Turn & Burn (5 page)

“Hey, you okay?”

I bristled, but rolled the window down. “Don’t I look okay?”

“Chill, Shelby.” I opened my mouth to ask how he knew me, but he cut me off. “Oh, yeah, I’m a fan of your You Tube site, not a stalker. But, it’s just that most people park inside the lines.”

Everybody thinks they know me, but no one does.

His smile was sudden and made him very handsome. “But something tells me you drove your kindergarten teacher nuts because you never even acknowledged there were any lines, didja?”

See? All I know are lines. Don’t cross this one, don’t step over that one. You’ve had sex with more then three guys? Go to the end of the line, slut. Your car’s more than two model years old? Get out of the chow line, you pathetic hardship case, and grab an apron. Your job is to serve us rich kids.

I turned to stare at the empty lot. “Only sheeple park inside the lines when the place is empty. What difference does it make?”

“Can I say something that might piss you off?”

I cut my eyes back to his face. “The real question is, can you say something that doesn’t?”

He leaned down and rested his arms along the edge of the door. “You’re with the wrong guy.” I just lifted a brow. “I say that because your car has a parking sticker for Converse College. But, less than an hour ago, I saw it parked outside one of the male dorms at Wofford. So,”—he shrugged—“no-brainer, you slept over with your boyfriend. But he should’ve thrown you against the wall and fucked you senseless before he let you out the door.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“Easy. If he had, you’d be mellow. Not biting my head off.”

“How would you fuck me?” The question was out before I knew it.

His smile had the right touch of arrogance. “I’d tell you, but your car has a parking sticker for Converse College. Anglo-Saxon, ivory tower princesses like you don’t want a man who’d throw her down, fuck her senseless, then call his boyfriend to take his turn, just so he could keep hearing her little cries of pleasure.”

My stomach took a leap that had nothing to do with last night’s tequila.
A freak
.
Like me.

Play it cool.
“You’re probably a serial killer.”

I wrenched the key, but smiled. The engine fired with an ear-splitting roar. He didn’t move off my window. I lifted the hand brake and shifted into second gear. First gear wouldn’t let me spin the tires. I cranked the gas. Smoke roiled, stinging my eyes, but the stench seemed to settle my jangled nerves.

His eyes twinkled. “And you’re a tease. Woman, you know that engine makes my dick hard.” I laughed again, genuinely enjoying this encounter. “Want the statistics on Asian serial killers? That’s a big, fat zero. I just like to make women come until they beg me to stop.”

My stomach did another slow roll. I eased off the gas and cocked my head, eying the motel.

He dropped his hands, but still raised his voice to be heard over the growling engine. “I’ll leave you alone and just go fix the washing machine, Maybe make a long list of nasty things I’d like to do to you.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I let off the gas. “You work here?”

“My aunt and uncle own the joint. Just helping get it open.”

“Why were you at Wofford?”

“The best way to get a construction crew to show up every day is to bribe ‘em with coffee and doughnuts. I was on my way to grab a dozen at Krispy Kreme. Saw the car and knew it was yours. How many purple ‘Cuda convertibles can there be? I’m fucking hooked on those videos you upload. I’d love to be in one.”

“Actually, out of eleven Hemi ‘Cuda convertible’s made in 1971, only one was painted Plum Crazy.”

He grinned. “Hot as hell
and
she drives my fucking dream car. Be still, my heart.” His eyes were too dark to show any emotion, and yet, they snapped with heat.

I made a loud sigh and fluttered my lashes. “What a coincidence. My fantasy prince comes equipped with a box of fresh doughnuts and a side order of freaky.”

His smile faded. “I can see you haven’t dealt with many construction workers. That dozen is long gone. But, there are all kinds of doughnuts. How about one without calories?” He took a step back and threw his hands out, theatrically indicating the empty expanse of asphalt. “Go for it. Color over all the lines.” He lifted a hand over his head and circled a finger.

