by Eden Connor
I slammed the door, unsure why I asked. “Child abuse?”
She turned her palms up. “Lots of bruises, broken bones, black eyes. Teachers are required to report anything we think could be abuse. Every time—and judging from that file, they were investigated almost every year they attended school—both Kolby and Kasey swore they were just roughhousing, as brothers will do. But, children with only one parent, in particular, will protect their abusers. At best, the file paints a case for neglect, but they were never taken out of the home.”
“You know, I did tell George England that the least he could do was require Kolby to get counseling. But, that was in the waiting room, right after he got to the hospital. By the time I wrote my statement, it slipped my mind.” I turned to face her. “If George knows this and just keeps sending Kolby out there to drive, he’s a bigger ass than I thought.”
“Indeed.” She pressed her lips together.
I turned the key. After the truck fired, I added, “I forgot to tell you my other big news. Caine and I are a thing.” I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Francine bent to find the safety belt latch. “Took you long enough. I noticed at Christmas, the man can’t take his eyes off you.” She slammed the buckle home with a grin. “And oh, my God, what a hottie.”
I missed the clutch, I laughed so hard at the way she fanned her face.
My cell phone interrupted our moment. The number had had a Charlotte area code, but wasn’t one I recognized. I pressed the button on the blasted earpiece.
“Hello?”
“Miss Roberts? George England.”
Blinking in surprise, I squeaked, “Yes?”
“Look, let me say right up front that you won’t like my decision. I’ve wrestled this pig all day, but I want you to remember one thing. Dale never gave up on Kolby. When he comes to, I don’t think he’d like knowin’ he was the reason you tried to get that boy kicked outta NASCAR. These drivers, well, they’re the last American cowboys. Ain’t none of ‘em lookin’ to be tamed.”
I put my finger to my lips and engaged the speaker. Francine’s brows rose when the voice filled the cab. She leaned closer.
“I’m givin’ Barnes a quarter of a million dollar fine and a four-race suspension. Rick’s suspended for two races. He has to write me a check, too. Any more than that, and Ridenhour won’t have no shot at a decent season. That affects every employee Rick’s got. Including your brothers.”
Protest was pointless. I’d swung and lost. “Does that suspension include the All-Star race?”
“No, ma’am. We’ve sold tickets with the promise he’d compete. Can’t disappoint the fans that way.”
I stood to lose a lot more than the fight had cost Barnes. I felt George had a hand in that, somehow. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
Trying to pull myself together, I glanced at Francine’s purse. The envelope peeking from the top said, Congratulations, Shelby!
“Is that for me?” I only asked to ward off any discussion of George England. What was the point in churning over Barnes’ light punishment? I’d kick his ass Sunday, and that would have to do.
I blinked at the five, crisp hundred-dollar bills tucked inside the lovely card.
Trying to keep a lid on my emotions about the phone call, I blurted. “That’s enough for an abortion.”
Dismayed, I met Francine’s wide eyes. “I don’t know if I’m.... Or if I can....” I gave up trying to explain. “Don’t be disappointed in me.”
“I guess, since Ernie’s gone, I’ll have to start telling the stories.” Francine laid her hand over mine. “I teach the version of American history the state tells me to teach. For thirty years, I’ve struggled to accept that what I do is indoctrination more than education.”
Her tart tone made me raise my brows. “For example, when I teach the unit on our founding fathers, I’m not allowed to mention that Thomas Jefferson had a forty-year relationship with his mulatto slave, Sally Hemings, and likely fathered all six of her children.”
She squeezed my hand. “I have colleagues who say that we must judge the man by the standards of the times he lived in. They insist he loved Sally, but I can’t help wondering, what would she say? She wasn’t allowed a voice, but I long to give her one. I believe she’d agree with me, that a destiny where some are limited by our biology is immoral, whatever form the discrimination might take.”
She moved her hand to snap her purse closed. “Even my students who make A’s know nothing, and yet, their parents are proud. The beauty of truth, however, is that, no matter at what point in time you observe it, it’s still the truth.”
