Sweet Carolina(6)

“Hmm…” Caro leaned back and thought over what Russell was saying. He could be right. She'd seen it before. Racecar drivers had a pack mentality. If you showed weakness of any kind, the alpha males would single you out, do their best to toughen you up, and if you didn't come up to snuff, they'd push you out of the pack. “We need an alpha driver. A seasoned pro no one will mess with.” She pinned Russell with a look. “Is that what you're saying?”

Russell nodded his balding head. “Yes, ma'am. That's exactly what I'm sayin'.”

“Well, that does present a problem, doesn't it? Where are we going to get a driver in the middle of the season?”

Russell twisted his ancient baseball cap in his hands. “I don't know, Caro. I just don't know. Now, your daddy, God rest his soul, he would've whipped the kid into shape – “

“Thank you, Russell, for pointing that out. However, my father isn't here anymore. I'm in charge and I'll figure out something – preferably something that doesn’t involve whipping.”

Russell apologized for overstepping and exited, hat in hand, leaving Caro alone in the small office. She peered out the window overlooking the darkened garage. Everyone was gone at this hour, home to families and softball practices, and all those other things people did when they had a life.

Ever since she started looking more woman and less little girl, her dad saw to it she was kept as far from the garage and the tracks as possible. That meant boarding schools where they'd never heard of NASCAR, and served tea in china cups. Stewart Hawkins believed it would keep his daughter away from racing, teach her about the finer things in life, things he knew nothing about. But he didn't know anything about his daughter either.

Caro stared at the pristine garage. It was miles away from the greasy, disorganized shop she'd hung around instead of drinking tea, and though it was only a short walk from her dorm, it was light years away in every other aspect. The old mechanic who owned the place hadn't wanted her there anymore than her father would have, but she'd gradually worn him down. Her questions and book knowledge of automobiles eventually won him over and he'd taught her what he could about internal combustion engines and how to work on them.

She'd been complimented more than once at school about her well-manicured fingernails, but no one knew she kept them polished to cover the grease stains underneath, which no amount of scrubbing could erase.

Another four years away, studying engineering and every subject related to racing, and she'd come back to North Carolina, ready to be a part of Hawkins Racing. A year later, and she was running the family business, but not because Stewart Hawkins saw the error of his ways. No, up until a massive heart attack cut short his life, he kept Caro “in her place” – sitting around, pretending to be a lady.

“Well, Daddy,” she said. “I'm Hawkins Racing now, and we're going to do it my way.”

Caro turned her back to the empty garage and stared at the financial reports on her desk. There was only one driver with the ability to turn things around for Hawkins Racing, but he also had the ability to drive the final nail in their coffin.

She'd known Dell Wayne her entire life. They'd ridden their bicycles around the infields together, and painted used lug nuts for checkers on the old game board they'd found in her daddy's hauler. Dell was different then. He was happy. Fun to be around.

She hadn't seen or spoken to him in years, but she followed his career. Racing was as much in his blood as it was hers. About the time she'd gone off to boarding school, Dell took to racing anything with wheels. He was good. Really good. All the track announcers talked about him as the heir apparent to his father's legacy. Some speculated he would surpass his father in wins and records.

But that was in the past. Before Caudell Senior wrecked at Darlington.

They called him Madman now, and with good reason.

Caro sat at her desk, twirling a pencil between her fingers. Dell was the only Cup driver who didn't have a ride, and the reason for that was the same reason she shouldn’t even consider offering him her ride. She leaned her head against the high back of the new ergonomic chair she got to replace her dad's old, worn out one, and closed her eyes. Which was worse? Taking a chance on Jeff Wilson manning up on the track and becoming the driver they needed before Hawkins Racing ran out of money? Or taking a chance on Dell Wayne? Dell either wrecked or won. The winning part was what they needed, the wrecking – not so much. Too many of those, and Hawkins Racing would redline for good.

Dell had one more week on his suspension. If someone else had offered him a ride, they were keeping it mighty quiet – not an easy thing to do in the small world of professional stock car racing. Everyone knew everyone else's business. Just like their moonshining forefathers knew what all their neighbors and competitors were doing. Not much had changed since driving moved from necessity to sport.