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

by Eden Connor

  “See, that’s what I come to say. I had occasion recently to see proof of the job you done. You turned the little wildcat that claimed my heart the first time she ever spit in my direction into a self-assured woman who can tell a man off so sweet, he’s halfway down the road a’fore the sting sets in.”

  Dr. Jamison’s huff said she hadn’t forgiven Dale for the trailer queen remark. “Poise is merely a side benefit to the education we provide.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what brought me here. Me and Shelby had a disagreement recently. What she said, right off the cuff, was religion and politics and a bunch of ‘ologies’ I can’t even name, all rolled into one heartfelt speech.”

  He had to mean our talk about Colt being bisexual.

  “That young’un was born with a clenched fist. When I first laid eyes on her, she’d pick up a stick and scrub it on the ground to make her point. You taught her how to add balance and weight, and now, she can hone the point till you almost don’t feel it slide through your ribs. Rather than hold that message in her fist, and reach only what she can touch, now she can let it sail through the air and it’ll land true.”

  Oh, Dale.

  “Ain’t no doubt, her words changed my heart. If I know my daughter, she ain’t gonna be satisfied to stop with me. She wants to change the world. And thanks to the job you done, I believe she can.”

  A long pause ensued. The president cleared her throat and when she spoke, her voice resonated warmth. “I think that might be the most moving endorsement of our institution I’ve ever heard, Mr. Hannah. Thank you so much.”

  I blinked back tears.

  “I can’t stop thinkin’ about that conversation, to be honest. I asked a friend of mine, well, I reckon you know Francine Tipton? She told me what the tuition costs here. Don’t mind sayin’, the number she spit out gave me sticker shock. That’s when I knew, I had to come talk to you.”

  “Yes, Francine’s a long time member of our scholarship selection committee, as well as an alumnus.”

  Dale stuck to his point. “I’d never undermine Shelby’s independence by offerin’ to pay for her tuition, ‘cause she’s always known I’d be glad to give her the money. But I got me a problem. See, I growed up a ward of the state. Everything I had was give to me. Well, it ain’t that way no more. So, it don’t sit right with me to take your money for Shelby, but you can see my problem.

  Dr. Jamison tried to speak, but Dale sailed ahead. “Ma’am, here’s what I decided. If another stray lands on your doorstep, long on guts and short on greenbacks, I’d be honored if you’d give her the same opportunity you gave my daughter, courtesy of this old country boy. Just my way of sayin’ thanks for the fine job you done. Because I think the world could use a few more Shelbys.”

  I fled, choking on my effort not to cry.

  I kept an anxious eye on the cafeteria entrance from the main building, but the dinner hour wore on without sight of Dale. When I wiped down the last table in my section, I wasn’t sorry, for once, about my cast. Sweeping was out of the question. I clocked out, waving to Hetty.

  I stepped out of the kitchen and ran headlong into the college president.

  “Hello, Shelby.” She smiled. “How much longer in the cast?”

  “Uh, hi, Dr. Jamison. I just had new X-rays, but haven’t heard the results. We have tools down in the art department to get me out of this thing. They look more tempting every day. Can I take that for you?” I held out my hand for the tray.

  She laughed, but shook her head. “I can do it, dear. How’s the semester going?”

  Horribly. Terribly. Miserably. I’d never made such low grades in my entire life.

  “Fine.” I slid the kerchief I wore on duty off my head. “I guess I need to get to my printmaking class.”

  “See you later.” She smiled and set the tray on the long table that helped the bus trays.

  So, not one word about Dale? I shoved through the door and jogged down the stairs. Halfway across the back campus, my cell phone rang. Dale’s ringtone.

  “Hey, Dale.”

  “Hey, sugar. Listen, I called up that number on the card your boyfriend left. Thought it was time me and your mama got to know your beau. Robert’s daddy seems like a nice fella. Offered to take us all to dinner. Since me and your mama’ll be on our way to Daytona next Wednesday, I thought we’d swing by and take the man up on his offer. How’s that sound?”

  “D-dinner? With the Kossels?” What the actual fuck?

  “Yep. I had no idea little ol’ Sparkle City had a five-star restaurant. Gonna have to fuss at Ernie for draggin’ my ass to Sugar ‘n Spice.”

