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

I managed to wriggle under the covers. Robert’s angry voice carried from the living room. “She flipped her car in a drag race? On a bet her stepdad made with a professional racecar driver? Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with those rednecks?”

I
scrolled down the line of photos on Caroline’s Facebook page, ‘liking’ each of her holiday pictures. I meant for us to stay in touch this time. The caption on the first photo said, “Little Shelby slept in her red boots on Christmas Eve, so Santa could see them.”

Outside, firecrackers went off like gunshots. Each explosion made me jerk. Each jerk sent a thump of pain to the back of my neck.

“New Year’s Eve was last night, dipshits.” I doubted the teenagers in the apartment complex down the road cared. Any excuse to fire off bottle rockets.

Pausing at a photo of Caroline, Caine, Colt, and Jonny, seated on the back of the Mustang, I eyed the cans of some new soft drink they held aloft, squinting to make out the name. Red Bomb? Sounded like a bad rip off of Cherry Coke. The caption read, “We’d rather drive than drink.” When I checked, both Colt and Jonny had posted the image to their Twitter accounts.

My shoulder ached, but not as much as my head. I logged off the site and dropped my phone onto the nightstand. Grabbing the prescription bottle, I dumped a pain pill into my hand, then realized I had nothing to drink. The cup by the bathroom sink had a ring of grunge in the bottom, so I went to the kitchen and snagged a cartoon glass.

“Beep, beep.” I grimaced at the Roadrunner and turned on the faucet.

“’Bout time you came out of that room.”

The deep voice came out of the dark, accompanied by a rumbling that sounded like the end of time had arrived. My heart nearly exploded before I realized that Harry had dragged the patio door open. Stepping into the narrow galley-style kitchen, he slapped me on the ass.

“Goddammit, Harry. I almost broke the glass, you nut job.” Huffing, I put the pill in my mouth and chugged water.

“C’mon, grouch. Welcome to a little somethin’ I call Two Queers and a Beer. You’ve either been in bitch mode or in a coma for the last four days. We’re gonna find middle ground.” He captured my hand and strode for the patio door again. I tried to resist, but my socks skated across the vinyl.

“It’s twelve damn degrees out there, Harry. My head’s splitting. Let me go back to bed.” I cast a desperate look around for something to hold on to so I could resist this insanity, but Harry showed all the sympathy of Cinderella’s stepmother.

“Fifty-nine degrees, drama queen. Not twelve.”

“Hey, Shelby.” Phillip lifted a beer can, saluting from a striped canvas beach recliner in the center of the flagstone patio. He huddled so deep in his Nike hoodie, I could barely see the lawyer’s nose, but I blinked at the flip-flops on his bare feet. A white laundry basket rested at his side.

“Why the hell are you wearing that?” I glared at the huge number twenty-two emblazoned across his chest.

“Last rites, my queen.” He sipped the beer. “Barnes is goin’ down. Again.”

“Queen? How long have y’all been drinking?”

Harry grinned. “He’s not that drunk. He’s been waiting and waiting to tell you about all the race car drivers he met.” Harry gave Phillip an affectionate grin. “Like a kid at Christmas.”

“I’m your bitch for life.” Phillip gave me the kind of smile that usually made me think about confiscating a customer’s car keys. “Holy fuck, Shelby. Jesse Hancock and his daughter sat next to us at the race. And Rowdy Collins was there, too. Jamie Roark and his wife sat two rows behind us. Honey, I’ve bought pit row tickets and not seen that damn many NASCAR drivers.”

“She’s not his daughter. My friend Caroline’s his real daughter but Jesse chose to be with Marley’s mom rather than look after his own child.”

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cardboard standup of Kolby Barnes jutted from the circular brick fire pit Harry had built last summer. The life-sized image of the prick’s face tripled the heavy beat in my head. A bitter taste filled the back of my throat when the pill surged up from my stomach.

“Oh, trust me, we saw Caroline,” Harry snapped. “In fact, Phillip couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was in the back of the truck with your brothers. Right?”

“Right.”

When Harry growled, Phillip laughed. “Boobs, Harry. Boobs. I love you, but I’ll always love boobs.”

