolina. For a gal who needed to run, I was doing nothing to make that a reality. But the goddamned seductive adrenaline raced through me, and when the men closed the hatch, I hurried to the Audi, determined to beat my last time.

We’re here now, Kasey. Might as well run.
Dale’s calm drawl rang in my ears while I tugged the helmet over my head and fastened the buckle.

Show him what’s comin’ when he lines up against a motherfucking Hannah.

No matter what else happened, in three more weeks, I’d be a Hannah
. Might as well act like one. 

I shoved the car into neutral and rolled down the glass. “Gimme a second before we roll the lights, okay?” I worked my feet out of my boots and grabbed my work shoes. The ridged safety soles grabbed the pedals, but without a heel in my way, it was easier to step on the gas.

Once I signaled I was ready, I stared straight ahead. Blowing out a deep breath, I punched up the video camera. If I was selling the Audi, it wouldn’t hurt to throw a video up on You Tube, along with the asking price. If I could turn a time under eight seconds, interest would spike.

Yeah? Gonna ask Caine for a list of all the extra goodies he put on this thing?

Something had to make this pain relent.

Something like winning.

I gave Marco a nod. He signaled the tower. The warning lights on top of the tree lit a moment later. This time, I heated my tires, reveling in the scent of burning rubber.

“Let’s throw a little scare into this guy, huh Ernie? He acts like that plain white wrapper’s hiding something special.”

The lights rolled to green. My non-slip soles grabbed the pedals and I didn’t get a good jump off the line. Disgusted, I slammed the gearshift into second. The white car surged ahead.

Forget him. Race the clock.
I shifted into third, and by the time I found sixth gear, all I saw were streaks of green on either side of the track. And the white car’s taillights a full car length ahead.

As soon as I reversed into the staging area, the two mechanics carried a gigantic tool box to the space between the two cars.

“What was my time?”

“Twelve point nine.” The stranger with the Carolina drawl spat into the grass on the side of the track.

“Dammit.” I slapped the steering wheel. “Honest to God, I’ve never been able to feel this car.”

His skeptical look faded to thoughtfulness. “Okay, let me poke around.” He motioned for me to pop the deck again. I pulled the lever. Meanwhile, in the other lane, Marco raised the hood on the white car and leaned in.

Niles didn’t bother to come over and chat again. The mechanic sauntered to the truck and came back with a small laptop. He sat the device on the passenger seat and pulled a wire from under the dash. My attention wandered.

I had the oddest sensation that I stood on the edge of a precipice. Falling was a given. The question was, where would I land?

Was this part of my life coming to an end along with college? What would replace the excitement, much less the success, I’d experienced drag racing? And yet, driving a race car for a living seemed like a damn fine way to kill the rush—much like college had dampened my enthusiasm for writing.

Like everything else I’d tried to reason out since the wreck, the hated fog swirled inside my brain, making clarity impossible. But the one thing I did know was that I was a damn fool for pulling to the line without having every fiber focused on winning.

Because a Hannah took no race lightly. If I’d learned anything this year, it was that winning was no accident. Success was an ingrained habit, buttressed by every action. Sometimes, all that separated winners from losers was what one driver was willing to give up far away from the track.

The way Dale refused to drink during the season.

So, I had to sacrifice my relationship with Caine and Colt, but the winning? The pride? That’s what I got to keep. Dale had taught me, even out here in Bumfuck, reputation was all that mattered.

The same lesson my mother had taught me, but Dale’s lessons brought self-respect, while Mom’s taught only shame.

I caressed the wheel and took slow breaths that made my lungs burn way down deep. The helmet weighed heavy on my head. I stared at the far end of the track. One quarter mile. One thousand three hundred and twenty feet to the line, and all I needed to beat was myself. The ache in my left thigh relented when I let the clutch out to the sweet spot.

