by Eden Connor
Caine cleared his throat. “Hang on, now. Don’t run him off yet. He’s my graduation gift for Shelby.”
“What?” Francine jerked around to glare. “Were they all out of those little imitation, chocolate-flavored assholes, Caine? You thought you’d take a chance on the real deal?”
I nearly fell off the couch. Colt needed to throw out a hand to catch Marley’s eyeballs before they hit the carpet. Caroline let loose first. Damn her. I clapped my hand over my mouth to avoid joining her peal of giggles. Then Dale snickered and I lost it.
“Dutch Brannon. This is Shelby.” Caine raised his voice and gave Francine a wide-eyed, ‘what the fuck’ look, but if looks were razor blades, Francine would’ve made that Mopar symbol bleed. “Shelby, all my life, I either called him Uncle Dutch or ‘the Dodge man.’”
Dale scrubbed the base of one hand into his eye socket. “Chocolate-covered asshole. That’s what I’m callin’ him from now on.” He threw his head back and brayed. “Oh, God, I can’t breathe,” he wheezed, between machine-gun bursts of laughter.
Harry rounded the bar. “Seriously, which one of you dissolved her pain meds in that champagne?” He jabbed a playful finger at Jonny, who threw out his hands.
Dutch moved around the room, shaking hands. Jonny introduced Caroline as ‘my girlfriend’.
“Damn, it’s good to see all you young’uns,” Dutch asserted. He glared at Dale over his shoulder. “You wanna laugh or talk racin’, asshole?”
“Well, let me think.” Dale burst out laughing again.
Harry dragged a chair from the table and offered it to the visitor. Dutch yanked the knees of his Wranglers up an inch and sat down. Leaning forward, he stabbed his elbows into his thighs, pinning Francine with burnished copper eyes.
Caine’s fingers tightened around my hand.
“I had to tell ‘em about that car, Frannie. The way Barnes went about tellin’ the whole damn world he had it, I wasn’t left with no choice.”
Brannon straightened, shifting his attention toward me. “So, what I done next was, I grabbed up the smartest exec we got in Marketing. Showed her the ‘Cuda Confessions site. Then, we took a look at the footage from both drag races. And she agreed with me, that you and Dodge need to be on the same team.”
Dale snapped upright in the recliner. He wasn’t laughing now.
The smirk must be a racing thing, because Dutch had one almost as good as Dale’s. “Yeah, that’s right, motherfucker.” He darted a glance at Francine, muttering, “Pardon my French.” Moving his attention back to Dale, he went on. “I know better than to crash a party without bringin’ a gift.” He yanked a thick sheaf of papers out of his back pocket and threw them into Dale’s lap, but turned toward me again.
Shifting his feet, Dutch parked his ankle on one knee. “Now, assuming Fiat gets possession of the ’71 ‘Cuda, she’ll get new rubber, new gaskets, and anything else she needs. All original equipment. A complete, off-frame restoration. A trailer’s been ordered so the car, her driver, and her team of security experts can meet you at every NASCAR and NHRA event where a Hannah-Built car’s runnin’.”
“Do you have that in writing?” Francine leaned forward to peer at Dale. Phillip rounded the bar, but hesitated because Dale still had his nose in the pages.
“I could settle out of court, for storage fees, if that’s iron-clad for an extended period of time.” She straightened and looked down her nose at Dutch, before she swept her gaze toward Dale.
“But, in case he neglected to mention it as part of his resume, Mr. Brannon comes by his tendency to bullshit naturally. My daddy gave him his first job, washing the cars on the retail lot at his Ford dealership. Next thing he knew, Dutch was selling more used cars than the guys making commission.”
Colt laughed so hard, I feared for the arm of the loveseat, but I was stuck on one line of the man’s astonishing speech. What NHRA event?
Brannon ignored Francine. “We want you to keep talkin’ to folks, honey. Dodge wants to sponsor the ‘Cuda Confessions site. They wanna pull some footage off to make TV commercials, too.”
