by Eden Connor
Throw Kolby back in his cell and flush the key. The station cut to a commercial.
“Hey, Shelby.” The man on my right leaned close, but his eyes remained fixed on the flat panel. “How you likin’ that R8?”
What would Dale say? To show no fear. “It’s not bad for a free car.”
His silent chuckle shook the shoulder that touched mine. “I know that’s right.” He patted my hand. “David Northern. Barnes’ car chief. You made a fan outta me ‘fore you even pulled to the start line, when you did that thing with your helmet. I watch that video ‘bout twice a week, just to yank Kolby’s chain. You or your mama need anything while Dale’s off his feet, honey, you let me know, and I’ll take care of it. If I can’t make it happen, any of these guys will.”
He gestured down the row. Every head turned my way. The faces seemed familiar from the Christmas party. But, as I met each eye, I knew this was Dale’s alpha crew. The men he planned to take with him when he left Ridenhour. The ones out in the corridor must be those who’d sided with Kolby when the bet was made.
“What kind of damn fool deliberately wrecks a ’71 ‘Cuda?” I muttered. “Gotta be a special circle of Hell for that.”
The man on the opposite side of me chuckled. “Dale musta made gas money somewhere along the way, jackin’ off in cup. Damned if you don’t sound just like boss man.” He shifted upright. “Here we go.”
The idea that Mom would’ve paid a dime for the sperm that made me almost made me laugh, but the sound died in my throat.
Onscreen, a tall, well-dressed man stepped through the doors of a courthouse I only recognized because it was near the Cabarrus Creamery, where Caroline and I used to go for banana splits the summer she was pregnant with Shelby.
That’s the place where Mom and Dale got married.
My fogged brain caught up.
Where Dale would’ve adopted me.
That’s not going to happen now.
To the left of the double doors, a podium had been set up. The lawyer went directly to the lectern. While he adjusted the microphone, I spied Mack Brown to his right. The sheriff wore sunglasses and had donned his wide-brimmed hat. He scanned the crowd like he expected a riot to break out.
Reporters surged up the stairs. A ribbon popped up onscreen, informing viewers that the broadcast was a live feed. The lawyer held up a hand. I didn’t bother to read the name that flashed at the bottom.
“Kolby Barnes will post a personal property bond in the amount of two million dollars within the hour and he’ll sleep at home tonight. We look forward to our day in court. That’s all I have at this time.”
My heart fell to my shoes. He’d just waltzed right out the door? Home in time for dinner?
“Will Kolby be allowed to participate in the All-Star race?” Several reporters shouted the same question. Outrage knotted behind my breastbone.
“That decision’s out of my hands, but I hope the NASCAR organization will see fit to withhold judgment until Mr. Barnes has a chance to explain his actions to a jury of his peers. I’m sure the team wants to get back to normal as soon as possible.”
“Excuse me.” I jumped up and dashed into the hall. Dale’s in a coma he could never wake from, and that fucking lawyer’s worried that Kolby’s gonna miss a paycheck? I slammed my back against the wall, in case my knees gave out. How many paychecks will Dale miss?
I battled the tears threatening to overwhelm me and looked both ways down the thirty-foot corridor. The security guards still huddled outside the elevator.
In the opposite direction, behind a set of glass doors that opened outward—but had no handles that I could discern—nurses and physicians moved around an L-shaped counter. I ached for just one look at Dale. Would they let me in to see him?
Before I could move, someone tapped my shoulder. Afraid the tears might spill if I looked up, I eyed the feet beside mine. Black slacks and tasseled loafers made my heart take a guilty leap.
“Well, it’s not the night in jail I was hoping for,” Jonny muttered, “but it’s something. I hate you missed his arrest. Apparently, the local sheriff did the honors himself. That fat old man jerked Kolby around like the last drunk in a bar fight.”
I swallowed hard. “That fat old man’s name is Mack Brown. He gave me the prosecutor’s cell number. I requested the high bail. I guess I—”
“You and Mack cooked up this big bond?” I jerked my head up to meet Colt’s stormy expression. He took four loping strides to put his face close to my ear, gripping my arm hard enough to bruise.