Harry towed me along the rear of the townhouse until he reached his round Weber charcoal grill. He lifted a can of lighter fluid off the small redwood tray on the side.

“You do the honors.” Slapping the can into my hand, he grabbed the long electric lighter. “Go light that motherfucker on fire.” He scowled and stabbed a finger toward the advertising piece.

“Again. You mean, light his ass on fire
again
, Harry.” Phillip hooted. “Tell me something, Shelby? All those nights I hung out at the bar, waiting for Harry to get off work, how come you never mentioned that your stepdad was Dale
fucking
Hannah? The man’s a gasoline god.”

I stumbled forward, trying to figure out how to lift the red plastic lid on the can of fuel while I gripped the damn thing one-handed.

Staring into Kolby’s brown eyes, a shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the breeze. The moment when the ‘Cuda flipped, then flipped again, played behind my eyes.

I lifted the lighter fluid to my lips and stared into those eyes while I pried the flip top open with my bottom teeth. A sharp tang assaulted my nose. I inhaled a deep drag of ethanol. The knot in my chest relented a bit. I splashed more fuel into the bottom of the pit than I got on the paper, but when the can had nothing left, I slapped the container against Harry’s chest and snatched the lighter.

The tool flared with the flick of my thumb. I stretched the flame to the Ridenhour logo over Kolby’s breast, wishing with all my heart that Richard would release the little prick. I wanted this asshole out of Dale’s hair. Flames began to lick the red racing suit. While I stared at the twisting flames, the world spun. The grind of metal on cement shrieked inside my skull and the flames became the sparks that had arced across my windshield when the car rode the barrier before it turned over.

“You okay?” Harry demanded, grabbing my right arm again. “How in the hell are you sweating? It’s seriously almost sixty degrees out here.”

A gust chilled the beads of moisture on my upper lip and forehead. My head throbbed so hard, I feared I’d puke up the pain pill.

“Just need to sit down. Please, tell me you have something to drink besides Budweiser.” 

“Like I don’t know you won’t drink good American beer?” Harry dragged another lounger forward with his foot. “Never fear, bottled Chihuahua piss and a slice of lime, comin’ right up. We only bought you one, because of your meds, so make it last.”

I watched the flames shoot into the sky while he disappeared inside. The standup’s legs blackened. The shoulders glowed red hot, then began to curl. By the time Harry tucked an Atlanta Braves stadium blanket around me, every bit of the Barnes figure had turned black, except the jerk’s face. I gripped the icy bottle Harry thrust into my hands, unable to look away while I scraped the lime wedge across the bottle lip and shoved the peel down the slender neck.

“I’m scared. For Dale. Kolby’s not... I don’t trust him.”

Phillip chuckled. “Honey, Barnes needs a personality transplant, but the man puts his life in Dale’s hands every day. No need to worry. Barnes probably helps Dale cross the road. This feud? I figure it’s all for show. They’ll bring Colt up to the Cup series mid-season, and then he and Kolby will pretend to hate each other’s guts. Ridenhour sells more tickets and more hats. It worked like a charm for Jeff Gordon and Earnhardt, Junior. Whoever thought up the drag race stunt is a genius.” He frowned. “I’m sure no one meant for you to get hurt.”

Phillip stood and shoved the laundry basket across the flagstones with his foot. “But, Barnes reneged on the bet. I figure Dale never meant to keep his money, but as far I’m concerned, if the fans are supposed to take sides, then I take Hannah’s side.”

Had the race been all in the name of publicity? Richard had gone along with the engine swap. My brothers had used me for their own ends before. Even Harry pointed out that, win or lose, all I got out of the deal was a new car.

If Phillip was right, then Dale had played me, too.

But... if this was about some fake feud between Colt and Kolby, why hadn’t Colt taken the wheel?

My head hurt too bad to dwell on the problem. If Dale showed up with the Audi and put the keys in my hand, I supposed I could ask him.

Unless he showed up with the Passat. If that happened, all the Hannahs could kiss my ass. I’d have been just fine with getting a new car the old-fashioned way. Or figuring out a way to buy my damn own. In fact, if nobody had pumped me up to race Barnes, I’d have been happy to take the Passat.

