Sweet Carolina

by Roz Lee

  Sweet Carolina

  By

  Roz Lee

  Published by Roz Lee

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Roz Lee

  http://www.rozlee.net/

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  SWEET CAROLINA

  by

  Roz Lee

  For Sarah,

  whose love of the sport

  inspired this story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “On your right.”

  “Stay low.”

  “Clear.”

  “Hold steady.”

  Dell listened to the voice in his ear. Earl was one of the best spotters in racing and Dell would have to be crazy not to pay attention. One hundred and eighty miles per hour doesn't leave much room for error. Hell, there wasn't any room for error. The 14 car sped past on his right, leaving Dell looking at his bumper. He loosened his fingers on the steering wheel to keep blood flowing, then curled them back into a tight grip. His car inched up the track. The wall zoomed past, close. Too close.

  “I'm tryin', Earl,” he answered. “Car's loose. I don't know if I can hold speed and make it through the turn.”

  “Stay low,” Earl admonished.

  Dell fought the car through curve two, narrowly missing the wall as the rear of the car lost its grip on the track and pulled him up the embankment.

  “Go back low.”

  “Fuck, I'm tryin',” Dell said. “Who the hell built this car? The backend is all over the place.”

  “Hang in there, Dell. We'll pit on caution and adjust the track bar.”

  Dell battled the car through two more turns, barely keeping off the wall in turn four. He coaxed a bit of extra power out of the car on the straightaway, caught some air drafting off the car in front of him, and throttled back in turn one again, fighting to keep the backend from dragging him ass-backwards up the embankment and into the wall.

  “Shit, Dell. Go low. Clear left. Hug the stripe.”

  “I would if I could,” he said through gritted teeth. “Car needs a rebuild. Piece of fucking shit.”

  “Engineers are working on the problem, Dell.”

  “Hi, Ray,” Dell greeted his crew chief. “What the hell happened? The car was perfect in qualifying.”

  “Don't know, but we'll have a fix when you pit.”

  “If I make it that long. Damn thing's dragging me all over the track.”

  “Right.” Earl again.

  Dell glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the car coming up on his right side.

  “Got it.”

  Shit. “Where are we?” Dell asked.

  “Fifteenth, and slipping.”

  Well, fuck. The first race of the season, the Daytona 500, and he was driving a piece of shit that didn't have a preacher's prayer of winning. At this rate, finishing would be a long shot. It was only a matter of time before the car asserted its inclinations and dragged him into the wall, or worse, into another car. The 35 car passed and dropped down the track, forcing Dell to throttle back.

  “Clear.”

  “Yeah, I see.” Fuck.

  “Ten laps.” Earl called the milestone out.

  Jesus. Only ten laps? “Roger,” he acknowledged. “Where's a fucking caution when you need one?” he asked.

  “Patience, Dell,” Earl said. Such an idiotic statement didn't warrant a response. Dell wrestled the steering wheel, willing the car to follow.

  “You've got a tail,” Earl said.

  Dell glanced in the mirror. Shit. What the fuck would Warner want to draft off him for? Dell couldn't think of a single reason anyone on the track would draft off a car the driver couldn't control, and it had to be obvious to everyone the car was driving him, not the other way around.

  “Fuck.”

  “Hold,” Earl admonished.

  “Like I have any fucking control,” Dell answered. “What the hell does he think he's doing?” Daytona was one of two tracks where bump drafting, catching a free ride, so to speak, from the driver in front of you, was allowed. It could be a mutually beneficial maneuver, causing both cars to go faster, but the last thing Dell needed was to go faster. With the recent rule changes, it wasn't wise, or necessary to draft for the entire race. Most drivers saved the maneuver for when they or a teammate needed a boost. If it had been anyone other than Richard Warner on his tail, he might have been grateful.

  His car lurched when Warner eased up on his bumper, pushing, nudging. Dell reacted, braking, engaging the clutch and using his heel to rev the engine – keeping the RPM up. The car responded, and pushed by the car kissing its bumper, accelerated. Dell's eyes flicked to the control panel and back. He cringed at the increase in speed. Shit. He re-engaged the gears and held on for the ride.