He broke my astonished gaze to give Francine a pleading look. “I reckon you’ve forgotten what your daddy used to say about a trailer queen, but they don’t pull their own weight. Why would you even wanna pay the insurance on that damn car? Bet your ass, by the time we got done, the big dawgs at Chrysler know, it was Shelby Hannah who put the ‘Cuda back on everyone’s lips.” He spread his hands. “When Shelby ain’t usin’ it, it’ll sit in the Chrysler Museum, with a plaque that honors Ernest Aaron Tipton for bein’ part of the conspiracy to save it from the crusher, and for maintainin’ it for decades, so she could take her rightful place, and provide enjoyment for every muscle car enthusiast.”
He darted Dale a grin. “It’s the stories that sell these old buckets of rust, right Hannah?”
Francine leaned forward to catch Phillip’s attention.
Phillip frowned. “Why would a museum want two cars just alike? What will happen to ‘Cuda convertible number 5,999? Throw that one in to sweeten the deal, and maybe we can talk.”
“That’s my kind of thinkin’.” Dale raised a thumb.
Dutch’s chest heaved with his sigh. “No flies on him, huh? Won’t hurt to ask.”
Bringing his unusual eyes to my face again, Brannon grinned. “That story you’re tellin’ has already translated into some big sales at Dodge dealerships. The marketin’ gal made pie charts and shit, showin’ how sales spiked after your first race with Barnes. She got some dealership owners on record, sayin’ they had customers who came in just because of what they seen on your website. People can’t get a ‘Cuda, but they bought Challengers, Chargers, and Vipers. They’re bringing back Plum Crazy as a paint selection when the new models hit the line in September.”
He tipped the chair back onto two legs, hooking leather boots around the front legs. “So, we want to put some Dodge engines under y’all’s hoods.”
My heart stopped. Dodge wanted to partner with us? They were coming back to NASCAR?
His gaze strayed to Dale. “Real-time engineerin’ support, Hannah. Satellite uplinks from the track. Whatever you need, I will get you. And it goes without sayin’, we hope like hell, you’ll spray them race cars out in that garage Plum Crazy purple. I got three cases of paint in the trunk.” He jabbed a finger toward Dale. “Me and you ain’t done winnin’ together, brother. Not by a long shot.”
I cleared my throat. Of all the thousand things I wanted to say, the one that came out of my mouth was, “Hannah-Built will compete in NASCAR, not the NHRA.”
Caine stretched to kiss my cheek. “I’ll be goddamned if you’re gonna stand in anyone’s shadow, babe. Not even the old man’s. You’re a world record holder. And we’re just gettin’ started. If you want to compete, let’s kick some ass.”
Caine opened the drawer on the coffee table. I held my breath, thinking about what usually came out of that drawer. But the plain white envelope he withdrew held a card. Two small pieces of paper lay inside.
“You registered me for the National Hot Rod Association? And got me an NHRA license application? But, you and Dale will be busy with the NASCAR cars.”
Dale glanced over the top of the page he scrutinized. “Honey, we know NASCAR better’n we know drag racin’. Big difference between settin’ up a car to make a six-second run and settin’ one up to make a four-hundred-lap grind. But, we know a fella.”
Caine tightened his grip on my hand. “He just lost a good job with Audi Racin’. You ever met Goodlowe Albright?”
Caroline coughed so hard, Jonny pounded her between her shoulder blades.
“Phillip!” Dale snapped the pages he held.
Yes, sir?” Phillip made the few steps to Dale’s side.
Dale jabbed a finger to the contract. “Translate that section into English, please.”
Phillip scanned the text. “It says that Hannah-Built Performance Engineering agrees to customize a minimum of five hundred units of the
new Dodge Hemi ‘Cuda annually, for a period of three years, with an option to renew for five more. There’s an amount specified to license the Hannah-Built name, the trademarked names Dale Hannah and Shelby Hannah, and the ‘Carolina Cool’ graphic, for exclusive use on those vehicles. I suspect you can translate all the zeros yourself, chief.”
My body went numb from the roots of my hair to my toes. People were going to drive brand new ‘Cudas with my feather design on the sides? Not the fat, hideous Hemi stripe? I pinched my forearm, wincing from the pain.
“Back up to the part where it says ‘Dodge Hemi ‘Cuda’.” Dale lifted his cap and dragged his nails along the red mark left by the band. “I’d swear I was the one that got smacked on the head, Dutch.”
