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

by Eden Connor

  “What kind of idiot would hook nitrous to a seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower engine and then put someone as inexperienced as y’all say I am behind the wheel?” I snapped. “Make up your mind. Either I can’t drive my way out of a wet paper bag or I can handle a rocket. You whining Barnes fans can’t have it both ways.”

  She lifted the rag and hurled it into the bin at her back. “Yeah? Well, you Hannahs look to be in for a long, painful season. What I believe don’t matter. What the other drivers believe? That’s gonna leave a mark.” She winked. “Rubbin’s racin’, right?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, after Ernie’s funeral, I curled into the corner of Francine’s sofa, thinking how much Mom would hate this cozy cottage. The furniture had been bought new around the time I’d been born, but high-quality leather—actual cowhide, no fake stuff for Francine—had held up well in a home without children.

  With a sigh, I stood, offering my seat to an older woman holding a towering plate. The kitchen was crowed, so I screwed up my courage and headed for Ernie’s office, even though the sight of his empty chair was almost more than I could bear. A few men stood around the silent television. As soon as I realized they were watching the race, I turned away, preferring to inspect the wall above Ernie’s old walnut roll top desk.

  Francine had made attractive groupings of the man’s collection, sparing no expense on the frames. This wasn’t the stuff sold from vendor tents on race day. Ernie collected paper ephemera that related to NASCAR—vintage rule books, photographs, driver contracts, and bills of sale for famous racecars, even invoices for parts, but something had changed.

  The new item in the center boasted a frame wrapped in oak-printed vinyl. I squinted at the frame, which looked like something you could buy in any dime store, while the rest were genuine walnut.

  Leaning closer, I scanned the printed page. To my shock, I realized I stared at a contract between Brad Taggert—deceased father of Marley—and his sponsor, a national bread brand. Part of a longer document, this clause required Taggert to dress as Santa Claus and hand out the gifts to children of employees at the company’s annual Christmas party. A smiley face grinned at me below his signature.

  The man liked kids.

  Lifting the frame from the wall, I sank against the padded back of Ernie’s chair, wondering how different Caroline’s life would be if Taggert hadn’t died at Darlington eight months before my friend’s birth.

  “Hell, yeah. Hannah pulled a rabbit outta his ass today.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, but couldn’t see the television for the three men who stood in front of the screen.

  One guy turned away. He met my eyes with a smile. “Jesus, what a win. Can’t believe Roark’s crew got that car back on the track. Ridenhour’s gotta figure out sooner or later, he needs to cut that little bastard loose.”

  “Nah. Barnes is the next Earnhardt. He just needs some time to get used to the Ford engine, is all.” The comment came from a man who still watched the screen.

  “Two years and countin’ ain’t enough?” The nearby man snorted.

  “What happened?” I forced the words past the knot in my throat.

  The man at my side answered with a scowl. “Kolby and Jamie pit at the same time, under caution. So, they’re coming off pit row at the same time, right? Somehow, Kolby clips Roark’s left rear fender just as they jump onto the track. Spun Jamie into Rowdy Collins. About five more cars clobbered both of ‘em. Forty-six car was beat all to hell and back.

  He spread his hands. “But, God Almighty damn, somehow, his crew got it runnin’ again, before the caution flag was lifted. Hell of an effort from the whole team. Hannah’s son was out there with a cuttin’ torch the minute Jamie limped onto pit row. But rather than cuttin’ a straight line, he punched holes, then ripped the metal off with his bare hands, like it was paper. Damn, that kid’s strong.”

  Caine. The vision of him bouncing a tire and rim like a ball in the Ridenhour garage brought the sting of fresh tears.

  “Hannah’s the man I’d want behind me, dude.” The third guy, who had yet to speak, nodded vehemently. “Man’s a fucking stud. That kid you’re talkin’ about’s a chip off the old block, too. Ridenhour’s gonna miss them when they walk at the end of the season.”

  “Can’t get rid of ‘em fast enough to suit me. I used to think Hannah was all that, but since they started runnin’ Fords, I’m thinkin’ now, Dutch Brannon deserved the credit.”

