Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (7 page)

He squeezed the breath out of me, then dropped his arms and jogged backwards across the patio, grinning so wide, I had to laugh. “That’s the job and I do it well.” He turned. I watched until he disappeared around the corner of Pell Hall.

I stepped inside the dorm. Heaving a huge sigh of relief now that the stressful evening was over, I trudged to the elevator. As soon as I stepped off on the fifth floor and my signal came back, my phone buzzed.

What an ass. Hell, I thought everybody in NASCAR guzzled Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I missed using two thumbs to type.

You wish you were half the man Dale Hannah is. Fuck off. Go find the cardboard cutout you deserve and leave me the hell alone. We’re done.

T
he spinning saw blade didn’t touch my skin, but a tingling line crawled along my arm as the technician moved the tool. I winced when the device neared my elbow, but the unsettling sensation didn’t get stronger. It took effort to sit still while the tech laid the saw down and picked up a tool that looked like a huge set of pliers. Jamming the blunt jaws into the crack, he forced the edges of the plaster apart.

I blew out a deep breath when he cracked the hated cast open like a lobster shell. I wanted to hurl the pieces into the trashcan, but he laid them on the counter beside a tiny aluminum sink on the far side of the room.

“The doctor will be in to see you in just a few minutes.”

I raked my nails along the itchy skin and kicked my feet after he left, bored out of my skull. To kill the time, I decided to check and see if Caine had added anything to the website.

The badly-organized landing page was still garish, still black and red, and still badly organized. There wasn’t a hit meter, but I was bored, so I checked all four pages.

One change had been made, on the last page.

Dale Hannah, CEO, Engineer.

Caine Hannah, CFO, Engineer.

Colt Hannah, Engineer, Test Driver.

Jonny Jet Hyunh, Engineer, Test Driver.

Shelby Roberts-Hannah, Graphic Artist.

They kicked me out of their little side business
. Well, demoted me. But my fall from grace had been a long one, from second-in-command to, ‘Hey, think you could throw some stripes on this for us, sis?’

If I’m the graphic artist, why didn’t they ask me to build this site?

Or, was this Mom’s doing?

It’s not like I wanted to go back to Concord after graduation, for God’s sake. This is a hobby, anyway. How many engines can they build in the eight-or nine-week off season? This little business is just an excuse to hang out in the garage, so Dale doesn’t have to take Mom shopping.

I was an idiot for letting this lick the candy coating off my red-letter day.

The door to the tiny room opened. I’d been to this office twice now, but had never actually seen the orthopedic surgeon. I judged him to be mid-to-late thirties. Sharp indents from male pattern baldness left gleaming spots on his temples. He bustled in wearing a smile.

“Hello, Shelby.” He tugged a stool across the room with his toe.

“Hi, doc.”

“Any tenderness?” He asked several times, twisting and bending my arm.

I could honestly say no until he pressed his fingers beneath my arm and pushed my elbow above my shoulder. “Ow!”

“Uh oh.” Those two tiny words kicked my heart to the floor. He lowered my arm. “That means you have to sleep in the sling for a couple more weeks. The collarbone’s still tender, so don’t go lifting any cars just yet. Nothing over, say, five pounds, for at least two more weeks. Then, if the pain persists, call the office and I’ll refer you for occupational therapy.”

“I’m a waitress. My boss will give my arm a free workout every time he loads up my tray. I could use the other kind of occupational therapy, though.”

“That’ll work, too.” He tugged on his lower lip, like Becca did when she was thinking, then nodded. “I still haven’t decided what I want to be when I grow up. I was going to ask if you’d recommend race car driver as a career choice.”

I blinked. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in the file my colleague sent down from North Carolina.” He dug his heels into the gleaming floor tile and pushed with both feet. The stool shot across the room to the counter, where he grabbed one piece of the purple carcass. He used his heel to dig his way back to my side.

