Turn & Burn (28 page)

But I could only hang on for dear life and absorb his thrusts while waves of pleasure hammered me. Rational thought fled. Every sizzling explosion of pleasure burned his wordless message into my brain and my pussy and I fought like hell to keep it out of my heart.

He laid me onto the hood again and pulled out, pushing my knees high. Weak from orgasm after orgasm, I thought he’d ejaculated while I’d been too wrapped up in my own pleasure to notice, but when I felt the head of his cock at the entrance to my ass and met the determined look in his eye, I knew how this would end.

I took a deep breath and tensed. The condom, slick with my arousal, helped ease him past my tight ring of muscle. Gasping for breath, my body adjusted to the invasion, but my soul soared at the idea of being taken this way. He rocked, claiming more of me. His lips neared mine. I grabbed his shirt, yanking him closer. He nipped my lower lip and drove two fingers into my pussy. His thumb—
oh, God, yes, there it is
—ground my clit. Resting his forehead on mine, he held my gaze, blinding me to his intent.

The hard tweak to my nipple completed some circuit in my brain. Missing this brutal force woke me at night, aching with longing and frustration. He worked his shoulders through the clinging elastic, then his elbows. Now I could lock my feet around his hips. He made a couple of laps under caution—thrusting gently until I’d relaxed enough to let him take all he could—and then the flash in his eyes warned me the flag had dropped.

Cunning, skill, and audacity combined to send me reeling. His cock filled my ass and his fingers churned, raking sparks inside me. The unforgiving finger on my clit was his foot on the gas, urging me toward the finish line.

“Tell me you didn’t miss this.” He gritted the words past clenched teeth, thrusting his hips.

“I missed this.” My admission earned me a harder tweak of my nipple and a crushing grind of my clit. Sparks fired in front of my eyes. I clenched helplessly around his fingers and arched, which only gave him room to slam his cock to the hilt inside me.

Shuddering together, my wail split the silent night until his lips came down on mine.

***

I
pulled up to the carport. Caine unlatched the safety harness and twisted to grab my laptop.

“Where are you going with that?”

“To the office.” He jerked a thumb toward the garage. “Just wanna see that race again. Video’s a good way to check out a lot of different stuff.”

I nodded and pushed the shifter into reverse.

“Where are you going?” He raised a brow.

“I don’t know. I just need to ride and think.”

“’Nite.”

He slammed the door. I backed out of the driveway, unsure where I’d go, but at the end of the road, I turned left. Central Heights Drive was a series of slow curves and scattered houses. Most had their lights off, so I kept to the speed limit. I got to Mount Zion Church Road and turned left again. I figured Caroline would be asleep, but hoped I’d get lucky and her light would be on.

My headlights raked the church sign. I recalled that the west facing side said,
Jesus is the Reason for the Season
, but this side said,
For Unto Us a Child is Born.

The small white house I sought was shrouded in darkness, except for the candles in the windows.

On impulse, I turned into the church parking lot. All I really wanted was to sit in a neutral spot and think. This should do. I pulled to the far side of the asphalt, near the cemetery, and parked underneath a streetlight mounted to a telephone pole.

Throw the race or give it my all? I still didn’t know what I’d do. I’d never get back the four years I’d spent feeling like a whore. One minute I wanted to punch Colt again for letting me believe a lie for so long. A moment later, I agreed with what he’d said in the bathroom. I should’ve seen immediately how the story didn’t add up.

I could almost understand why Colt had used Gerald’s lie to drive me away. To be gay around here was hard enough. To be gay in NASCAR? I had an inkling that wasn’t possible. It didn’t matter that Colt was actually bisexual. He’d suck a dick. That was all the raging homophobes cared about.

So, Colt faced a tough choice. He either had to hide who he was or change who he wanted to be.

Shitty choice. Not one I planned to help him make. Maybe I needed to walk away now. What more revenge did I need? I knew the truth about what happened that summer. I’d made my point with Colt. My soul felt... better. Not healed, but on the mend.

And Caine?

I just didn’t see any way to make him and me even. For every bad thing he’d done to me, he’d done something good. He had a lot of his father’s ways. It might take a while to see the method in his madness, but I had a hunch the man always had a plan.

Like the Budweiser. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew he hadn’t poured the beer into me that night as birth control. He knew too fucking much about my body to think that would work. He wanted to get me buzzed in a hurry and that was the best way.

So I’d remember less. But he put the idea in my head that it was birth control, and his remark had kept me from worrying over much about whether or not I might get pregnant. Kind of like this race. I knew I was in over my head, but he just kept talking real slow and acting like he had total faith in me, and I’d absorbed his attitude long enough to figure out how to actually be competitive.

He’d tried to warn me about Colt.

I wondered if he’d backed away when he saw I was into Colt because he’d known about Colt and Brandon. As long as Colt was fucking around with me, Caine could be less vigilant about his baby brother’s dirty little secret, because people see what they want to see.

I don’t know how to stop protecting him. Not even for you.

He’d always been handy to pick up the pieces Colt left behind.

And if I loved him? Then what? My heart was famous for going its own way, but could I trust him? He didn’t even show remorse. But, on the other hand, Colt could be faking his.

The questions made the car feel confining. I flung the door open and grabbed my cell phone to use as a flashlight. Maybe there was some cool stuff to photograph in the graveyard. I had an advanced printmaking course coming up next term.

I didn’t see any dates older than the 1950s, but I kept walking. Most of the graves were adorned with seasonal arrangements made of poinsettias. A couple of children’s graves featured toys, which made me sad. One angel on top of a pedestal had a broken wing, so I snapped a photo.

The flash lit the grave to my left. More poinsettias nestled next to the headstone, but these were tied with a candy-striped bow. Holding my breath, I moved to the foot of the grave.