  “Who is Dutch Brannon?” I bit the inside of my cheek, fearing a long explanation on a topic I didn’t much care about.

  “Dodge’s racing man. He’s the real engineer. Ridenhour’s struggled since Dodge left NASCAR.” The stranger’s irate tone made my head thump. “And don’t get me started on the bullshit Hannah pulled with that damn drag race. Makes no goddamn sense. He and Barnes ain’t gettin’ along, so Hannah cooks up a way to steal the man’s personal car? Stinks to high heaven. No wonder Ridenhour’s a sinkin’ ship. Let every Hannah go, I say. If they can’t play team ball, they need to be their own damn team.”

  I’ve gotta get out of here. I laid the frame on the desk and jumped out of the chair. I found Francine in the bedroom. She was seated on the side of the bed, turning the labels on the small army of prescription bottles crowding the top of the nightstand to face the same direction. All bore Ernie’s name. A black leatherette bag rested on her lap.

  “Camera bag?” I asked, perching beside her.

  “Nothing so useful. This was Ernie’s first cell phone.” She pulled the Velcro fastener free, exposing an old-fashioned receiver, resting beside a thin box, topped with a silicone number pad. “Thing must weight twenty pounds.” She pushed the bag onto my lap.

  “Wow.” I hefted it by the strap. “I’ll keep my iPhone, thanks.”

  “Ernie wanted me to give it to Dale.” I opened my mouth, but Francine waved a hand. “Don’t ask. I think it’s a joke, but I promised.”

  My eyes strayed to the dresser, where small frames dotted a lace doily. “Is that Ernie? In a race car?”

  Francine let out a breathless laugh. “I thought I’d left stock car racing behind when I got out of Daytona Beach. And then, I go and fall for a racin’ man.” She pushed off the bed and made the few steps to the dresser. Picking up the frame, she dragged her finger along the top edge before handing me the photo.

  “Bless his heart, I made Ernie go to the fairgrounds alone. He went every Friday night for years. They used to have an oval track out there, like the one in Concord. This car in this photo was built by Cotton Gowans. He used to be a big-time name in NASCAR, both as a racer and later as an engineer. Local guy. Anyway, this fella paid Cotton to build the car, but apparently, he couldn’t drive worth a lick. He was so bad that he got himself his own little section of fans in the stands, people who just couldn’t resist pulling for an underdog, including Ernie.”

  Ernie had been a casual practitioner of good grammar, at best. Francine was a sticker for proper speech. Did she realize she borrowed Ernie’s diction to tell this tale? I felt like some invisible torch had been passed.

  She took the spot at my side again. Thrusting the photo into my hands, she plucked a tissue from the box on Ernie’s nightstand. “So, to make up for leaving me alone every Friday night, Ernie would get up on Saturday morning. Bring me coffee in bed. Then, he’d make my favorite omelet while he told me all about how this hapless driver embarrassed himself the night before.”

  The peek into their early years brought tears to my eyes.

  She dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “So, one night, the guy just finally gets it, you know? He figures out that all the money in the world won’t make him a racin’ man. He pulls up in front of his little fan section and offers to sell the car to whoever had the most cash in their wallet, right then and there.”

  My eyes went wide. “And that was a race Ernie could win?”

  She nodded. “I went off like a July firecracker when he pulled up on the curb, towing tha
t damn car behind. ‘Tip’, I said, ‘even you can’t sell a damn race car’. He said, ‘Woman, hush. The race is at Darlington tomorrow. Darlington’s only good for two things, wreckin’ cars and raisin’ tempers’.”

  Her laugh was more strangled sob than amusement. The way she nailed Ernie’s diction made my heart twist for our common loss. “I made him sleep on the couch.” Her smile looked a bit more genuine. “Had to make my own coffee the next morning, too. First time in our entire marriage, and the last.”

  I laughed through my tears, thinking of the easy-going Tiptons as newlyweds, stalking around this little house like two sore-tailed cats.

  “Anyway, the phone woke me bright and early Monday morning. When I picked up, this guy says, ‘Ma’am, my name’s Rick Ridenhour. Been up half the night tryin’ to chase down a car Cotton Gowens built. Folks say your husband just bought it. Mind if I speak to him?”