“And, I might’ve seen the clip of your drag race on Sports Center. Mind signing this for my dad? I wanted to be Jesse Hancock when I grew up, but my father’s Team Ridenhour to the bone. He’s always been a Roark fan, but he’s got no use a’tall for your buddy Barnes.” He waggled one half of the cast with a wide grin. “To me, dirty driving’s the exciting part of the sport, but my old man says Barnes is an idiot.”

To my astonishment, the doctor whipped a Sharpie marker out of his pocket. “I can hear him now, down at VFW, bragging that his son took the cast off the young woman who clocked Kolby Barnes in the baby makers.” His eyes twinkled as I gaped. He held out the marker. “Please? This might make up for what it cost him to put me through med school.”

The news van’s footage had run on ESPN. It lived on at You Tube, where my video footage of the drag race had now surpassed seven million hits.

But, who knew NASCAR had orthopedic surgeons for fans?

“You’re just hoping I won’t do the same to you for making me sleep in that damn sling for two more weeks.” I took the cap off the marker with my teeth—a new habit I needed to break—and scrawled my name atop the plaster shell.

A half second later, my phone dinged. I read the text message with a squeal.

“Good news?” the doctor asked.

“The best. My dad’s bringing that Audi I won off Barnes today!” I jumped off the table and spun.

“If it was mine, I’d get a license tag holder that said, ‘Kolby Barnes is my bitch.” He barked with laughter. “Damn. I was hoping it was in the parking lot, so I could get a peek inside. Well, I guess I’ll look for it on The Cuda Confessions.” I blinked. “Love that site.” He nodded, standing and kicking the stool. It sailed into a corner with a bang. “Always wanted a ‘Cuda convertible.”

“Just between us, doc, I bet you make enough money to buy one.”

“Just between us, Shelby, my wife says otherwise.”

I tap danced through the waiting room door, waving my left arm like a windshield wiper. Ernie got to his feet. “I know you’re glad to be rid of that boat anchor.”

“I feel like I lost fifty pounds,” I confessed. Ernie pushed the door open and we angled across the lot toward his big Dodge truck. Without the cast to weigh me down, I skipped like a kid, pausing to rub the top of the sculpted ram’s head on his hood.
For luck
.

“Where to?” Ernie shoved in the clutch and reached for the ignition. I didn’t respond, listening to the roar of the motor when it caught.

I sighed. “That just sounds badass. I never expected to miss the ‘Cuda so much.” 

“Sounds badass because it is.” Ernie waggled the long shifter, found reverse, and punched the gas. “That’s a three-hundred-horsepower Cummins Turbo Diesel under the hood. This thing would tow a house.”

I almost asked why he’d want to tow a house, but Ernie bought and sold all sorts of things. A story about a house held no interest.

I twisted in the seat to glance over my shoulder. “I like the little rounded windows.” Straightening, I pointed through the windshield. “And I hereby name the badass little sheep on the hood ‘Bully’.”

He barked with laughter, no doubt because I wanted to babble about stylistic details, rather than launch into a debate about some other engine rumored to be better than his. Like Dale and my brothers would’ve done.

Damn collarbone sent a twinge deep into my chest. I rubbed the spot over my heart.
Get over it.

“The dorm, please. Dale’s bringing my car today.” I leaned forward to turn down the tape—an actual cassette tape—of Willie Nelson singing
Always on my Mind
.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe we can all go to dinner? Or is he heading to Atlanta tonight?”

My phone dinged again. I read the text—which wasn’t from Dale—with a scowl.

“I’ll ask. His text said he had to run to Concord to load up some parts or something, then he’s going to Atlanta.” But, dammit. I’d spent a huge chunk of change on a surprise for Dale, and now, after a month of excuses, my gift was on its way to being delivered—when he was out of town.

Shitty Roberts’ luck.

“Speaking of badass.” Ernie dove under the yellow light and turned right, speeding past the front of the hospital, only to tromp the brakes a half a block later and turn right again. I drove my nails into the padded arm rest on the door. Dropping my gaze to my lap, I tugged the loose end of the seat belt until the strap bit into my tummy.

“I checked out that Brock Ingram dude. Remember him?”

