Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (59 page)

She laid the page on the podium, and when she spoke again, her voice rang to the highest rafter, to be heard above the applause and laughter.

“Quite a failure, indeed.” Her grin belied the words. “On a personal note, I recommend you keep your eyes on the sports section, because this particular young woman has a way of making me believe every word when she tells me a story. And, when she breaks through that barrier and strides into the testosterone-soaked world of NASCAR, you can bet your,”—she cleared her throat again—“I plan to take full credit for our part in her success.”

I shot the man who’d never given me anything above a B a smug glare.
Roots and wings. There you go
,
motherfucker.

Dr. Jamison continued, “Recently, I had occasion to meet one of the racin’ men that influenced this student’s life. I found him all alone in Wilson Hall, wringing the stuffing out of his baseball cap and overwhelming a wing chair I’d never thought of as dainty.”

She cleared her throat again. “I regret to say, Mr. Hannah isn’t with us today. He’s fighting to regain consciousness in a Charlotte trauma center. Please join me in a moment of prayer for his recovery. The world cannot afford to lose a man like Dale Hannah. Show me a man who will defy convention to instill the identical skills and values in his daughter that he infuses into his sons, and I will show you hope for all mankind.”

I lost the battle not to sob. Vickie Holloway tucked a tissue into my hand, then slid an arm around my shoulder.

“And now, the moment these ladies have worked so hard for.” President Jamison raised her hands. While the first row got to their feet, my mentor moved to stand by a table laden with small leatherette folders.

“Mischa Elaine Aarons.” While Mischa climbed the short set of stairs to the stage, I battled for self-control and wondered what Dale was doing right this minute. I knew Caine was pacing while he waited for Colt’s car to clear inspection.

And before I knew it, it was time for my row to stand. The line moved forward at a steady pace. Glancing over my shoulder when I reached the third step, I spied Francine, elegant in black. She waggled her fingers and then dabbed her eyes. Mom sat next to her, sobbing so hard that Caroline put an arm around her. Little Shelby waved with both hands from her perch on Jonny’s knee. Smiling through my tears, I turned my back and moved forward.

I’d lost and gained so much here, it was impossible to reckon up the score, but I knew I’d miss this place as surely as I knew that where I was going was where I belonged.

“Shelby Anne Hannah.”

I straightened my shoulders and made the final step onto the stage. President Jamison extended the leatherette case embossed with my name in gold. Underneath rested a fat manila file folder, with my signature across the unmarred tape that sealed the flap.

“Congratulations, Shelby.” I clutched the hand she extended and stared into her eyes, their honeyed shade as familiar to me as my mother’s green ones. “There must be quite a twist somewhere in the middle chapters of that story. I look forward to reading an autographed copy one day.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” I clutched her hand, reaching across to accept the folders.

“You just did.” She nodded, letting go to reach for the next diploma.

The envelope seemed to weigh more than a few hundred sheets of paper accounted for. Then, I realized, a young woman’s roots lay tangled inside.

Now, she had wings as well.

D
ale’s eyes were closed when I peered around the door. The television played, but on mute.
That’s different.

I crossed the room on tiptoe, trying not clomp in my cowboy boots.

“It’s not gonna end like this, you know.” I laid my diploma on the edge of Dale’s hospital tray. “I refuse to accept that. So listen up. I just graduated. Mom paid a professional videographer to film the ceremony. You will watch it later.” I slid my hand underneath his and squeezed his fingers. His eyelids opened a sliver. His fingers tightened, nearly crushing my hand.

“Jill?” The ragged whisper stopped my heart. I stared in horror as a tear slid down his cheek.

I stared in horror. “No, Dale. I’m Shelby.”

He blinked several times, then shook off my hand. Stung by his rejection, I watched the tender heat in his eyes fade to resignation. How many times had my mother watched that same descent into disappointment?
Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry.

“If you ain’t real, then I don’t wanna wake up,” he mumbled.

My heart sped—half with outrage, half with pity. I tapped the side of his face few times.