  “Oh, my God,” I murmured. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Rick and Dale were knockin’ on the front door before I sat lunch on the table. And people kept calling. Ernie would go to the phone, and I swear, he’d talk at the top of his lungs. ‘Pearson, huh? Well, yeah, I got that car, but I’m talkin’ to a fella right now ‘bout buyin’ it. Gimme your number in case he can’t get his heart in the right place.’”

  I had to laugh at the picture of Ernie, pounding out the best deal. “Pure evil.”

  She balled up the tissue and hurled it into the waste can beside the dresser. “He paid eleven hundred dollars for that damn car. Sold it to Rick for eighteen grand. That year, I earned twenty thousand dollars teaching school.”

  “Wow.” I blinked in astonishment. “There’ll never be another Ernie. I’m so glad I got to know him.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You brought that man so much joy, listening to his old stories. But, more than that, you brought Dale back into his life. That meant everything to Ernie. Take the picture. Get out of here. You must be climbing the walls with all these old folks standing around. Next week, we’ll go out to eat every night you aren’t working. We’ll stuff ourselves with all the food I used to fuss at him for eating.” She lowered her head, and when she spoke, her voice scraped every raw nerve.

  “But, if one more person tells me how much better off Ernie is now, or how goddamn grateful I should be because we had thirty years together, I think I’ll scream.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I hugged her, battling tears. “Thirty years is thirty more than I expect any man to love me. I miss him so much.”

  “Don’t even get me started about the so-called friends who were asking what I’d take for his truck before his body got cold. Listen to me.” She grabbed my arms and pushed me away with blazing eyes. “Do you know how to pick a good man?”

  I shook my head, pinned by her fierce gaze.

  “Find one with a passion for his work and an equal passion for you. That’s it. All the other stuff people tell you is important, isn’t important. He’ll do things that piss you off. He’ll make you cry. But if he can make you feel special with just a look, he’s the one. He may not understand all the things that bother you, but if he gets pissed off at those things, rather than getting mad at you for telling him about them, then he’s the fucking one.”

  And if I know that guy, but don’t trust him? Then what do I do, Francine?

  “Go on, get out of here.” She waved both hands, shooing me toward the door.

  I grabbed a tissue from the box and pressed it into her hand.

  “I love you.” After another fierce hug, I worked my way through the crowded kitchen and out the back door.

  I had hours to kill before my shift started, but the gorgeous spring day made me too restless to head for the dorm. I tucked the vintage phone behind my seat. The car’s seats scorched my thighs, summoning dangerous memories.

  I passed the college and turned right, snaking through downtown until I ended up on Highway 29, the route that led to the mall, but after buying a dress and shoes for Ernie’s funeral, there wasn’t enough left in my account for retail therapy, so I kept straight, going nowhere in particular.

  When I recognized the gas station where I’d withdrawn the cash the night I’d beaten Russell, I noted the low price of premium fuel. Might as well fill up.

  Before I could get out of the car, my cell phone dinged. I dug the device out of my purse.

  My fave pic of you and Ernie. Sorry I couldn’t be there today. Gasping through the pain of seeing Caine’s name atop the text message, I stared at the image I’d never seen before.

  The hood was up on the ‘Cuda. I perched on the bar stool beside the front fender, laughing because Ernie held one end of a huge wrench to his mouth. Colt had an arm draped around my shoulder. He shook a glass jar filled with nuts and bolts like a mariachi. Jonny’s head was tipped back and he strummed an air guitar. Dale drummed on the front end with a pair of windshield wiper blades, still in the package. I smiled through my tears, recalling how their baritones almost drowned out Ernie’s off-key tenor.

  Thanks. I love this. So much.

  His reply was immediate. I love you. I hate so bad that you’re hurting and I can’t hold you. I’ll miss him, too. Colt sends a hug.

  I had to dial this back, or I’d die from the pain. It was too fucking easy to type shit we didn’t dare say.

  Tell Jamie I said congrats. What you did? Incredible. I know Ernie’s up there bragging on you.

  Seconds ticked by, then a minute. Caine didn’t respond. I supposed he felt what I felt, that more talk was dangerous. Even during the years when I’d tried to pretend Caine and Colt were dead, they’d never felt so far away.