  I tried to laugh. “A five-star? I had no idea, either. Better be damn good food if it’s gonna beat the souvlaki at Sugar ‘n Spice.” So, Dale had lunch with Ernie, but didn’t hang around to see me?

  “I hear that. Can’t wait to see you. Your mama’s already off buying a new dress.”

  “Sounds good. Gotta go.”

  What the hell was Dale up to? Texting one-handed was a pain in the ass, but I tapped a message and fired it off to Robert.

  Did you know about this meet-the-‘rents dinner?

  Robert responded right away. Just got a text from Dad. He’s pretty happy about Dale’s call. Should be a good time.

  Did you think to mention we aren’t actually together?

  I stared in disbelief at his answer. Did you?

  “Grr.” I slapped my phone into my book bag and stalked into class. My worlds worked best when they didn’t intersect.

  We’re not NOT together, right? Just taking a break?

  I had no idea how to respond to Robert’s message, so I ignored it and attacked my linoleum block. Making deep cuts with the V-shaped carving tool, I wished everyone would just stay in the damn boxes I’d assigned them.

  Chapter Four

  Dale closed his menu and smiled at the male server. “I’ll have the Porterhouse. Well done. Don’t let it bleed on my plate, hear? And,”—he scanned the linen-clad table before meeting the waiter’s scorn-filled eyes a second time—“I don’t see the ketchup. Would’ja mind bringing us some?”

  I’d already warned Robert not to dare give Dale his speech about the superiority of undercooked beef, but I drove the side of my shoe into his ankle as a reminder.

  The server’s brows flashed. His lips tightened. “Ah, yes, sir.” He filled out his pad and gathered the menus. “I’ll be right back with your baguettes.”

  Dale shifted in his seat and frowned in my direction. “What the hell’s a baguette?”

  “Long, thin loaf of bread,” Robert Kossel, Senior answered, holding his hands about two feet apart. His gold Rolex flashed from underneath his shirt sleeve. “They’re delicious. Handmade right here every day. These are served hot, covered in poppy seeds, and dripping with butter.

  Robert, Junior wriggled in his seat. “The chef’s a personal acquaintance, Mr. Hannah. Andy believes the flavor of his meat should stand alone. He doesn’t serve ketchup.”

  Rolling my eyes at the way Robert pronounced ‘Andy’—ahn-DEE, my ass—I drove the side of my shoe into Robert’s ankle again, hard enough to make him jerk this time, since he seemed determined to be dense.

  Mom stiffened. Renata’s Italian Restaurant looked like they’d neglected to pay their power bill, but the flickering candle in the center of our table revealed the stain on her cheeks.

  “Dale, can’t you get by without ketchup just this once?”

  Her embarrassment stemmed from growing up poor—and her friendship with Bliss. How damn dare she let this ambulance chaser make her ashamed of Dale?

  “Aw, gorgeous.” Dale turned his most charming smile on her. “With ketchup, it’s meat and a vegetable, right? Ain’t you always fussin’ at me to eat more vegetables?”

  “This is still America. A man can have ketchup on his doughnut if he wants. There’s a convenience store across the street. I’m pretty sure Ahn-Dee’s already sent someone over there once to buy this tea, because it sure isn
’t fresh brewed. Speaking as a professional waitress, ‘market price’ means ‘if you have to ask, you can’t afford it’. So, Ahn-dee can trot right back over there and buy a bottle of Hunt’s.” I scowled at Robert. “I mean, he wouldn’t stoop to buy store brand ketchup, would he?”

  Senior chuckled. “Redheads. I hear they’re better than those shock paddles the EMT boys carry around.”

  “You got that right.” Dale cast Mom another adoring look.

  “Amen.” Robert slid his arm around my shoulder.

  “Actually, Andy used to be the personal chef for the Clintons when they were in the White House.” Senior poured himself another glass of wine.

  “Is that right?” Dale turned from drowning in Mom’s eyes to look at the lawyer. “Then, I reckon I’ve eaten Andy’s cookin’ a time or two. Bill had us to dinner at the White House twice, when we won back-to-back championships in ’99 and 2000.” Dale reached up to adjust his cap, letting his hand fall with a wince when he realized he wasn’t wearing one. “And, both times, there was a bottle of ketchup on every table.”