I tried to wet my tongue enough to lick my lips. “The only person on the planet, apparently, who wants to hire a girl with a freshly-minted liberal arts degree in English and Applied Art, but who didn’t have the sense to get her teaching certificate.” Francine’s opinion was that I should’ve gotten my teaching certificate. Just in case. I doubted I’d make it one day as a teacher. I pictured small children wetting their pants when I lost my temper.

“Did you know he’s the new CEO of Ryder Industries?”

The emergency entrance flew past on my right. The way Ernie was driving, I wondered if we might save time and check in now. Gripping the arm rest, I tried to sound like I wasn’t having a three-alarm panic attack. Since the wreck, Francine’s sedate driving was more to my liking.

“I have no idea what Ryder Industries might be.”

Ernie turned to give me a look, while the truck rocketed down the steep hill. Heat flashed over my skin, turning my bulky college sweatshirt into a sauna. Shaking his head like I was a lost cause, he cleared his throat.
Jesus, Ernie, will you look at the road?

“Huge conglomeration. Buncha manufacturing outfits under their umbrella. That car polish company he was talkin’ about has been around for forty years, but like Jonny said, nobody’s ever heard of ‘em. Still, Ryder Industries can sure as hell afford to pay you to promote their product.”

Dammit, Ernie, shift up or brake.
The whining diesel engine hurt my ears. The nails on my right hand buckled. I stuck my left hand to the dash, eyeing the approaching yield sign and the onrushing traffic. A ticklish line of sweat ran from under one breast.

“Except, the ‘Cuda was part of his deal, and it’s long gone.” I held my eyes open wide, but that didn’t stop the stomach-wrenching image of the car flipping inside my head. Sweat popped out on my upper lip. I released the arm rest, trying to spin a wheel that didn’t exist, in a futile attempt to prevent a wreck that’d happened ten weeks ago.

“Okay, hear me out, because this is badass, as you say. I had no idea what Jonny meant that night when he mentioned your two million followers. I was afraid you started your own cult.” He laughed at his own joke, heedless of the way I gripped the dash and made useless circles with the other hand, while I prayed for the Technicolor movie in my head to stop.

“But I did some pokin’ around to find out what that meant. That’s when I realized, the beauty of this deal is that only you can do the job. He can hire a thousand pretty gals to push his stuff. Any shiny muscle car will do. But only you have the car
and
two million people who already listen to what you got to say. So that job’s still sittin’ there, Shelby. All you need’s another ‘Cuda.”

The flashback relented at last. I gasped for breath, swiping my forehead with the cuff of my sleeve. Ernie didn’t notice my distress, since he finally got busy slamming on the brakes at the bottom of the hill and cursing the four o’clock traffic on North Pine Street.

“Over three million now,” I gasped.

The damn dream. I was used to jerking awake, drenched in sweat, three, sometimes four times a week, screaming so loud on occasion that Becca had taken to feeding me Benadryl before bedtime. But never once had I had it while wide awake. My heart pounded, and I’d swear a tiny devil used my eardrums to send coded messages back to Hell.

“I can’t afford another ‘Cuda, Ernie,” I managed to say. “Dale got two hundred grand for mine
after
I wrecked it.”

“Okay, hear me out, ‘cause I put some serious thought into this.”

Put some serious thought into your fucking driving, won’t you
? I adjusted the triangular vent window to throw cold air in my face. My stomach lurched when he stomped the gas and pulled out in front of a Mini Cooper.

Almost there
. “Okay.” I clenched the armrest with one hand and the dash with the other, battling the urge to wrap my arms around my head.

“The sticker price of that Audi’s one eighty and change. But, it’s gonna depreciate every year. You can get one-sixty-five in a fire sale today and it’s all profit.”

One eighty?
“I had no idea it was worth that much.” The black wrought iron fences of the college came into view. Ernie dove into the left lane with hardly a look.

Does he just expect people will give way to a truck this size? Ever heard of teenagers, dude? Or mothers looking over the seat to check on their babies in the back? Kamikaze squirrels? They have family that’ll miss them, even if they do have furry tails, for fuck’s sake!