  I forced myself to remember the twenty years Dale had been alone, then recalled the rare Sundays when Mom and I used to splurge on Starbucks, and the longing in her eyes at the sight of all the couples waiting in line.

  I’d find someone, eventually. The pain would ease. Right?

  The hard shaft though my chest said otherwise.

  “It’s not love!” I banged a fist on the steering wheel. “How can it be? It’s speed and adrenaline, that’s all.” If Mom wasn’t dead set against me being with Caine, the attraction would wear off in a matter of weeks, and when that happened, I’d still be the one who had to leave.

  The rear view mirror absorbed my lies without comment. The ache in my chest held tight, and now, my throat hurt. I dug for one of the tissues Francine had tucked into my purse on the way to the cemetery and wiped my eyes.

  A tap on my window made me jerk around. My scowl faded when I spied the green cap and the Castrol patch. I lowered the window.

  “Hey, Ervin.”

  He smiled, casting a jaundiced eye at my dress. “Don’t tell me you been out all night?”

  “My life’s not that exciting. I just came from a funeral.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry. Anyone close?”

  We chatted about Ernie for a couple of minutes, then he asked, “So, what’cha doin’ this afternoon?”

  “Um, I’m going to fill up and head back to school, I guess. I have to work at six.”

  He lifted his cap, much the way Dale did, and settled it back on his head. “Can I tempt you to make two or three runs over at my place? See, this fella’s testin’ out a new car. Rented the lanes for a couple hours. He asked me to find him an eight-second car to run against, but everybody’s up at the drag strip in Rutherfordton on Sundays.”

  I caressed the wheel. “Without a crew, I’d be afraid the engines might... jump time or something.”

  “Now, hear me out.” He propped his hands on the top of the car and leaned down to squint at me. “Russell introduced me to this fella, but don’t hold that against the man. What I’m sayin’ is, he’ll have his boys with him, and they can sure ‘nuff tune an Audi. Hand to God, they can. I’ll tell ‘em you can’t run unless they’re willin’ to help out.”

  I hesitated, unsure I wanted to trust a stranger to tune my car. But, in the next heartbeat, I realized that Caine could
n’t be my go-to mechanic. Relationship tangles aside, he was on the road ten months a year. A few eight-second runs might burn off my restlessness—or let me outrun the ache in my heart.

  “Okay. Just let me fill up.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask me to pump my gas at his place.

  Ervin straightened and tapped the roof. “I don’t sell gas no more, so I’ll pump and pay. You’re doin’ me a favor.”

  “Ervin,” I scolded. “You’re setting this guy up, aren’t you?”

  His eyes danced with mischief. “It’s that damn hair. When the sunshine catches it, it reminds me I ain’t dead yet.” He grinned and waltzed to the gas pump to swipe his credit card.

  A truck with a boxy cover over the bed idled in front of the metal gate when Ervin and I arrived at the track. The old man stopped beside the window of the car ahead of the truck. I assumed that was the competition, but couldn’t get a look at the car until the old man unlocked the gate and I rolled into the right lane.

  Not that knowing what kind of car I was racing had ever helped—or hurt—me.

  This car was painted white, but the entire body was covered in squiggles that looked like a toddler had a conniption fit—as Ernie would’ve said—while holding a gray marker.

  Squinting, I tried to figure out who the hell thought that stomach-turning design was attractive. The way the—that’s not paint. It’s some kind of skin. But, damn, fella. Caine could teach you a thing or two about installing one. It looked like someone had just slapped the vinyl over several stylistic body details, not bothering to press the film down. A slight throb flared behind my eyes. I looked away.

  The driver opened his door and stepped out, marching to the front end of my vehicle. I couldn’t decide if he was as old as he appeared—possibly in his fifties—or if he’d spent a lot of time working in the sun to earn those deep creases in his face. He squatted and I lost sight of everything but white-blond hair. The colorless mop reminded me of Marley Taggert, but I seriously doubted this macho-looking dude resorted to bleach. The thick mass was stick-straight and long on top, but trimmed neatly around his ears.