  His fingers tightened on the wheel and his arms ached with the effort to keep the car on the track. Seconds. Flying, fleeting, seconds. Warner was going to take him out of the race. It was the only reason Warner could have for drafting at this stage of the game.

  Dell ground his teeth as he approached turn one.

  “Clear right,” Earl said.

  Fuck. Warner nudged his bumper. The rear end of Dell's car lost its tenuous hold on the asphalt. He turned into the slide, trying to bring the car back under his control. The sound of crumpling metal penetrated his sound-muffling headphones as the car hit the wall. He spun out of control down the thirty-one degree embankment at one hundred and eighty miles per hour.

  Dell fought for control and prayed no one would hit him as he spun in dizzying circles. His car came to a halt at the bottom of the turn, untouched, but mangled from his close encounter with the wall.

  “Caution's out,” Earl informed him.

  “Fuck that.” Dell shifted into gear and throttled up. Warner had fucked with him one too many times. It ended here. Now.

  If Dell was out of the race, Warner was going out too.

  “Damnit, Dell, pit. Now.” Ray's usually calm voice was anything but.

  “Shit, Dell. Pit,” Earl entreated. “Fix the car, then we'll beat Warner.”

  Dell ignored both men and steered what was left of his car back on the track. He racked up a half-dozen penalties as he sped around the track, passing the cars slowed under the yellow caution flag. Warner wasn't going to get by with it, not this time. This time he would pay.

  Turn four. Perfect. In the aftermath of Dell's spin, Warner wormed his way into the front of the pack and now cruised sedately three positions behind the pace car. Dell caught the look of surprise on Warner's face as he traded paint with him. Satisfaction brought a smile to Dell's face right before he wrenched the wheel to the right and drove Warner's car hard into the wall.

  Dell eased off the throttle and dropped behind Warner. Warner over-corrected and his car dropped toward the bottom of the track.

  “Oh, no you don't,” Dell mumbled as he cut low, accelerating in time to ram Warner in the rear left panel, sending him back up the track toward the wall. Dell followed, keeping his right bumper tight against Warner's car, pushing.

  Warner hit the wall again and spun. Dell throttled back, but not in time. Warner clipped him and sent him spinning down the embankment in turn four. Metal shrieked against metal. Dell jolted as one car rammed him on the left. Another plowed into him from the right. Smoke filled the interior, blinding him. Not that it mattered. His car was destroy
ed, steering a luxury no longer available. Dell braced for impact as his car careened out of control, spinning in circles like a giant, lethal top.

  Ray's voice in his ear broke the unnatural silence. “You okay?”

  Dell considered the question. He was alive. He mentally took stock of his appendages. All present and accounted for. “Yeah. I'm okay,” he said. “Getting out now.”

  He unhooked the six-point seat restraint and reached up to disconnect his helmet from the communications and cooling systems. A moment later, he stood beside his mangled car. He'd come to a stop on the grass, smack-dab in the middle of the giant painted letters that spelled out “Daytona.”

  Before he took his helmet off, the crash team arrived and hustled him into the back of an ambulance. As they shut the door, he caught a glimpse of his car. Well, fuck. That wasn't going to go over well. Even if it were a piece of shit, it cost a fortune to build. Turning it into scrap metal ten laps into the first, and arguably biggest race of the season wasn't going to win him any points with the team owner.

  * * * *

  “You're a menace, C.J. Your daddy must be turning in his grave.”

  Dell Wayne leaned all six feet of his aching body against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and fists clenched as the power behind NASCAR stewed over this latest infraction. Why the hell they thought he'd care if his old man spun in his grave, he couldn't fathom. He just wanted to get this over with, and go. The race was over, for him, at least. The Daytona 500 would go down as a DNF – Did Not Finish. All because of Dickhead Warner.

  “Dell. My name is Dell,” he reminded the old man.

  “Caudell Wayne, Junior don't you get smart with me, young man. I've known you since you were in diapers, and I'll damned well call you whatever I want. Your daddy called you C.J., and as far as I'm concerned, that's your name.”

  Dell held his tongue. What did a man have to do to prove himself? Apparently, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He'd be Caudell Junior for the rest of his life. He'd never measure up to his old man in the eyes of these people, just like he never measured up in his old man's eyes. What the hell? He shook his head. Why did he even try?

  “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. Progres
s.” 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.”