Delight swept over me. I stabbed the button to turn on the dash cam before I let the clutch out and hit the gas, wrenching the wheel to the left. Laughing like a maniac, I circled the spot where he stood. After two circuits, smoke obscured his white shirt, but I could see his black slacks. His wide-legged stance never shifted, even when I put the car into a sideways skid after my sixth circuit. I corrected before I slid into him, just showing off. I took his unflinching stance as a compliment. Most guys would’ve climbed the nearest light pole.

“Thanks for the doughnut. Maybe I’ll look you up after Christmas.”
Ask me inside.

“Have a good holiday. Now, walk away real slow and give me a good look at that ass.”

He meant the car’s rear end, not mine, but my interest climbed, thanks to the command and the fact that he didn’t act like an over-eager teenager in a hurry to get me naked.

With a grin, I straightened the wheel, driving sedately toward the exit. When I glanced in the rear view, he had both hands over his heart and he was laughing. Myriad black ribbons marred the asphalt around him. A breeze caught the smoke from my tires, lifting it high into the air until all I could see was blue Carolina sky.

T
he green and white highway marker warned me I’d entered Cabarrus County. My stomach clenched. I eyed the smaller sign below.
Birthplace of nine-time NASCAR champion Jesse Hancock.

The next exit led to the cigarette plant. I wondered if Caroline still worked for Phillip Morris, and if so, how it made her feel to see that sign.

Why not look her up while I’m here and ask her?
After her baby was born, our contact dwindled to nothing. She wasn’t interested in my college exploits any more than I was interested in the trials of life with a newborn. Letting her drift out of my life had made not telling her what Colt and Brandon had done to us easier. Not to mention, I didn’t have to feel guilty that I’d gotten out of this miserable town and she hadn’t.

The wail of a siren made me jerk my gaze to the rearview mirror. Blue lights flashed, right on my bumper.

I yanked my foot off the gas and slammed on the turn signal indicator. Easing to the side of the road, I set the hand brake.

“Oh, by the way, your car insurance will be going up. Merry Christmas, Dale.” How fast had I been going? I doubted I could convince a cop I wasn’t speeding. The ‘Cuda’s claim to fame was the way it could accelerate.

I showered at Harry’s and put on something comfortable to ride in, but Harry asked what the point was in blowing two-fifty on a killer outfit—plus shoes—if my stepbrothers saw me stroll by in a sweat suit.

Dammit
. Harry didn’t understand, but I’d let him sway me. Whoever engineered the four-point restraint hadn’t made a workaround for a dress.

I thought about getting my skirt out of the back seat and draping it across my bare legs, but decided against unlatching the safety harness. A moment’s embarrassment was preferable to a second ticket for not wearing a seat belt.

Grabbing my purse off the passenger seat, I found my license and insurance card. Humming with impatience, I blew out a deep breath and tried to peer out the back windshield. I’d driven through a thunderstorm at the state line. Rain always made the clear plastic piece that functioned as the convertible’s rear windshield fog over. All I could see were churning blue lights. I tapped my license against the steering wheel.

At last, a white light flared. The cop was getting out of the cruiser.

I blew out a breath and began turning the hand crank to lower the window. Cool droplets of rain splattered my bare shoulder, so I only lowered the glass a couple of inches. The policeman reached my side and bent, but he immediately shined a bright light into my eyes. Jesus Christ, it wasn’t even dark yet.

The painful beam dropped, illuminating my provocative bustier while I tried to blink away the spots in front of my eyes. He kept the light moving, sweeping across my bare thighs. My stockings seemed obscene in the pitiless light.

I pointed to the seat belt buckle on my abdomen and the strap between my thighs. “Four-point restraint. My skirt’s in the back seat. I’m just going to Ridenhour Motorsports, but I didn’t want to arrive for the party with my skirt all crumpled.”

“Okay,” he drawled. “License and registration?”

My heart stopped. It’d been four years since I’d heard the voice, but I recognized Sheriff Mack Brown’s baritone.