I tried to decode the moral. My biology shouldn’t dictate my destiny. Is that what she means?
“Here, this might be simpler. Saw it on Facebook. I’m holding in this hand a newborn in the gender of your choice.” She raised her right palm. “In my left hand, I have a petri dish with five fertilized embryos. I’m going to drop one into a vat of acid, but I’ll let you choose. Which do you save? If you save the petri dish, that’s five versus one.”
But I’d save the actual baby over the potential ones.
I launched myself across the cab and flung my arms around her. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
She stroked my hair with a gentle hand. “Didn’t I mention my big news? I filled out my retirement paperwork last week. I might move to Concord, if that’s where you’re headed.”
I jerked upright. “Really? That’s fantastic!”
She chuckled. “Thought you could use someone to run interference now and again. I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but your mother has no clue who you are. She might welcome a translator. Besides, my favorite sons moved to Charlotte, and you know how I despise driving after dark or on the interstate.”
After my terrible, horrible, very bad day, this was the best possible news.
Francine opened her door. “Hang on. Stupid bladder.”
My elation evaporated while I stared at the empty space that should’ve held Ernie’s truck. As the seconds turned to minutes, cold reality sank in. I’d lost the gamble to get Barnes barred. If I lost the race, I’d put Caine, Jonny, and Caroline’s hard work into Barnes’ hands. And lose two cars at once. That’s everybody’s future down the drain.
What would Dale say when he woke?
Dale would quote Cale Yarborough. “If you don’t take a chance, you won’t have a chance.”
I hoped.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dr. Erikkson wore a smile above the surgical mask hanging under his chin. “His responses are good.”
What responses? Dale lay silent and unmoving. The machine still pumped breath into him. Every tube and needle still pierced his body.
The physician nodded to a beat I couldn’t hear. “It’s going to take time before he comes fully aware. The process isn’t straightforward, like flipping on a light switch. Think along the lines of a dimmer switch.”
Can’t anything ever be just black or white? Yes or no? Good or bad? Life had dealt me so many paper cuts this month, I felt like a bloody bag of confetti.
“How long before he... before he sees us?” Mom lifted a tissue to her blotchy nose. Caine’s arm around my waist helped hold me together, but in three days, Dale had gone completely white around his temples. Except for those streaks down each side of his chin, the rest remained ebony.
“Hard to say. It could happen tomorrow. It could take a couple of days. Medications vary in the length of time required to clear someone’s system. He’s not a drinker or a smoker. That’s going to work in his favor. He’s extremely fit for his age.”
“What about his test results?” I needed something objective. Something I could measure. Solid science. Faith just wasn’t my thing.
“His skull fracture will heal on its own, given time. The bone isn’t depressed at the spot of contact, so nothing’s impinging on his brain. I see no signs of swelling, but of course, we’ll continue to monitor him around the clock. The bleeding was limited
by inducing the coma, and appears much lighter than I’d originally feared.”
Ah, there it was, the slight frown, the way the physician’s eyes flickered. Now, for the bad news.
“The affected area of the brain controls fine motor function. Tomorrow, Dr. Abrams will evaluate whether we need to transfer Dale to an inpatient rehab facility once he’s more alert, or release him to your care and arrange outpatient therapy. Until that determination is made, he’ll remain in ICU. I’ll lift visitation restrictions, but only for immediate family. When he comes around, the fewer people talking to him, the better, at least initially.”
Fine motor function? Like tying his shoelaces? Or combing his hair?
Turning a wrench? Inserting a bolt into a hole?
Disappointment sat so heavy in my gut that my stomach cramped. Comprehension struck with a knot of tension in my lower back. This wasn’t a quarter-mile sprint. Dale’s recovery would be a six-hundred lap grind. The idiotic fantasy I’d clung to, where Dale sat up and demanded steak, well done and smothered in ketchup, then got out of bed to attend my graduation, fizzled and died.
“I’m gonna walk or somethin’.” Colt strode past us and through the double doors. The defeated slump of his shoulders made me long to run after him. Caine’s tight grip on my fingers telegraphed that he needed me to stay.