I never should’ve gone home at Christmas.

Phillip fished a baseball cap out of the basket and tossed it into the pit. “Thirty-two bucks I wish I had back.” Several shirts followed. I stared in shock when the attorney ripped the thick hoodie over his head and hurled it into the pit.

“Where the hell did that come from?” I jerked forward to eyeball his long-sleeved T-shirt. “Harry!” I screeched, before Phillip could answer.

“Oh, my God! What’s the matter?” Harry sprang out of his lounge chair. His beer spilled all over his jeans. Slapping the wet denim on his crotch and legs, he lifted his head to glare. “Your damn arm better be falling off, oh queen of all the horny badgers.” He stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it. “If it’s not now, it will be. Unless you’re dying, I’m gonna rip it off and beat you with it.”

I jerked my right thumb over my shoulder. “Get my damn phone. I need my new bitch to have a little chat with Caine Hannah about the consequences of copyright infringement.”

Harry hesitated. “Gotta change pants anyhow.” He stomped inside.

Phillip pinched his shirt at his waist, and tugged the fabric taut, striding closer. “Chill out, sweetheart. Look. Left side, at the bottom, by the little copyright symbol? Can you read that?”

I squinted. ©
Shelby Roberts.
I grabbed the hem, stretching the shirt. The air in my lungs crystallized when I spied the small logo that I hadn’t drawn.

They’d gotten my design licensed through NASCAR.

No. Not they. Dale did this.

For me. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, but I have a NASCAR-licensed design in my portfolio.

Phillip balled his hands into fists. Thumping the image of Colt and his race car, he bellowed. “New year, new driver. Fuck Kolby Barnes. I’m pulling for Colt Hannah in the thirty-three car. I went back and watched some of his races on You Tube. Hot as hell and oh, Lord, can the man drive.” He flopped into his chair.

Harry slammed the patio door. Slapping my phone into my outstretched hand, he grinned in Phillip’s direction. “Finally found a reason to like NASCAR. Makes my dick hard just lookin’ at Colt.”

“Woman, you gotta tell me what it was like drivin’ that engine,” Phillip demanded. “I nearly pissed my pants when I heard his daugh—er, Marley Taggert—tell Hancock what was under that damn ‘Cuda’s hood. A real NASCAR engine. Damn, that’s like, my dream come true. I’m so fucking jealous.”

“Can’t remember the race, just the wreck,” I muttered. If only that were true. I remembered every detail of my visit. My heart ached more than my head, and at the same time, I’d been an idiot for believing a word out of my stepbrothers’ mouths. Colt and Caine loved the internal combustion engine and Dale. End of list. I’d been stupid to think otherwise for even a minute.

The ache in my chest had to be from the wreck.

A shower of sparks in my peripheral vision made me lift my head. The cardboard figure collapsed. Kolby’s venomous brown orbs defied the fire, staring back at me until the paper floated into the bottom of the pit and out of sight.

My head kicked like a mule. The blaring siren of the rescue squad vehicle clanged inside my skull. My sightless eyes fixed on huge puddles of rainbow-tinted gasoline—gasoline that’d been beaded on the rubber-streaked surface of the fairgrounds dragstrip.

I blinked away the memory. “Where’d you get that shirt? Where?”

“Look up Hannah-Built engines,” Harry stated. “I didn’t like the ones on the official NASCAR site, but then I found that one. Bought myself one, too. Because, hello? Sorry, Shelby, but your brother’s mouth is definitely fuckable.”

Horrified, I stared at Harry. The expression on Dale’s face that awful morning in the office hit me like a fist. It took a minute before my fear relented enough for me to realize I was overreacting. They were guys who liked guys, just being guys.

And they were shit-faced drunk. They’d had to hold their celebration over until New Year’s night, thanks to Harry’s job.
Nobody knows Colt’s bisexual
. I relaxed against the lounger.

And, it’s not my problem if they find out.

Dropping my eyes to the phone again, I found the website and let their banter roll over my head while I studied the pages. Caine was listed as webmaster.
No offense, brother, but you have the creative ability of a cricket.
I scowled. The red and black color scheme looked like every other damn racing website in the world.