He dropped his gaze to my license, then flipped to the registration and let out a long whistle. “I thought so. A 1971 Barracuda Hemi. Good God, this is a little bit like sightin’ a unicorn.” My annoyance skyrocketed. He flipped the face of the card toward me. “Who is Dale Hannah to you? Does he know you’re drivin’ his retirement fund?”

Oh, nice job, Mack. Pretend you don’t know me
. “He’s my stepfather.”

“Huh. Comin’ home from college for Christmas, I reckon?” He flicked the beam over the seat, illuminating my suitcase and the gifts I’d wrapped before leaving town.

Hey, you can read a college parking sticker
. The obese cop poked the cards through the narrow opening. I snatched them while he moved his flashlight across the dash.

“That the original mileage?”

I ground off a layer of tooth enamel but spit out the words. “Yes, sir.”

“I stopped you because I didn’t think you had on a seat belt. Hard to tell in these old vintage cars.”

Biting my tongue at the redundancy–
of course a vintage car is old
—I met his eyes and smiled, but wanted to scream.
Want to see a Hemi ‘Cuda up close? Buy a ticket to a car show.

He still showed no sign he recognized me. I supposed it was possible. It had been dark in that cul-de-sac the night he’d threatened to confiscate Caroline’s car.

While I shoved my ID and insurance cards into my purse, he said, “Hey, tell Dale not to take no shit off that Barnes kid. I’m sick and tired of that guy’s act. He can drive, but ain’t no damn sense in tearin’ up a two hundred grand worth of race car just because he got beat.”

Staring through my splattered windshield, I thought about getting back on I-85 and heading south. Running into Mack Brown had to be a bad omen. My foot trembled on the clutch. I gripped the shifter so tightly my knuckles ached.

All the anger I’d suppressed over the events of four years ago came roaring back. I jabbed the button to turn on the dash cam. Harry was right. It was past time I spit in a few folks’ eyes. I didn’t give a damn if the sheriff arrested me. Spending the night in jail couldn’t be worse than what lay ahead. Or behind me, for that matter.

“You know what might be a better use of your time than looking for seat belt violators in cars made before the advent of the shoulder harness?”

“What would that be?” Every drop of friendliness drained from his voice.

“You could bust that little prostitution ring Colt Hannah’s running out on Old Cottonmouth Road. Or does he pay you off in pussy, Sheriff? Be careful.” I indicated the dash cam. “I just might know that answer and you’re being recorded.”

He bent to peer through the crack again. “Have we met?”

“I told you, I’m Dale Hannah’s stepdaughter. You and I had sex the night before my eighteenth birthday. Did you pay Colt to have sex with me? No, that’s right. You had sex with me as a bribe not to confiscate Caroline Mason’s new car.”

“Never laid eyes on you before in my life, but let me see if I understand. You went out there and raced. Had sex, maybe. Felt bad later, didja? Who in hell would pay Colt for what every woman out there gives away for free? If you wanna stir up trouble for your stepbrother, that’s not somethin’ I plan to help you with.

As for the Old Sterling Estates, I keep an eye on it, because if the drag racers ain’t runnin’, the gay boys use that spot to go suck each other off. If I get a complaint, you better believe, I go right out there and arrest them cocksuckers or confiscate any car I can prove was part of an illegal drag race.”

This was the waste of time I’d suspected it would be. The fat bastard was aiding and abetting Colt. I couldn’t recall which stepbrother had said it, but one of them had told me once the sheriff got his rocks off, he’d let them race for a year before he came back for another taste.

I thought he’d walk away, but he demanded, “Who told you that Colt was sellin’ pussy? Because I will get to the bottom of that, so you’d better not be lyin’, little girl.”

Shades of Macy.
My outrage soared.

“I don’t know his name,” I admitted. “But he drove a burgundy Mazda. Not tricked out, just a regular car. Dark hair. Kinda tall, very lean. Four years ago, he worked in the meat department at that grocery store out on Old Charlotte Road. Took me in the back and told me I owed him a refund, since he never got to—”