Sweet Carolina
Roz Lee
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.