A plain, polished granite marker, not as large as most, sat at the head, nearly obscured by the flowers. Moving along the side, I knelt and lifted the arrangement. I swallowed hard when I made out the name.
Martha Jill Shalvis
. I did the math on the dates. She’d barely turned seventeen when she’d died. I stared at the flowers, noting the sprigs of mistletoe.

I twisted to gaze across the silent graveyard, in the direction of Caroline’s house. Roughly the length of a football field away, tiny candles set creamy sheers aglow, making rectangles of gold. I thought back to the day Dale confronted the football coach.

The mean girls picked on Robyn, he’d said. And Dale just couldn’t stand up under the weight of putting her back together again. The night I’d learned Caine was five months older than Colt, I’d assumed Dale had been fucking both Robyn and Jill at the same time, but I’d never realized the two women had known each other. So, their relationship could’ve been—most likely had been—a ménage.

Did the mean girls go after Robyn because she’d been insecure, because they wanted to date Dale, or because she’d been in love with Jill?

The real story’s always behind the lies.

Maybe I was being foolish and ignoring the obvious again, because I didn’t like thinking Dale had ever been so dickish. Handsome teenaged guy, two girls. Common story. He’d grown up in an orphanage. What in the world made me think he’d known how to love anyone, much less two women at once?

Shivering, I jogged to the ‘Cuda. When I circled toward the exit, my headlights strafed the sign near the road. I hit the brakes, squinting through the windshield to read the small words along the bottom.

Reverend Bobby Shalvis, Pastor.

Above the neat red lettering, those bold, black, block-style letters gleamed under a fluorescent strip.
Unto Us a Child is Born
. I slung the door open and stomped to the sign. Glass covered the white plastic that held the acetate letters. I squatted, eyeing the edge of the pane. It looked like window glass, not tempered.

I’d dozed through Philosophy101, but one quote came to mind. It’d never made sense until this moment.
We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.

“One fatherless child is revered, but the rest of us are sluts, whores, and faggots? We should all go kill ourselves, right? So we don’t taint your delicate sensibilities with the twisted ways we search for love?”

Straightening, I drew back a foot and drove my heel through the glass. “If Joseph hadn’t stepped up for Mary, you’d have torn her to shreds, too!” My shriek echoed across the graveyard, but I didn’t hang around to see if it woke anyone.

I
jerked awake at the knock on the door. The light through the blinds had the rosy tint of dawn. I groaned. Who wanted me at this ungodly hour on Christmas Eve?

“Go away. I swear, I’m gonna get a hotel room so I can sleep.” I rolled onto my tummy.

“Shelby?” The tap sounded again.

“Jonny?” I tossed the covers back and crossed to yank the door open.

His hair was still awry, but he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. “Before we rip out the ‘Cuda’s interior, I was wondering. Mind if I do a ‘Cuda Confession?”

I felt like strangling him, but at the same time, was flattered. “Only if there’s coffee and hot water.” I huffed.

“Just made a fresh pot and risked my life to bar the bathroom door.” He unleashed that sexy smile.

Thirty minutes later, I made it to the kitchen. Colt and Jonny perched on barstools, watching Caine stir a frying pan full of scrambled eggs. “Where’s the laptop?”

“On the desk in the office.” He let go of the spatula long enough to reach for the board and toss me a set of keys. Jonny and I tromped onto the deck and down the stairs. Side by side, we strolled down the driveway in silence.

I turned the lock and felt along the side of the door for a light switch. When I found it, I gasped. All the racing stuff that had once decorated the living room and den occupied nearly every inch of wall space, along with more than one automobile quarter panel. All were dented, but decorated with sponsor decals and gleaming with polish. A line of helmets topped a long shelf, crammed with automotive manuals. Trophies glinted from another set of shelves.

“So, this is what heaven looks like.” Jonny grinned and shoved me into the room. “I gotta see who Dale Hannah thinks is collectible.” He headed for the closest wall. “This is kind of like Paul McCartney asking for Johnny Cash’s signature.”

I scanned the desk. Spying the laptop, I booted up, checking to be certain Caine had downloaded every file so I could reformat the small drive.

“You think he was named for Dale Earnhardt?” Jonny asked as I locked the door behind us.

“Or wants to believe he was.” With a pang, I realized I had no idea if Dale had known his parents. I filed the question alongside the growing list of things I wanted to ask the man some day.

Jonny had the key to the bay where the ‘Cuda was parked. He lit up like a kid when I handed over my keys and let him back the car out of the garage. I got in on the passenger side and replaced the memory card in the dash cam, then turned on the camera.

“It’s all yours.” I settled back to listen.

“My paternal grandfather was an American pilot serving in Vietnam. My grandmother was the daughter of a Vietnamese farmer. My dad was born in 1965, and by the age of four, his impoverished family dropped him off at an orphanage. Mixed race babies weren’t well regarded. People were bitter after all the years of war. At ten, he ended up on a flight to America, one of the thousands of orphans airlifted out of Vietnam in the days before the fall of Saigon.”

I stared in wonder as a dry footnote from a history book sprang to life. This was the magic of the ‘Cuda, the way it drew people in from all walks. I held my breath, wondering how the car would connect with a Vietnamese orphan’s life.

“An American couple adopted him, and although he never stopped searching for his mother and relatives back in Vietnam, he grew up loving John Wayne and Bruce Lee and Elvis and the Plymouth Barracuda owned by the teenager next door. Because he was Asian in a white man’s world, he had some rough times, I guess, but he was determined to own one of these cars some day. Until that day came, he decided to rebuild a Corvair. Parts were plentiful and cheap, and the Corsa he chose had a Hemi engine, although this car would leave it in the dust.”