“I’m not Jill, but I’m here, and I need you to open your eyes. Colt and I are both racing tonight. We need you to wake up, sit up, and give us a little backup.” I held my breath until his eyes opened again.

Cocking one brow, he lifted his right hand, flexing his fingers. Peering into the darkened bathroom, he scowled. “Where’s the preacher?”

My heart stuttered. “That’s just a dream, Dale. I’m the only one here.”

His hoarse cough, paired with a plaintive look at the sweating pitcher on the bedside table, made me jump to fill a cup with water. He sipped every drop through the straw before he fell onto the pillow. Sweat dotted his forehead. The half-inch of dark hair covering the lower half of his face—and the brackets of white at his temples—only emphasized the blazing blue eyes.

Dale raked his nails through his hair, leaving the dark waves tousled. “Got a smoke?”

“No.” I frowned. “You don’t smoke.”

His scowl faded to a naughty grin. “Wrong. Just ‘cause I don’t buy ‘em no more, don’t mean I quit. I just smoke less’n I used to, ‘cause everybody else quit.”

The scowl returned, as if he was pissed that his friends cut off his supply. Was this Dale, unfiltered? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I dug through my purse, retrieving the pack of Juicy Fruit.

He beamed at the gum. “You always were my favorite.”

“Of course I am.” I held the stick out, but pulled it away when he reached for it. “Teach me how to pop it.”

He snagged the piece. I cringed at the difficulty he had removing the paper and foil, but focused on peeling my own stick. He wouldn’t want my help anymore than I’d wanted his, when the shoe had been on the other foot.

“That doc said I’d have to go to rehab to get my hands workin’ right again.” He finally folded the stick over three times. He popped the gum into his mouth. I followed suit.

Propping my crossed heels on the footboard, I grinned. “Well, if you don’t wanna go to rehab, don’t go to fuckin’ rehab. I reckon you’ve earned the right to make your own decisions. Either way, I’m looking forward to having you all to myself for a while.”

His eyes warmed. Did he become more ‘in the moment’ with each passing heartbeat, or was that wishful thinking?

“Get it softened up. Chew it sorta flat and long. Let it rest on your back teeth. Then, usin’ the side of your tongue, push air into it when you stretch it. Fold it over. Chomp down and pop the bubbles you trapped inside.”

He lifted the leatherette case and flipped it open. “Bachelor of Arts. Shelby Anne Hannah. Damn, sugar. I sure wanted to be there. Every time that bitch of a nurse helps me got up to piss, I think I’ll pass out ‘fore I get to the door.”

He was getting up to pee? “Which nurse is a bitch?”

His brow furrowed. “All of ‘em. Bossy cows.”

The nurses were wonderful here. He didn’t like feeling dependent.

“And let me just say that if you ever let anyone shove a tube up my dick again, we’re gonna scrap.” The warmth faded from his eyes.

“Noted.”

We chewed in silence for a while. He sounded like a machine duel in a Beirut back alley. I finally managed a couple of pops.

He pointed to the drawings on the wall. “Busy week?”

I lifted one shoulder. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

His lips twitched. “Tough girl.”

“There’s another choice?” I lifted a brow, still trying to make the gum cooperate.

His laugh was silent. “Caine was stoic. Colt made you wanna smack him with a baseball bat. Macy cried. And Doris tried to run the show.”

“Nailed it.” The tight knot of panic in my breastbone relaxed. “The Ingram guy is in for the full thirty-five-million-dollar ride, on one car, but I’m not letting him of the hook that easy. Just between us, I think the racing bug done bit the man.”

I dug the list I’d made of every corporation under the Ryder Industries umbrella from my purse and unfurled it on his tray. “Pick three and I’ll go at him next week.”

If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget the pride that filled me when his gum tumbled out of his open mouth. The moment felt like a different sort of commencement, one only Dale Hannah could arrange.

I lifted the remote off the side table and turned the volume up, then peeked at the time on my phone. I had a couple of hours to kill before I needed to pick up the Audi and head to the fairgrounds. The pre-race show was underway.