Now it was Brannon’s turn to laugh. “Timin’s every damn thing. They’ve gone plum wild for this idea, thanks in no small part to your daughter’s statement to the press the night you damn near give me a heart attack, Hannah. She proved she can get people fired up. And that was before she knocked me outta my easy chair with that whole space shuttle bit.”
“No offense, honey, but I heard boxer shorts spring open over America right then.” Dutch held up one arm and clenched his fist.
Caine buried his face in my lap and brayed. Barks of laughter came from every man in the house, with the exception of Harry and Dale, who exchanged offended looks.
Dale’s rounded eyes grew wider, setting off Francine and Marley.
Dutch shifted in his seat. “They’ve dusted off the plans for the old ‘Cuda. Gonna trot out a brand new version. It’s somethin’ they’ve played with off and on, so engineerin’s on the ultra-fast track. Lookin’ at a launch, not this September, but next. The surprise reveal’s comin’ at the big car show in December, so, we’ll deliver one of the prototypes as soon as we get everything signed, so y’all can get started on it. Gonna take a minute to get a design approved.”
My head had the same walking-though-gelatin sensation as after I’d climbed out of the wreckage of Dale’s ‘Cuda, minus the ache.
Brannon leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “They’re gonna build ‘em right in the heart of Detroit, Shelby. They’re addin’ the line to the factory where we build the Viper.”
He held out both hands across the coffee table. I had no idea what else to do, so I put my damp palms into the rough hands of the Dodge man.
“I don’t know what that means to you, young lady. To me, that means American jobs, right where they’re needed most. It means jobs here in your home town, to do the custom work. Because that’s what we all heard when we watched your videos. People want to see America get strong again. You showed us that folks see the ‘Cuda as a symbol of that strength. Help us take that vision and run with it. Let’s finish up what you started and kick some ass on the track while we’re at it.”
This man could persuade me to eat boiled paper bags. From the corner of my eye, I noted Francine messing with her hair.
Dale dragged his thumb across his tongue and held it up. “Feel that, Shelby?”
Overcome and terrified I’d break down and cry, I shook my head.
“That’s the wind shiftin’, little girl o’ mine. Remember that little talk we had down in the garage, the day after Christmas? Think on what you can change while the world’s got its eyes on you, sweetheart. Then, tell Phillip, so he can write it all down.”
Caroline gasped. “Oh, my God. Shelby.” She gripped Marley’s knee. Marley’s nod was barely perceptible, but their brimming eyes made my heart skip a beat.
I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the massive offer, so I had no idea what to say. Dutch let my hands go. “Heard you were relocatin’ here, Frannie. I have a house in town myself.”
“Good for you.” Francine’s tart tone set Dale off laughing again.
“Chocolate-flavored asshole.” Dale choked the words past his laughter. “What does that even mean?”
Francine leaned over to mutter in my ear. “Tastes good, till you hit the bitter truth in the center. Nothing ever shook Dutch Brannon harder than a goddamn car.”
“Oh, then I reckon I know a couple of those myself.” Robyn sniffed.
The day of Ernie’s funeral, Francine had said, “Find a man who’s as passionate about you as about his work.” Dutch hadn’t managed that as well as Ernie, it seemed. And I didn’t have a lock on the red-headed bitch market, either.
But damn, theirs was a story I wanted to hear. No offense, Ernie.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Dale slammed the chair into a reclining position and jabbed a stained finger toward the kitchen. “Harry, you’re gettin’ a marketin’ degree, right?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Harry turned to stammer. “Graduate the end of August.”
“That’s gonna be your job. His marketin’ genius? Her ideas get run past you for approval. If you like it, run it up the flagpole to Shelby. Don’t let them run the Hannah family name into the ground. When the money machine starts to roll, they forget all these sweet promises. Phillip?”
Phillip raised his head from the contract. “Yes, sir?”
“Read every damn word three times, at least. And, from experience, let me warn you, these numbers are always just jumpin’ off spots.”
Phillip lifted a thumb. “Consider it done, boss man.”
Dale finally eyeballed Dutch. “You hang me with one more damn college-educated idiot who can’t figure out how the hell to do what needs doin’, for yappin’ about what can’t be done, and I’m gonna whip your ass from here to Sunday.”