  I shot Robert a smug smile.

  Senior chuckled. “I can believe that about Clinton. Sure you won’t try this wine, Dale? I’d love to toast your weddin’ anniversary with you. You said when you called that you and your lovely wife just celebrated your fourth, I believe.”

  Dale shook his head. He lifted Mom’s hand to his lips. “That’s right. Four amazin’ years. No, thanks, but y’all go ahead. I can get drunk just lookin’ at my lovely lady.” He shot me a wink. “Both of ‘em.”

  Senior raised his glass. “Gotta admire a man who sticks by his religious convictions.”

  I gave Robert’s father a hard look, to be sure he wasn’t making fun of Dale. Dale must’ve picked up on the faintly condescending tone, too.

  “Not takin’ a drink ain’t got a damn thing to do with God.” Dale snapped the tri-folded napkin loose and dropped the square onto the knee of the suit pants he’d worn in the family photo. “One single ounce of booze slows your reaction time for a full seventy-two hours. Not indulgin’ durin’ the season gives me a fraction of a second’s advantage on any dumba—er, any other crewman who takes a drink. And those milliseconds,”—he raised cool eyes to Senior’s—“will be the difference between winnin’ and losin’. At least once I can think of, that slim margin was surely the difference between livin’ and dyin’.”

  Dale dropped his head and smoothed his tie, but I spied his smirk.

  “In that case, I’m even more impressed.” Senior tipped his glass in Dale’s direction before taking a long sip.

  Dale scooted his chair closer to Mom’s. “Macy, I hope I remembered to tell you how damn fine you’re lookin’ tonight.”

  “Indeed. A lovely wife you have, Dale.” Senior’s smile seemed a little boozy, but my nerves made it hard to trust my judgment.

  “So, Robert, I hear you’ve been accepted to law school?” Mom lifted her tea glass. She used it to screen Dale from the dirty look she shot me.

  Oh, poor baby, you’re mad about the ketchup remark? I gave her a bright smile. She was the first to look away.

  “Yes, ma’am. My father’s firm is one of the largest in Charlotte. I’ll be an associate there as soon as I pass the bar.” Robert gave my cast a pat. “So, when I’m through with law school, rest assured, I’ll be bringin’ Shelby home.”

  Dale grabbed his tea and took a long swallow. What was Robert playing at? Bring me home? From where? Surely to Jesus, he wasn’t trying to imply that I’d taken him up on that idiotic job in Columbia?

  Except, there was some reason he hadn’t been straight with his father. The smack on the head hadn’t affected my memory, but it had made reasoning out even the most basic things a challenge. I’d only agreed to come to avoid answering questions from Mom and Dale about my relationship with Robert. He’d stopped rushing me. He called occasionally to ask if I needed a ride somewhere. I had enough on my plate without trying to define our relationship.

  But I had no idea what was in this charade for Robert.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, meeting Dale’s steady look, but kept quiet.

  “Uh huh.” Dale lifted a brow. “Where I come from, Robbie, it’s customary to ask a woman’s daddy for her hand before you gallivant off makin’ marriage plans.”

  Mom laughed. “Now, Dale’s just pulling your leg, Robert. Shelby’s been showing us how grown up she is for years. She’s not about to tolerate such an old-fashioned notion. Don’t let him scare you.”

  “Wait. Am I at the right table?” I jerked upright. “Mr. Kossel, I don’t know who spends more time telling me I need to pay more attention to tradition, my mother or your son. And now, they’re just gonna let Robbie wriggle right off that hook? I don’t think so.”

  “Give him hell, Shelby.” Senior laughed. “Every man secretly wants a woman who’ll make him work his ass off to get her.”

  I winced inwardly. Senior had no way of knowing he’d just insulted the fuck out of my parents.

  This was a terrible idea.

  Mom straightened in her seat, looking like she’d just had a corncob shoved up her ass. “Shelby, why don’t you bring Robert home for spring break? We have plenty of bedrooms. Oh. I know! Why don’t we all fly to the race? Doris and Richard have a lovely box at Martinsville. Have you ever been to a NASCAR race, Robert? It’s a huge party. Where will we be that week, honey?”