“What the fuck are you playin’ at, Shelby? I gotta race with him and against his damn brother. But, if you cause a problem for NASCAR, before you mosey down the aisle and into your new life, the rest of us get black-balled.”
Reeling from the venom in his tone, I couldn’t hold the grudge when he tipped his head back, blinking furiously. “I got into this to carry on Dad’s name. You can’t get me kicked out before I get started.”
Caine’s eyes blazed as he strode into the tight circle. “I can’t sit in that goddamn room much longer without takin’ a poke at somebody. Now, Doris is in there sayin’ Richard needs to go post Kolby’s bond. For the good of the motherfuckin’ team.”
“What’s two million to Kolby? He shows up for his court date, it goes right back in his pocket. All that little sideshow did was cause a PR problem for George.” Colt narrowed his eyes. His lips stretched over his teeth, but the expression was no smile. “But, whadda ya know? He’s entered in next Saturday’s race.”
Unable to bear the scorn rolling off Caine like heat, I hurtled past him and Jonny. Wrapping my fists in the edges of Colt’s hoodie, I caught him off guard. He staggered backwards. His back slammed against the wall. I went up on tiptoe.
“You better not be talking about using a race car like a weapon. Did you hear nothing Dale ever said? You don’t tear up the one thing that earns everyone their living to settle a personal grudge.”
Colt drove the heel of his boot into the wall. “Rick shoulda let the prick go last season, but he held onto him, knowin’ the guy was a head case. This?” Colt swung an arm toward the nurse’s station, knocking Jonny aside. “None of this woulda happened if Rick hadn’t been so—”
I hadn’t stopped far enough from the waiting room door. Rick hustled into the corridor, face flaming.
“Let me tell you somethin’, Colt,” Richard barked. “If we ain’t racin’ with Barnes, we’re racin’ against him, goddammit. Your daddy’s smart enough to know that.”
I blinked. I’d assumed Richard would let Kolby go now. But, staring into the team owner’s furious expression, I realized that Mom had been right. That would never happen.
Kolby Barnes would keep racing.
Comprehension battered me like summer hail on a tin barn roof. Dale had to leave Ridenhour. Hannah-Built wasn’t something he’d decided to peel off and do on a whim. He hadn’t suddenly become determined to leave a legacy. Dale wouldn’t do something so selfish, not after going in debt to give Mom her dream home. He’d gone in with Caine and Colt to start Hannah-Built because he had no choice.
My entire family stood on a precipice. The fall was a long, straight trip that ended with a hard slap of reality. I envisioned the twenty-dollar-an-hour jobs awaiting my brothers and Jonny in the service bays of some car dealership. Would Jonny still ask Caroline to marry him if that happened?
Right. Maybe I can put in a good word for him at De Marcos Garage and get Caroline a job at the bar.
How would Dale support his family if he couldn’t go back to work? Would he even want to go back if Kolby was still there? My stomach flipped. Yes, he’d go back. And the problem between them would only get bigger. They’d part ways at the end of the season, if they all made it that far without someone getting killed. But next season, Dale and my brothers would be in heads-up competition with Barnes.
“Oh, who can tell who’s thinkin’ about damage control and who’s bein’ self-servin’?” Bliss Roark spat, heels
tapping the linoleum like gunshots as she barreled into the hallway with Jamie at her back. “The man’s a menace. I spend half my time,”—she jerked free of her husband’s restraining hand—“wondering when he’ll make me a widow. And the other half wondering if he’s blowin’ you or fuckin’ Doris.” She drove her finger into Richard’s chest.
Dammit, now I wanted to hug the bitch.
“Sick and tired of your nasty little theories, Bliss,” Richard growled. “Look past the end of your damn nose, why don’tcha? You’re gonna take your toys and go home at season’s end. The rest of us are still gonna go to the track every weekend. Most weeks, Kolby’s only wreckin’ one of my cars. If I drop his ass, he’ll wreck ‘em all.”
Even I felt the truth of Rick’s outburst, right to my bones.