Dutch scratched his nose with his middle finger. “Didn’t I say we watched them drag race videos? Six gears in a drag car, Hannah? Everybody in the Performance Engineering department got your message, motherfucker.”
“Okay, five steps ahead,” Caine whispered. “Not four.”
At last, I could join in the laughter because I knew the joke.
I turned to give Marley and Caroline a silent, open-mouthed scream, but Caroline was sobbing into Jonny’s shoulder. I was the only person here whose main ride was shoe leather all of a sudden, but if I had to hitchhike to town, I was buying Marley a whole box of waterproof eyeliner.
“How many cars we buildin’ for next season?” Dutch asked.
“Three,” I interjected. “That’s a deal-breaker.”
The Dodge man snorted. “If that’s her deal-breaker, this is gonna be an easy ride.” His gaze touched on Colt, Jonny, and Marley. “A veteran on the roster wouldn’t hurt none. Think Jamie might stick around?” Brannon asked the question of Dale. “He probably don’t wanna go out like this. He’s had a shitty year.”
I shook my head. Not Jamie. He did not keep the faith.
Dale adjusted his cap. “We’ll talk on it. One more thing. Shelby’s the sweet one in this crowd, Dutch. Here’s my deal-breaker.”
All mirth drained from his eyes. “If we sign with Dodge, Dodge can’t sign Richard. The minute any Ridenhour car—or any car with Ridenhour backing—rolls into the Dodge garage at any NASCAR facility, world-wide, any pre-existing contract with Hannah-Built is null and void at that moment. We keep every piece of equipment y’all gave us, right down to the satellite truck and the last box of bolts and we take back our name.”
“Harry, toss me a pen,” Phillip begged.
Dutch’s thick brows climbed his forehead. “Rick’s been a Mopar man as long as you.”
“That’s the price.” Dale laid his hands on the arm of the chair, but the veins in his arms stood up. “Absolutely non-negotiable. Get back to me when you got all your ducks in a row.”
While Dutch opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, Robyn got to her feet. “C’mon, Shelby. I just came to drop off a puddin’.” Her eyes twinkled. I thought the web of fine lines around her eyes only made them more beautiful. “And get my first look at Jonny.”
“No!” little Shelby cried. She’d been peacefully sitting on Jonny’s knee since dinner. Now, the child scrambled to her knees and threw her arms
around his neck. She glared over her shoulder at Robyn. “First, you take my red boots! You ain’t takin’ me away from my daddy. He ain’t never around much.”
Robyn inhaled. And exhaled. And glared at Caroline. “Can’t wear boots shorter than your foot. Your toes’ll turn green and fall off. C’mon. You got to come to the party. Now, tell big Shelby goodnight. Grandma’s got to be at work by seven in the mornin’.”
“No!” The child shook her head and tightened her hold. “Jonny said I had to be here for his speech. And I didn’t get no puddin’ yet.”
I perked up. “You’re giving a speech? For me?”
“She has a point about the puddin’.” Dale didn’t get his hand to his face fast enough to hide the grin. “I didn’t get none yet, neither.”
With a sigh, Robyn sank onto the sofa.
“Puddin”? Dutch coughed into his fist. “Love some.”
“Didn’t nobody offer you none,” Dale drawled, dropping his hand to the chair arm with a thump. “Ain’t you got folks you need to go talk to?”
“That smack on the head knocked the shine off’n your manners,” Dutch observed, but he got to his feet and said his goodbyes.
Caine peered at his father after we heard the vehicle crank. “Do you have any idea how far up Dutch’s ass I’ve had my foot to get that offer?” He snorted. “Wasn’t his idea to take a look at Shelby’s videos.” He jerked a thumb toward Caroline. “Much less to track sales on a timeline in comparison with her videos uploads. That shit was some complicated math.”
“That’s racin’, son. Everybody and their damn brother’s gonna claim they had the winnin’ idea first. Got my reasons.”
I searched Caine’s eyes for resentment in response to Dale’s terse statement, but saw only puzzlement, wrapped around a whole lot of trust.
After falling hook, line, and sinker for Rick’s heartfelt proclamation on the bus the night of the press conference, only to have Doris turn around and undermine every word, it would be a while before I let go of my grudge against Ridenhour Racing, so I was down with any move to block the scheming couple. What was racing without a rivalry, after all?