  “Bristol. That’s in Tennessee,” Dale added with an innocent look that made me choke on my tea. I took another shot at Robert’s ankle. He moved his foot, but had the sense not to take Mom up on the offer. The way Dale just happened to know the date of an event that was two months away gave away the pre-planned nature of her ‘sudden’ idea.

  “Sounds like a fun trip.” Senior beamed at Mom, then darted Robert a sideways glance, but Robert reached for the wine bottle and ignored his dad, thank the Lord.

  “Richard and Doris own the team, I believe? You’ve been with Ridenhour a long time, Dale. Quite the career.” Senior rushed to cover the awkward silence.

  “Quarter of a century. When they gonna cut that cast off, Shelby?” Dale propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin atop his folded hands. Mom nudged him. He dropped his hand beneath the table, then slid one arm behind her and gave her big eyes, like a naughty schoolboy who’d gotten caught with mud on his shoes.

  My anger at her for being embarrassed by Dale skyrocketed.

  I lifted my encased elbow and placed it on the snowy linen, meeting Mom’s glare with a bland smile. “I made them take new X-rays last week. Now, they’re saying only three more weeks, rather than six. He tried to say, once the cast came off, I’d have to go to physical therapy. I told him Harry’d get my tray-lifting arm into shape for free.”

  “Really, Shelby, you should listen to the professionals.” Robert stroked the grimy purple plaster like I was some lap cat. He lifted a brow and gave Mom an exasperated look. “Help me out here, Mrs. Hannah. She’s always been impetuous, but since the wreck, she’s gotten... well, let’s say her filter got knocked to the ‘off’ position. If it passes through her mind, it comes out of her mouth.”

  “This is still America, ain’t it?” Dale’s eyes twinkled. “Woman ought to be able to say what’s on her mind.” I wanted to hug his ass for that damn smirk. “Especially a college-educated woman like my daughter. When she talks, I listen.”

  “You will go to therapy,” Mom announced, sealing the idea in my mind that I, indeed, would not. “No arguments, Shelby. You can’t play around with an arm that was shattered in three places. I just spoke to Doris about this the other day. She assured me that physical therapy is covered by Dale’s insurance. Therefore, I fail to see the issue.”

  Robert sat up straighter. “Was there any problem with the insurance claim on the car she wrecked, sir?”

  “No claim. Her brother’s fixin’ ‘em both up.”

  “But, your vehicle insurance—” Senior began. “Uh, had coverage laps
ed?”

  I glanced down for something to smack the old man with, but dale’s tone was smooth as glass. “Ain’t no claim to be made. Turns out, the insurance folks get their boxers in a bunch if you wreck durin’ a drag race. That’s not a risk they assumed.”

  “Drag race?” Mr. Kossel sat his wine glass down and gave Dale a wide-eyed look. “Worst problem I had with my daughters was with the youngest. She liked to sneak out of the house after we went to sleep. But drag racing?”

  Dale laughed. “I mighta set it up for her. She done real good, too. Things just went a bit sideways after she crossed the finish line.” He lifted his shoulders. “That’s racin’.”

  Mom gave the wine bottle a longing look, but kept her mouth shut. Mr. Kossel leaned back in his seat, but peered at me. I smiled.

  “Turns out, getting ready for a drag race is a great way to keep your mind off what Santa’s bringing. We should make it a family tradition, Dale.”

  “You keep winnin’ high-dollar cars and ol’ Santa’s gonna get to retire.” Dale beamed, then shoved his hand inside his jacket. “Oh. That reminds me.” Pulling out an envelope, he extended it across the table. “Caine said you—rightly so—lit his ass up about usin’ your design on that Camaro without permission. I’m kinda partial to that graphic, though. I’d like to license it from you, sweetheart, along with the rest of them you done for Christmas. It’s a percentage deal. Paid twice a year.”

  “Got a pen?” Carrying a purse was a luxury I’d foregone since breaking my arm. I turned to Mom for a writing instrument, and Robert—the younger—took it on himself to tug the envelope from Dale’s hand. To my astonishment, he opened the envelope and slid the contract out.

  “I reckon I was drivin’ ‘fore I got straight with the state on that license, so,”— Dale’s smile had the dangerous edge I recalled from the drag race, when he’d traded words with Kolby over the engine swap—“be my guest, son.”