by Roz Lee
“What do you want from me?”
“We want to know what happened out there today. Are you trying to kill yourself, C.J.? Or are you trying to kill the other drivers?”
He flinched on the inside. His fire suit might as well have been wool. His skin itched, and he couldn't wait to get out of it, the fire suit, or his skin, either one, and out of this place – away from the pity and disapproving looks. “It was an accident,” he answered. “That asshole, Warner, clipped my bumper and sent me into the wall.”
“And instead of pitting, you went after him. You destroyed his car, and damned near killed him. If this was a few years ago, before the new safer barriers, you would have killed him.”
Dell smirked at the irony of it. Nobody blinked an eye three years ago when Warner drove Caudell Senior into the wall at Darlington and killed him. He'd be damned if he was going to let the fucker do the same to him. “Tell him to keep off my ass, or he won't finish a race in one piece all season.”
“Listen here, C.J. That kind of talk won't be tolerated. You can't threaten another driver and get away with it.”
Dell narrowed his blue eyes, adopting the one thing he had in common with his old man, a steely-eyed look that could cut a man to shreds. “It's not a threat. It's a promise.”
The room was silent except for the drone of high-performance engines on the track. Dell stared down the NASCAR officials, hating that he was in the official hauler instead of on the track.
“You took out six other drivers, including Warner, C.J.”
“They were all start and parks anyway.”
“Yeah, they were, but those kind of teams can't afford to lose cars and stay in business. And NASCAR can't afford to lose them. You can't continue to drive the way you do. You're reckless, C.J. You're out of control.”
“What about Warner?”
“What about him?”
Old doubts began to creep in, sapping his confidence. “He hit me first.” Dell tried his best to keep from sounding like a petulant child complaining about the schoolyard bully, but that's what it sounded like, even to his own ears. Shit.
“Pack up your hauler and leave, C.J. Go back to Charlotte. We'll deal with Warner. When we make our decision, we'll notify your team owner.”
Dell shrugged and pushed away from the wall. “Yeah, you do that,” he mumbled as he shut the door behind him.
He pasted on a happy-go-lucky face for the reporters waiting for him. After a few minutes smiling, as if all was well, and plugging his sponsor, he headed for his motor home. He should help the crew load the hauler, but he didn't want to face them yet. Months of work to get ready for the first race of the season, the Daytona 500, and they'd be halfway home before the race was over.
Inside, he shed the fire suit, tossed it in a heap in the corner of his bedroom and pulled on his favorite jeans and T-shirt. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and stretched out on the built-in couch. The race was nothing more than the buzzing of a giant mosquito in the well-insulated motor coach. Dell shut it out as he'd learned to do before he could walk. Hell, he took his first steps on the track at Talladega, twenty-six odd years ago. This was home, even more so than his big new house on Lake Norman.
He brought the bottle to his lips and savored the slide of cool liquid down his throat. It quenched his thirst, but did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. For perhaps the millionth time, he asked himself what he was doing. Three years after that son-of-a-bitch Warner drove Caudell Senior into the wall, and here he was, still trying to prove his father wrong.
He closed his eyes and their last conversation played over in his mind. Darlington. Summer. Heat so hot, your lungs protested every breath. The noise of the garage. Engines revving. Air wrenches. Voices raised to be heard over the din. Caudell summoned his son, and even though Dell was certain what he was going to say, he went anyway. They stepped outside in the blazing sun.
“You'll never get anywhere in this business, C.J. You drive like an old lady out for a Sunday picnic. Hell, son – you should get out before you get killed.” It was an old argument, one as far as Dell was concerned, was pure bullshit.
“I finished ahead of you in Phoenix,” Dell argued. “Half the pack finished ahead of you.”
“You got lucky, that's all. It won't happen again. Take some lessons from Richard Warner. That kid can drive.”
Dell flinched at the mention of Dickey Warner. They were only a few months apart in age, Dickey being the younger of the two, but there was no love lost between them. They'd come up through the ranks, competing against each other since they were teenagers. It figured Caudell would approve of Warner's driving – if their cars didn't have different numbers and paint schemes, you wouldn't be able to tell the drivers apart on the track. They both drove like idiots.