The guy looked up from his keypad. “Listen, Shelby. You don’t know me, but I know you. I used to run with your brothers, before they peeled off for NASCAR and I took this job with Niles’ team. I was there the night you beat Chris Collins.”

I jerked, staring in dismay. Heart racing, I noted the way his hair curled around his collar and ears. And the flash of heat warming his cool eyes. 

“I ain’t never gonna call that motherfucker ‘Rowdy’, but, if you beat Niles, girl, I’ll give you the head job of your life.” He snapped the laptop closed with a wink and unplugged the wire snaking from under the dash.

Stuffing the wire out of sight, he raked his hand through his waves and chuckled. “I see Caine’s fingerprints all over these engines. Only a Hannah would think a thousand horsepower wasn’t enough. According to the software, he replaced the tranny. Chucked the granny drive. He’s got enough air goin’ to the fuel mix to power a jet, and the motherfuckin’ genius didn’t use a blower to do it.”

He tapped the screen. “But, I can’t see how he done it. Still, my gut says, if this ain’t a six second car, I’ll kiss your ass. Now, all you gotta do is drive like a six-second driver. Where’s the woman who beat Chris? Can the girl who popped Kasey Barnes in the nuts come out to play?”

Had I had sex with this guy? Had he fucked me while I stared into Colt or Caine’s eyes? I shook with fury—with fear—but he backed out of the car and slammed the door before I could think of a retort.

Marco signaled the tower. Ervin rolled the lights to red. I glanced down to be sure I had the transmission in first.

I had no idea what he’d done, but for the first time, the engines rumbled like warbirds. The grumbling vibrations penetrated my seat, resetting my heartbeat to their tune.

I’d run this far, worked my ass off, gone into debt, and I was nothing more than a piece of ass? All because I’d spread my legs on the hood of some car to celebrate the way my brothers did?

Every dire prediction my mother made had come true.

I slammed the shifter into reverse and punched the button to lower the window.

“Tell Ervin I just retired.” I let the clutch out and reversed into the parking lot, slinging gravel in my rush to get the fuck away from this guy.

Unable to think of another destination, I headed for the dorm. At the corner of North Church Street and Memorial Drive, the light caught me. On my left, the new Krispy Kreme was doing a rocking business, but the space where I’d been parked the day I met Ernie was empty.

On impulse, I wheeled into the lot, but had to let a laughing couple skip past. Gripping the wheel, I tried not to notice the guy’s dark, close-cropped hair, or his broad shoulders, or the protective way he grabbed the young woman’s waist and gave me the evil eye for braking late.

I turned my head, confronted by the large plate glass door. Inside the shop, at least ten couples were lined up to order.

Someone honked. I jerked the car forward, but another vehicle dove into the empty space. Staring at the faded gold bumper of the Kia that’d taken the spot where I’d been parked when Ernie sauntered into my life, I gripped the wheel. A silent scream ripped through me, only to be replaced by a voice that seemed so real, I glanced around.

Hey, girl. I’m Colt. That’s Caine. Guess we’re all movin’ in together.

I should’ve gone home. Caroline would let me cry on her shoulder.

Home? How come Concord’s home now, when it never was before?

Something had to burn away this pain in my chest before my ribs shattered.

The tires chirped when I let the clutch out and stomped the gas. Spinning the wheel, I circled the building, only to be reminded of all those boring nights back in Concord, driving an endless loop between Hardee’s and McDonald’s with Caroline, wasting gas and waiting for the time to wind down till we could race and work out our hormonal urges.

The light at the intersection caught me. I tapped the wheel, aching in two distinct ways. One pain, only time would relieve. The light changed. I let the clutch out and slammed the gas pedal. The Audi’s tires left a layer of rubber across the intersection. I whizzed down the side of Memorial Auditorium, noting the hot dog concession trailer in the parking lot of the old Krispy Kreme building, and the line of construction workers waiting to order. The original doughnut shop building was practically a landmark, a relic of the Sixties, so Robert said.

Robert.