Where was the organization’s leadership in this mess? Why hadn’t they done more than hand out fines to deter Kolby? Would they stand by while another driver pulled the same shit week after week? A driver like, say, Colt or Jonny? Could a few trips down Victory Lane make the asshole bulletproof?
“The problem child should’ve been spanked by NASCAR,” I snapped, unwilling to be on Bliss’s side of any damn thing. “The standards for driver behavior shouldn’t change because a driver can win. Whatever happens now, if anything, is all damage control, and it sure as hell won’t help Dale.”
Jamie quit glaring at Bliss to point a finger toward me. “Exactly.”
“Been lookin’ forward to meetin’ you, young lady.” The unfamiliar voice froze Bliss and Richard. Jamie let his hand drop. His face suddenly matched his shirt. The entire group turned as one unit—the first thing I could recall seeing them do as a team.
“Mr. England.” Colt jerked his chin high in greeting.
“President of NASCAR, Inc., in case you don’t know,” Caine whispered in my ear. “He’s gonna tell you to call him George. Please, whatever you do, do not make an enemy of this man.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I doubt he’d like the names I wanna call him,” I muttered while the older gentleman pumped Colt’s hand, then jerked him into a hug.
Caine snorted and curled an arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight to his side. He murmured into my hair. “I’m goddamn glad you’re here. Do me a favor? Keep me from punchin’ a wall? A broken hand ain’t gonna fix nothin’.”
If you need to hit me again, Shelby, go ahead. As many times as you need. I could almost smell the rank sweat of a fat cop and the yeasty tang of Budweiser. Mack and I had turned the page, but I still owed Caine for that moment, because he’d held back the darkness that had threatened to sweep me away after I’d made a decision much bigger than I’d been at the time.
I’m not that terrified teenager any more. I gripped his hand and nodded.
“... our sister, Shelby.” I followed Colt’s voice away from that fateful night.
George England grabbed the hand I extended, clasping it between both of his. His palms felt papery and cool. The sensation struck me as wrong, for a racin’ man. I suppressed a shiver. The temperature in this place made me wish I’d brought my winter coat.
“Just call me George, darlin’. Your stepdaddy, your lovely mama, my wife and I, all shared a table at an awards banquet a couple years back. Dale went on and on about you, young lady.”
The monochrome brown of the man’s hair made me think the president of NASCAR might be vain enough to touch up his gray, because he had to be at least a decade older than Dale. From his summer-weight seersucker suit, to the blue shirt that matched his eyes, to his yellow, navy, and white striped tie—everything about George England reminded me of a Matlock rerun. I forced a smile, determined to not be swayed by his Andy Griffith charm.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry to meet under such unhappy circumstances.” Damned if I’d say it was nice to meet the guy. As far as I was concerned, it was his fault we were here.
Another voice, also male, spoke. “The Hannah family?”
I peered past the president of NASCAR. A man in green scrubs beckoned from the doors to the ICU. “Excuse us a moment, Mr. England. I think that’s Dale’s neurosurgeon.”
“I’m gonna be right here till I know more about Dale’s condition.” Mr. England moved aside but made no move to enter the waiting room.
I hurried to the door, motioning for Mom. She rushed to my side. We dodged the Roarks, Richard, and Just-Call-Me-George. I grabbed Colt’s hand as well as Caine’s, urging my brothers toward the unsmiling physician.
Traditional green scrubs set off dark-as-sin eyes, set deep in the doctor’s angular face. The cap pressed straight hair over his ears, making short tufts stand out in a manner reminiscent of Jonny’s hair. The neurosurgeon smiled, nodding like a metronome as he spoke.
“Mr. Hannah is under. His vital signs have stabilized. I’m pleased we moved so fast. I’ve determined there’s a good deal of blood inside his skull. He has a star-shaped fracture at the point of contact, but the skull is not impinging on his brain. Unfortunately, the area that controls motor functions appears to have been bruised. The ramifications of that cannot be determined until we can wake him.”
The physician adjusted the stethoscope around his neck. “The deep coma stopped the bleed, however, so I don’t anticipate having to drill through the skull to let off pressure. His brain bounced forward after he made contact with the toolbox, striking the front side of his skull with some force, so there’s bruising on the frontal lobe as well.”
