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.”