Slamming on the brakes, I wrenched the wheel into parking lot that backed up to Wofford’s Greek Row. Cruising past the rows of cars, I spied his BMW.

Sometimes, all a girl needs is a guy who won’t surprise her by going downtown when all she wants is a ten-minute ride on a hard cock.

This was a bad idea, but while I sat there, a guy jogged to the car parked next to Robert’s, leaving an empty space just a few steps from the back door of the fraternity house.

“See? It’s a sign.” I wheeled into the spot and put the Audi into park.

Music thundered from ever house around the horseshoe, a jarring blend of different songs. I picked out the opening bars of
Carolina Girl
s, coming from the Pi Kappa Phi house. The country rap of The Lacs’
Keep It Redneck
drew my eyes to the Phi Kappa Alpha house. Since when had country become cool on this campus? The song was one of Caine’s favorites.

The ache inside my chest built until I thought I’d go insane if I couldn’t relieve the pressure.

I shouldn’t be here
.
I don’t love him.
But, since when did love matter when it came to sex? I pushed in the clutch and shifted into reverse. Pain sliced through my chest when the opening bars of
Bad to the Bone
cranked up. I hit the brakes again.

You gotta bring the heart.

The last thing I needed a reminder of was the night Caine had shoved a disc of George Thorogood’s anthem into the ‘Cuda’s stereo. My brain—the same damn brain that couldn’t recall which classroom my Hero in Literature class met in some days—served up a perfect memory of the dark cul-de-sac and the way Rowdy Collins had gone to his knees between my thighs.

The ache there intensified.

Sweet Home Alabama
blared from the Kappa Alpha house, but not loud enough to drown out my past. Wasn’t that the same night Caroline and I had left Spartanburg at ten p.m., because she’d wanted to make it home in time to race? 

This is my choice.
I turned off the ignition and swung the door open.

The back door of the frat house sat ajar. I climbed the three steps. The song changed just as I pushed the door open. The Chairmen of the Board crooned,
You’re More Than a Number in My Little Red Book,
at a decibel level that might give NASCAR a run for their money.

Stop it. Just stop! Every little thing cannot lead back home.

Concord isn’t home. Don’t be an idiot.

A face I couldn’t put a name to looked up from behind the bar. A skinny guy, barely taller than me, paused in the act of tipping a bottle of tequila over a plastic cup.

“Well, well. If it’s not Shelby Roberts!” he bellowed. “Been a while, woman.”

Nodding, I stepped inside, grateful the linoleum didn’t stick to the soles of my half-boots. A pair of barstools, banded with silver duct tape, tilted in opposite directions in front of the bar.

“Hey! Turn that shit down, will ya?” The volume dropped to a bearable level. Grimacing, he tipped the bottle again. “You want a shot, Shelby?”

Was he drunk? Why was this dude still yelling? He slammed a second cup beside the first. The peppery scent of cheap tequila stung my nose.

“Why not?” I crossed to the closest stool and gave it a nudge with my knee. When it didn’t fall over, I eased my butt onto the edge of the cracked vinyl seat.

“So, Shelby. I hear you won some fancy Audi? In a drag race?”

Maybe four years of continuous loud music had made the asshole deaf?
Didn’t he used to live two doors down from Robert? They smoked weed together a lot.

My brain finally spit out his name.
Switzer... something. Ellis? No, Elton. Switzer Elton
.
Elon! That’s it. His grandfather used to own a cotton mill in
...
Switzer, South Carolina. Duh.
Switzer was a wide spot in the road between Spartanburg and Union. Switz’s mom won the family lottery by bearing the only male child in two generations.

A little tale I’d overheard while trying to sleep one night, while Robert and Switz shared a bedtime joint. Was that two years ago? Or earlier this year?

“It’s outside.” I grabbed the cup he pushed forward, but couldn’t help wincing at the bottle label. Sipping was out of the question. The only way to get this rot gut down was to slam it.