Mom began to cry. I shook off Colt’s clinging fingers so I could grip her hand. “Shh. Shh.”
“I want to give you a chance to see him tonight,” Dr. Erikkson continued. “Now, he’s had a tube inserted to help him breathe, so be prepared for that. I know you’re scared, but I need your solemn vow that you will remain positive in his presence. Even in this state, patients are aware of their loved ones. The best way to help Mr. Hannah is to smile and let him know that you aren’t falling apart, okay? Because, despite everything, he’ll worry about you. I’m afraid you’ll have to limit your visits to two people at a time. And three hours between visits.”
“We can certainly do that.” I gave Mom’s hand a squeeze and a look that dared her to start squalling again. “I don’t mind letting the others go. I can wait.”
“I’ll wait, too.” Caine volunteered. “Macy, let Colt take you to see Dad. Tell him I love him.” The hitch in Caine’s voice made me swallow hard, and that, in turn, made me imagine a plastic tube down my throat.
I choked down a sob. “Tell him I do, too.”
If I break down, Mom will fall to pieces. And when she does, she’ll confess. Because confessing is her way out of this mess. The thought of dealing with a prolonged recovery—or God forbid, if Dale’s paralyzed—will scare the fuck out of her.
Doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. She’d run because she won’t know what else to do.
Feeling at odds with Caine and Colt, even with Mom, was familiar ground. But I ached to find a way to bring us back together. Who was I kidding? The five of us had never been together. I had some sense of what Dale had gone through, trying to make us into a family.
He’d let me run, and yet, found a way to keep me tethered. He’d drawn Colt and Caine into his world, and built Mom a house so she had something to show for all the time Dale spent away from her. And not once in the last four years had any of us tried to make his task easier.
Had he given me his medical power of attorney because I was already the outsider, and thus, more likely to do what needed to be done than give in to the group’s consensus? Or was this another of Dale’s ways of drawing me closer to the fold?
“I want to know about the nightmares,” Mom demanded, scowling at the doctor. “You said these drugs might give him nightmares.”
I wrenched my head toward the physician. “Nightmares?”
“Oh, yes, Miss I’m-in-Charge,” Macy spat. “Didn’t he tell you that some patients report nightmares the entire time they’re under? Why didn’t you answer y
our phone so I could make sure you knew that Dale has bad dreams? Some nights they’re so bad, he wakes screaming. How could you let this man trap him inside a nightmare he can’t wake from?”
Caine refused to look at me, so I stared at the physician in dismay. “Is that true?”
The neurosurgeon nodded. “Some patents do report vivid dreams. But the benefits of the coma far outweigh the negatives, I assure you.”
Vivid dreams. Nice way to dodge the weight. Just change the words.
Mom dug her nails into my arm. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Shelby. They could’ve given him anti-inflammatory drugs to stop the swelling. You’re just a child. Of course, you think if it’s new, it must be better.” She narrowed leaking eyes on my face.
“A medical coma is not a new treatment. Standing by with a few steroids in a syringe while his brain swells is barbaric.” Heart pounding, I yanked free. “I’m still trying to work through the side effects of my concussion. I’d trade a few bad dreams for brain damage any day. Go see him. And smile, if it kills you.” Or I might.
Colt grabbed her shoulders, turning her in the direction of the double doors. The doctor moved inside with them, pausing at the nurse’s station.
Caine shoved his hands into his pants pockets and kept his head down.
I swiped my tongue across dry lips. “Is Mom telling the truth? Does Dale have bad dreams?”
“Off and on, all my life.” Caine refused to look up.
My heart stuttered. I imagined being unable to wake from the dream of the ‘Cuda flipping. For seventy-two hours. “So, Mom’s not exaggerating?”
“Nope.” He finally lifted his eyes to mine. “He cries out for my mother.”
In a perfect world, I’d tell Caine right now that nothing would keep us apart. We’d fall into each others’ arms, and somewhere, music would play. Instead, I stared at the nurses’ desk and held my tongue, wondering for the thousandth time if I was pregnant, while he did a damn fine imitation of a man who’d moved on.