Dell gritted his teeth and let his father finish his tirade. “If you think these drivers are going to let a wet-behind-the-ears pup like you run with them, you've got another think coming. Stick with trucks, or better yet, go-carts. You aren't cut out for this business.”
“That's what you think, old man. You're just jealous because your racing days are almost over. You can't stand to see anyone else replace the great Caudell Wayne – especially your own son.” He stood toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with his father, determined not to let him see how badly the words cut him. “Well, hear this. I earned my ride, and I did it without your help.” He ignored his dad's derisive snort. “I'll still be racing when you're dead and buried, and you know what? You know who they're going to be talking about then? Me. Dell Wayne. I'm twice the driver you are. You still drive like granddad taught you, like the revenuers are on your ass. It's a new sport, old man. It's passing you by. You're not on the lead lap anymore. Got that? The cars are different. The tracks are different. It's called technology. Progress.” He jabbed a finger in the center of his father's chest to emphasize his point. “You're on your way out. We'll see who the best driver is. I'll wave to you from Victory Lane.”
Dell sat up and drained the rest of the beer. “Shit.” He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the memory and the tears that threatened. Goddamned hardheaded bastard. He's the one who should have quit while he was ahead. Instead, he raced Darlington like an idiot, allowed Dickhead Warner to force him into taking evasive measures, and did exactly what he warned Dell of, he got himself killed. Run into a concrete barrier going a hundred and sixty miles an hour. Stupid fucker.
Dell still had the trophy. It was currently doubling as a fire hydrant in front of the biggest goddamned doghouse in Iredell County. And as soon as he got himself some dogs, he was going to let them piss all over it.
The door opened, and Dell glanced up to see his friend and crew chief, Ray Mallard step in. “You okay, Dell?”
“Yeah,” he sighed and stood. “Are we ready to go?”
“The hauler will be loaded in a few minutes. I thought we could get a headstart.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. Let's get out of here.”
Dell grabbed another beer and settled into the passenger seat. Neither man spoke until they navigated through the tunnel beneath the track and were on the freeway headed north.
“Want to talk about it?” Ray asked.
“Nothing to talk about. The bastard went after me on purpose, so I returned the favor.”
“Look, Dell. We've been friends for a long time, but I have to tell you, the crew isn't happy. They want to win.”
“We win our share.”
“Yeah, but you either win or you wreck. There's never an in-between. If you'd converted a few of those DNFs last year into decent finishes, we would have made the Chase at the end of the season. As it was, you spent the last few races driving around in circles for no reason.”
“The sponsor got exposure.”
“They'd rather see their car in Victory Lane.”
Dell shrugged. “We'll get them there enough to make them happy.”
“What did the
officials say?”
“The usual,” he hedged. “It'll blow over. It always does.”
“How long do you think NASCAR is going to let you keep driving like your car is your own personal rocketship to hell?”
“As long as I keep showing up to drive, they're going to let me.”
“What about Anderson?”
Dell closed his eyes and considered the fallout from today in terms of the team owner. Virgil Anderson was a friend. When Dell was young and green, Virgil offered him a ride when no one else would. He was the only team owner who ignored the opinion of the mighty Caudell Senior who told everyone within hearing distance his son wasn't ready to drive in the Cup series. No, Virgil wouldn't toss Dell out now, not after he'd proved himself on the track these last four years.
“He'll come around. I've got my share of trophies in the case.”
“I hope you're right.”
~~~
The phone call wasn't unexpected, but he wished to hell, it hadn't come at seven in the morning. The NASCAR officials must have burned the midnight oil in order to deliver their slap on the hand this early.
Dell parked in the slot with his name on it and pocketed his keys.
“Who won yesterday?” he asked as he passed the reception desk. Penny Anderson, Virgil's wife, was more reliable than ESPN.
“Randy,” she said. She pointed a finger at the pedestal beside the desk where the most recent trophy held sway until replaced by another.
Dell's stomach clenched. Randy Cox was a good driver, and bringing home the trophy for the Daytona 500 was big, even for a team the size of Anderson Racing. He pasted on his I'm-a-team-player face and responded. “Hey, that's great. What does that make for Cox? Five?”
“Six. You forgot Fontana last year.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting that one.” He and his wrecked car were almost to New Mexico by the time the race was over.
“You okay, Dell?” The genuine concern in her voice grated. Why did everyone keep asking him that?
