Turn & Burn (22 page)

“Got his autograph.” The cop wheezed, finally turning in my direction. He ducked his head and peered over the shades. I’d swear the fat bastard was smiling. “He signed every speedin’ ticket I ever wrote him. I got every damn Rookie of the Year, all the way back to 1979. Dale Earnhardt. Harley Taggart. Dale Hannah. Jamie Roark.” He rattled off a long list, but those were the names I knew. “Sooner or later, they all get heavy-footed on their way to the Speedway.”

“That’s an impressive collection. Well, I better not let Rowdy cool down too much. “

“Shelby. I got no business tellin’ you this, but I sure hate to see history repeatin’ itself. These guys, they like to race hard and fuck hard, but they don’t put no ring on your hand for givin’ it away out here, honey. Don’t believe me, just talk to Caroline Mason and her mama.”

“Seriously, Mack?” I’d be damned if I’d call him by any title of respect. “I actually have my sights set on something besides marriage. Something much, much higher than marriage to some racecar driver. I’ll have you know, I just turned down a diamond from Robert Kossel, Jr. about five hours before you pulled me over yesterday. You know who his daddy is?”

“Must be Robert Kossel, Esquire. Hotshot lawyer. He runs them late-night ads on cable TV, and every other billboard out on I-85’s got his face on it. Owns a big ass firm over in Mecklenburg County. Cocky bastard. I got his signature, too. More’n one.” His squinty eyes gleamed with amusement. “Well, then, as long as you’re just usin’ poor Rowdy, I’ll let you get on with it. But I’m sittin’ right here till that maintenance truck shows.”

I actually smiled at the fat man. “So, we’re cool to practice out here? No surprise arrests? No tow trucks?”

“Once them barricades go up, you’re good to go. Might take ‘em till after New Year’s to come pick ‘em up, in case you wanna run that new Audi a bit. Gonna block you off a little more’n three miles.”

“Why?” I couldn’t help but ask.

He drummed his thumb on the top of the wheel. “We all grew up worshippin’ NASCAR and its heroes, honey. That sport was born right here. It’s ours, it’s in our blood, and ain’t nothin’ on earth like it. Lots of damn good drivers ain’t never gonna get their dream, though. So, I try to let ‘em run, if I ain’t gettin’ no complaints, and they got their own system of blockin’ the road, so it’s safe for regular folk.” He turned away to stare out the windshield. I did too, noting that Chris kept looking at his watch.

“What time’s that grudge match? I might have to do some crowd control, since everybody in town’s talkin’ about it.”

“Oh, no. Really?” I jerked around to stare in dismay. “I wasn’t expecting a crowd.”

“Kolby Barnes needs a damn attitude adjustment. Him and his damn brother Kasey both do, actually. Some folks wanna see him get set down a peg. And if’n Dale Hannah’s little girl does it? That’s pure gold.”

“Stop.” I held up my palm. “Don’t jinx me. This is just a little romp. Time trials start at four. Race...I dunno, I think Dale said that’d take a couple of hours. So, six-ish?”

“Uh huh. That’s why Dale Hannah bet a four million dollar car? For a romp?”

“Enough with the pressure,” I snapped. “Now I really need to get rowdy with Rowdy.”

I jumped out of the car.

“Tell me he ain’t sittin’ here waitin’ on a tow truck?” Rowdy demanded. “I left my dash cam on, so we got video proof nobody raced. This is bullshit.”

I shook my head and explained.

He blew out a breath. “That’s good to hear, but babe, I need a rain check. Gotta go see Granny. My family’s doing Christmas with the relatives tonight. I got time to run some tomorrow. How about we work on your starts? We need a Christmas tree.” Rowdy meant the staged light system used for starting drag races on a drag strip, not an evergreen. “Has Dale talked to Lee Haney?”

“He won’t let us run till after Christmas Day.”

Rowdy winked. “I’ll go sweet talk his ass. If that don’t work out, I know the guy who runs the drag strip over in Charlotte. We’ll get you in front of some lights, okay? The start
is
the race. That’s how you beat me. See you tomorrow, babe. And uh, how about givin’ me your number?”