My heart ripped into two pieces, but the larger piece went to Caine. Guilt plopped into the resulting void, a tiny devil, kicking pointed shoes in glee. The creature’s evil grin came with a whisper. Colt’s biggest fear is being abandoned by another woman.
Every face in the waiting room looked up expectantly when we filed in. Desperately, I searched the room for Jonny or Caroline, so I could send them after Colt, to no avail.
Mom headed straight for Bliss, sobbing too hard to speak. Bliss wrapped an arm around her, smoothing her hair, but the brunette turned insistent eyes my way.
Doris hurled a tissue toward the little trashcan beside the end table and drew herself upright. The set of her shoulders and the way she took a tight grip on the arms of the chair made me think she was no stranger to bad news.
All the crewmen disdained chairs. When they crowded closer, they seemed to force all the air out of my lungs.
I managed to croak, “He’s awake, but not aware. His tests are encouraging. Dr. Erikkson says any long-term effects should be limited to his fine motor skills. Once he’s fully alert, rehab is next.” If I had any doubt that ‘fine motor skills’ was a job requirement for Dale, the winces, shaken heads, and dark looks the crewmen exchanged buried it.
A slight sound of dismay drew my gaze to the one face I’d avoided. Marley Taggert jumped from her seat. “Where’s Colt?”
“He took the stairs.” Caine ignored the hard look I gave him. Comforting Colt was our fucking job. All we had was each other. This wasn’t the time to make Colt feel the odd man out.
The young woman shoved her way through the crowd, setting off a round of knowing looks that rocketed my pulse to dangerous speeds.
“We should go find him.” I jerked Caine toward the door.
“Shelby.” Caine dug in his heels, but I tugged his arm again, shaking my head. “Colt’s just... they’re friends, okay?”
Friends? What the hell did that mean? Didn’t they used to tell people I was their sister? The words meant nothing.
Going up on tiptoe, I kept my voice low. “No. Not her. Do you hear me? Not. Her.”
Caine let me tow him into the corridor. I cursed under my breath because he refused to run. Colt was nowhere in sight. Neither was Marley, but the guard’s attention was on the exit door that led to the parking structure. If Caine would just goddamn move his big boots, we could catch Colt before—
The elevator doors slid open. Caroline and Jonny, locked arm in arm, stepped off the carriage.
Caroline took one look at my face and demanded, “What’s wrong? Oh, my God, what’s happened?”
“It’s Colt. Dale didn’t wake up and start talking like we expected. They took him off the drugs keeping him under, but he’s still out cold. Colt’s torn apart. We have to get to him. We have to go.” I yanked Caine’s arm hard enough to rip it from the joint, but the big motherfucker didn’t budge.
“Marley’s with him.” Caine shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”
Most of the time, I couldn’t read much in Jonny’s eyes, but the guarded look he darted Caroline tripled my alarm.
“No!” I slammed my fists against Caine’s chest. “Don’t you understand? He needs us. He needs Jonny and you and me and Caroline—”
Caroline shrugged off Jonny’s arm, but stared at the scuffed toes of her boots. “It’s okay, Shelby.”
I spun, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a shake. She finally looked me in the eye. “No, it’s not okay! That... that... girl. She lived your life! The life you should’ve lived.”
The pain shimmering in her eyes nearly ripped me in half. How could the half-brother she loved with all her heart have the fucking nerve to fall for the one person on the goddamn planet who’d been the root of every bit of suffering and humiliation Caroline had ever endured?
Jonny tried to pull her into his arms. Caroline danced out of reach. “I need to go with Shelby. She has a press conference in five minutes.”
“Find him,” I ordered Jonny. “Find him and kick his ass.” Jonny just stood there until the damn elevator doors closed.
Caroline collapsed into the corner of the carriage. She looked so lost, I spent the short trip to the first floor glaring at Caine.
Once we stepped outside, I was stunned to see a group every bit as large as I’d confronted on Sunday, but was too pissed off at Colt to be nervous. These guys—I saw no women—weren’t as intimidating in broad daylight. And fuck them, anyway.