“Fine.” Just fucking fine.
He knocked on Virgil's door, entering without waiting for an invitation. The phone call had been invitation enough. “You wanted to see me?”
“Have a seat, Dell.”
Dell settled into one of the plush leather visitor chairs and crossed one ankle over his knee. “So, how much is the fine this time?”
“No fine.” Dell raised an eyebrow. No fine? That couldn't be good.
“What then?”
“NASCAR has suspended you for the next three races.”
Dell jerked to his feet. “What the…? Suspended?” He paced to the door and turned. “What about Warner? What did they do to him?”
“That's not my concern, or yours.”
“The hell it isn't. They're just going to let him get away with it? I don’t fucking believe this.”
“Sit down, Dell.”
Dell glared at Virgil, unable or unwilling to believe what was happening.
“Sit down, son.”
Dell returned to his chair and sat with his elbows braced on his thighs. “There's more?”
“Look, Dell… you know I think of you as a son. Your daddy was a hard man, but he was a friend. I hate to see you doing this to yourself. Ever since he hit the wall, you've changed. You aren't the driver you were when I took you on. Caudell was an idiot when it came to you. He loved you too goddamned much, I guess. He didn't want you to race.”
Dell forced his neck muscles to cooperate and raised his head so he could look Virgil in the face. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm trying to tell you something – something important. Caudell and I were friends up until I gave you a ride. He never spoke to me again after I took you on, except to tell me he'd kill me if anything happened to you. I believed him. The man worshipped the ground you walked on.”
Dell's laugh was without humor. “Let's suppose for a minute any of this preposterous story is true. Why did you give me a ride?”
“Because you're the best damned driver I've ever seen. Or you were. Look…Dell. I hate to do this, but I owe Caudell this much. I made him a promise, and I aim to honor it. I'm taking your ride. You're done, son.”
Dell sat up. “I don't believe this. You tell me I'm the best, and in the next breath, you take my ride? What the hell?”
“I'm doing it for your own good, Dell. I promised your daddy I'd make sure you were safe. It was easy enough when you were driving like the pro you are, but ever since Caudell died, you've been driving like a madman. That's what the other drivers call you, behind your back. Madman. It's not a name I would have ever associated with Dell Wayne, but it fits the new you. You're a danger to yourself, and to the other drivers.”
“You're shittin' me.”
“No, Dell, I'm not. Your sponsor threatened to pull their support if NASCAR suspended you. They'll continue to sponsor the car, but they want another driver.” He pushed a piece of paper across his desk to Dell. “It's all there in black and white. NASCAR will ban you from the track if you ever do anything like that again.”
Dell studied the decree handed down from NASCAR.
“Take some time off, Dell. Get a grip on whatever it is that compels you to be a madman on the track. If you get it together, come see me. I'd like to see you back in the 21 car.”
Purchase Sweet Carolina
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today Best-selling author Roz Lee has penned over a dozen erotic romances. The first, The Lust Boat, was born of an idea acquired while on a Caribbean cruise with her family and soon blossomed into a five book series published by Red Sage. Following her love of baseball, she turned her attention to sexy athletes in tight pants, writing the critically acclaimed Mustangs Baseball series.
Roz has been married to her best friend, and high school sweetheart, for over three decades. Roz and her husband have two grown daughters (and a new Son-in-law) they couldn’t be more proud of.
Even though Roz has lived on both coasts, her heart lies in between, in Texas. A Texan by birth, she can trace her family back to the Republic of Texas. With roots that deep, she says, “You can’t ever really leave.”
When Roz isn’t writing, she’s reading, or traipsing around the country on one adventure or another. No trip is too small, no tourist trap too cheesy, and no road unworthy of travel.
Visit Roz Lee’s Website – http://www.RozLee.net
Other Titles by Roz Lee
Mustangs Baseball Series
Inside Heat
Going Deep
Bases Loaded
Switch Hitter
Spring Training
Free Agent
Seasoned Veteran
Lothario Series
The Lust Boat
Show Me the Ropes
Love Me Twice
Four of Hearts
Under the Covers
Also:
Sweet Carolina
Still Taking Chances
Making It on Broadway
The Middlethorpe Chronicles
A Spanking Good Christmas
First Annual BDSM Writers Con Anthology