I wasn’t going to spend a minute wondering if the Rookie of the Year might pick up the phone. “Just call Dale or one of the boys. Except for the hour it’ll take to rip the paper off of some presents, this race is all we’re thinking about.” I winked. “Except, I’ll be thinking about my tune up, of course.”

“You’re killin’ me, woman.” Rowdy jerked me close, and in spite of our interested observer, bent me to the rear window at my back with a heated kiss that nearly curled my toes.

I watched him drive off, then slid into the Mustang. While I hooked the safety harness, the blank expanse of windshield made me pause. Why did the glass seem so bare?

Oh.

You left your dash cam on? You dirty little bastard.

I
f I had to pick a theme song for Dale Hannah, I’d choose the new one by Keith Urban—
John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16
—that was blasting through the speaker system, in no small part because the man sang it with his whole heart every time it came up on his playlist.

In fact, there was precious little of what I’d call true country music amongst the endless loop of Seventies and Eighties rock ballads playing off Dale’s iPhone over the state-of-the-art wireless system in the garage. I’d heard every song in his playlist so many times I’d started singing along, the way Caine and Colt did, but at last, Dale straightened. He stabbed the button to lower the volume.

“Fire this bad boy up and see what we got.”

I jumped off my stool, but Caine slid behind the wheel. Huffing with impatience, I took my seat again. Caine turned the ignition switch. The engine caught on the first try. Ernie, dozing in a chair in the corner, woke with a start.

“Wind it up to about seventy-five,” Dale yelled, squinting at a hand-held rpm meter. I peered at the gauge and squirmed with excitement. The engine block was smaller than I’d expected, but my jaw dropped as Caine rocked the gas. The numbers on the digital display climbed. I clapped my hands over my ears. At 7500 rpms, the motor made thunder in the small garage.

Dale dropped his hand. The enraged growl dropped to a guttural purr.

“How’s it sound?” I realized the man was looking at me with raised brows.

“Well, one time my roommate said the ‘Cuda sounded like Johnny Cash with a cold. If that’s true, then this one sounds like Barry White, Johnny Cash, and Josh Turner had a love child and named it Engine 22.” I named every singer with a deep bass voice I could think of.

“I gotta remember that one,” Dale said, as the guys burst out laughing. He tucked the meter into a case and slid it into a drawer. Casting a final gaze around the engine compartment, he dropped the hood. He and Caine shared a grin through the windshield.

Dale yelled, lifting his thumb. “Hook up that exhaust and put her on the street.” Looking at me, he explained. “You won’t have no speedometer. The factory tachometer don’t mean nothin’, since it don’t go high enough, so Caine wired a new one over by the console. But everything else on the dash works. In the morning, we’ll rip out the interior and install a roll cage.”

Caine rocked the gas pedal a few times. Despite the way my head reeled from the exhaust fumes, I couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel.

“Shelby!” I spun on the barstool I’d made Caine drag down from the house. Mom glared from the walk-through door.

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” Dale grabbed a rag, rubbing non-existent grease off his hands. The last two hours had been spent working on the electrical system. I smothered a grin. Mom was right. He never listened to her words, just her tone, when he had a car on his mind.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said three hours ago, but—”

Caine let off the gas so Mom could talk, but when her tone turned bitchy, he gunned the engine so hard, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Mom’s face reddened and she turned away.

He cut the engine and got out of the car, exchanging a look with his father. “Go on inside before Macy throws all your clothes in the front yard and sets ‘em on fire.”

I glanced at the time on my phone. “Since we’ve never raced, how about I burn your ass first, Colt?”

Dale laughed and pointed to my dash cam. “Video that shit for me, will ya?”

“Excuse me. I’m still standing right here.” We all glanced over to see Mom jam her hands on her hips. “Shelby, there’s a man here to see you.”

Was it Chris? I couldn’t think of anyone else it could be, except maybe Gerald, and if that motherfucker had jumped the gun, I was gonna bash his skull in with one of Dale’s incredibly shiny wrenches.

The middle-aged man who came through the door when Mom stepped back was a stranger to me.