“Been a long week for the Ridenhour crew,” the announcer proclaimed. “But, everybody I’ve talked to says Colt Hannah’s intent on sendin’ a message. Qualified fourth in his first-ever Cup series start. Man’s on fire this week in front of his hometown crowd.”

“He is, indeed,” the announcer’s companion agreed. “Tell me, Joe, what do you think about Hannah’s daughter and her heroic hashtag campaign? Does NASCAR owe their fans drivers or heroes?”

“Well, I’d say, if NASCAR has a reason to question the mental state of one of their drivers, then they owe it to that guy—and every other man and woman on the track with him—”

“What the fuck?” Dale croaked. “Where’s Barnes?”

I spun in my seat, reaching to refill his cup. “Four-race suspension for giving you that knot on the back of your head.”

Dale stabbed the button to raise the head of his bed. The commercial break came on. “Mute it.”

I mashed the button and spun the chair to face him.

“The doc said I was in a fight? I’d swear I gave that up for a bad habit a long damn time ago.”

By the time the pace car peeled off onto pit row and the green flag came down, I’d filled in most of the blanks.

“So, Francine rode back to Concord with us. She’s staying with Mom while she goes house hunting. She let me drive her Mustang. Sweet little car. Not enough juice.”

Dale shifted higher in the bed. The way he pressed his lips together... was he in pain?

“Speakin’ of sweet cars.” When I nodded, he reached for the brim of a cap that wasn’t on his head. Huffing, he let his hand fall and looked offended, like bringing his cap should’ve been the first thing on my to-do list. “Got a game plan for bringin’ that ‘Cuda home? Tell me that ain’t a dream.”

“No dream. Car’s at the fairgrounds. Dutch Brannon says it’s genuine. Hemi ‘Cuda number six thousand.” I made the gum pop. “Waitin’ on you for that game plan, chief.”

He almost reached for the nonexistent hat again, but this time, he smiled. “Ain’t but two reasons to race. You’re either runnin’ from somethin’, or runnin’ toward somethin’. Can’t be both. Once you get that settled in your mind, then all that’s left to do is drop the hammer. It really is that simple. All the strategies in the world ain’t gonna help if you don’t know where you wanna end up.”

I made the gum pop so loud, I jumped. “I got this sweet job offer. Thinkin’ I might take it. Some fool’s gonna pay me to be in charge of somethin’ I don’t know nothin’ about.”

“If it comes with a company car and a gas card, I reckon you could just fake it till you make it.” He kept a straight face but his eyes flooded with mirth. “Get outta here. Go kick Kolby’s ass. You don’t need my help for that.”

He jerked his thumb toward the four-drawer stand beside the bed. “Dig out my phone, will ya? Facetime me from the Audi, so I can watch. Two kids racin’ and I’m all stretched out in the a/c, while y’all sweat?” He tucked his palms behind his head. “This is what I call a good time.”

“You could’ve taken all of us on a world cruise for a third of what this room’s costing.”

He rolled his eyes. “Noted.”

Explaining that the hospital had given his personal items to Mom, I offered to leave mine with him. “Do I need to write down the code to unlock the screen?”

Oh, there’s that Dale Hannah smirk.
  “I ain’t too bad with numbers. What is it?”

It took a second, but he made a soundless chuckle. “Caine’s birthday? Your mama’s gonna kick my ass for not puttin’ a stop to that, ain’t she?”

“Good thing for you, her legs are too short to reach your ass.” I studied my nails, wondering whether he’d mention the video. “I know about the divorce.”

When I peeked, regret filled his eyes. His chest heaved with his sigh.

“It’s okay,” I rushed to say. “I mean, I’m not glad... but, I get it. She gets the new house. You get me.” I lifted my chin. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Better get goin’.” His voice was gravelly. “Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Yeah.” I stood and pressed a kiss to his cheek, reveling in the arm he wrapped around my shoulders and the scrape of his beard on my cheek. “You’re my hero. No divorce will ever change that. You changed my life.”