“Good evening.” I gave them a terse update on Dale’s condition. “As he becomes more alert, a neurologist will evaluate his fine motor function, so at this time, I cannot say whether he’ll be moved to an inpatient rehab facility, or sent home to recuperate. I can say, however, that being hard-headed—a Hannah trait if ever there was one—seems to be more blessing than curse. This time, anyway.”
The newsmen guffawed.
A guy near the podium stuck his hand up. When I pointed, he introduced himself as a reporter for the Charlotte Observer. “Shelby, have you seen the ’71 ‘Cuda yet? I believe you called it the 6k ‘Cuda?” He waved a narrow note pad. “I’d like permission to use your term when my spread on the car runs in Sunday’s paper.”
Caine and I exchanged a glance. Kolby had found the damn car? This day just kept getting better.
“No, I haven’t seen the car. Feel free to borrow the phrase. However, I can’t take credit for it. Dr. William Joyner, head of the English Department at Converse College, first used it in reference to a story I wrote about the car.”
The reporter lifted his head from the pad he scribbled on. “So, the race is confirmed?”
Caine leaned to the mic. “Has the car been authenticated? If so, by who?”
“Dutch Brannon’s flyin’ in tonight to look at it. Based on the photos I sent, he’s pretty excited.”
I raised a brow at Caine, who reminded me. “Brannon is Dodge’s racing guru. One of Dad’s best buddies, actually. Haven’t seen him since Dodge pulled out of NASCAR.”
“Build ticket’s in place, stapled under the back seat.” Kinsey sounded like a kid at Christmas. “Those notorious numbers on the frame and engine match, plus, there’s a handwritten account of how the car failed to make its appointment with the crusher. Quite an engaging read.”
The reporter tapped his pen against the pad. “The odometer registers fewer than two miles. Car’s been stored in a controlled environment since the day it was built. Looks like it just rolled off the line.”
Several whistles filled the air. Kinsey gave his colleagues a smug grin. “Dutch says it’s worth over six million dollars, if it’s the real deal. I have documentation suggesting it’s worth as much as ten.
”
“Then, the race will take place,” I assured them. If nothing else woke Dale, maybe the 6k ‘Cuda would get the damn job done.
“Who owns it?” Caine demanded. “Where’s it been all this time?”
“Owner wants to remain anonymous, but it’s my understanding, the car won’t change hands unless you win. Barnes wouldn’t reveal what the agreed-on sales figure was.”
Did it matter? What was Caroline’s work worth? Millions, I’d gathered from conversations the guys had had in the last two days. That was, if she had the money to file for the patents and testing, and if a car manufacturer saw the potential in... whatever the hell she’d done. Life was too crazy at the moment to even ask. Besides, I doubted I’d understand one word.
Assuming the reporters were done asking questions, I was about to thank them for coming, when another reporter said, “That’s a lot to put up against an R8 worth, what? Two hundred grand? What am I missing?”
No, no, you don’t get that part of the story just by asking nicely, when we’re writing it in blood, sweat, and tears.
“I didn’t set the terms of the bet,” I reminded them. I ached to accuse Kolby and Niles of trying to steal trade secrets, but, in case we were wrong, why tip anyone off that there was something in the Audi worth stealing?
I kept telling myself that Goodlowe Albright would’ve asked, if he was as smart as they kept saying. Niles never saw the car do better than an eleven-second run. Caine was thrilled now that I’d had their friend kicked off the crews. He swore Niles wouldn’t have time to find whatever the fuck it was we didn’t want anyone to see in the window of time the German had given himself to inspect the cars.
“Shelby, how about an interview?” The man in the rear waved a hand and introduced himself as the guy Caroline liked from ESPN. He smiled. “C’mon, woman, stop playing hard to get.”
“Right now, my brains feel like scrambled mush. You’d be better off interviewing a sea sponge. Dale’s your story, not me.”
“We need to get back to the ICU. Thanks, fellas,” Caine tugged me away from the podium.