“Miss Roberts?” Who wore a suit and tie after ten p.m.? “My name’s Brock Ingram. I represent American Car Products.”

Why was he talking to me? “Hello.”

“I had a hell of a time tracking you down, but as it turns out, my in-laws live in Kannapolis, so I took a chance on swinging by to make an appointment to talk to you and Mr. Hannah.” He gestured toward the driveway. “My wife’s out in the car, but I have a business proposition for you two. Do y’all have some time tomorrow?”

I darted a look at Dale to see if he knew the guy, but he seemed as mystified as I was. “What kind of business?” I asked.

The stranger laughed. “It would involve promoting our products at various car shows around the country.” He glanced over his shoulder and held up a finger before stepping inside again. This time, he looked at Dale “And the car, of course. We’d provide a trailer and crew to get this little beauty from place to place.” Based on the avid look he gave the ‘Cuda, I knew what was coming next. “Mind if I just take a peek inside?”

Dale stuck out a hand and the pair shook. “You’re ‘bout to see me get divorced, if I don’t get my ass in the house. But any time tomorrow works. Assumin’ Shelby’s interested. What the hell is American Car Products?”

“We manufacture and sell car polish and various products targeted at the vintage car restoration market. When I found your YouTube channel, Shelby, I knew we were a match made in heaven.”

“Oh, man.” Colt scowled. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna see her on some infomercial every night?” I swung around to glare at my stepbrother. “What?” Colt shrugged, but he darted a grin at Mr. Ingram. “She’s already a pain in the ass. Don’t you dare go makin’ her famous. Not before I am, anyway.”

“See?” I demanded, giving the stranger a wide-eyed look. “He looks all big and bad, but what a fragile ego.” I cut my gaze to my stepbrother. “C’mon out to play, Colt. I can’t wait to kick your ass.”

Dale burst out laughing and headed for the door. “Any time after breakfast is fine by me, Ingram. But I just bet the title on a drag race, so we might better wait to see how that turns out.”

The stranger had leaned down to peer through the door Caine left open for him, but Dale’s comment made him straighten and whip around to stare.

“Why in the world would you do that?”

An answer I wanted to know. Judging from the way Caine, Colt, and Jonny all turned expectant gazes toward Dale, I wasn’t the only one.

Dale hooked an arm around Mom and dragged her against his side. “If you ain’t riskin’ nothin’, you ain’t livin’. Just makin’ sure our young’uns know it, too.” He lifted the brim of his baseball cap. “G’nite, y’all. Gotta go sweet talk my wife.” They strolled out the door, but Dale bellowed the words to an old Kansas song. “Carry on, my wayward sons....”

So, the race wasn’t about the race?

“Okay.” The Ingram guy looked mystified, but Dale and Mom were gone, so he looked at me. “I guess this can wait till then. When and where’s this race? I mean, I’d love to watch, if nothing else.”

“The county fairgrounds, day after Christmas. Dial-ins start at four. Race probably won’t happen till five or later.” Caine flipped a screwdriver into the air and caught it. Flipping it again, he added, “But it’ll be over in about eight seconds, so you might wanna get there early.”

“See you then. And, uh, good luck.” The man’s expression said he thought we were all insane. He gave the car a last look. “Eight seconds? A roulette wheel takes longer to grab your money.” He shook his head and hurried out of the garage.

“I use that shit.” Jonny waited until the vehicle reversed up the driveway before he broke the silence. “It’s damn good polish, actually, but the name’s not catchy and it’s a crowded market. I guess they’re gonna throw some money into building brand recognition. Nothing’s more American than the muscle car, and the ‘Cuda’s the king.” He pointed a wrench in my direction. “Now, that’s what two million subscribers can do for you, so don’t give nothin’ away, Shelby. He wants to use somethin’ you built to make a buck? Make his ass pay.”

Ernie cleared his throat. “Yep. Jonny’s exactly right, Shelby. You should check this Ingram fella out, sweetheart. This old man’s headed for the house. G’nite.”

“Goodnight Ernie,” we chorused. I had no idea what to say about the visitor. It didn’t matter, though. Why hadn’t Dale told the guy he was selling the ‘Cuda, even if I won the race?