Free Turn & Burn by Eden Connor Page B

weekends, so I almost packed an overnight bag.”
    More laughter rippled around the room, but I spied more than one person peeking at watches and cell phones.
    “This older couple approached me before I even opened the car door. The man said, ‘Honey, can I just sit behind the wheel?’”
    I moved my attention to Doris. “If you were raised southern, you know there’s a special circle of Hell for young folks who are rude to their elders. My mama says it so, and I believe her.”
    “Now, you were raised right!” Doris proclaimed. The women laughed this time. Most heads bobbed in agreement.
    “I was gritting my teeth when he put the seat back to get behind the wheel. That just frosts my cookies, because people never think to put it back into the right position.”
    Another ripple of guffaws from the men. Bliss Roark elbowed Jamie and cried, “Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”
    I tipped my head in her direction, but moved my gaze back to Dale’s face.
    “He studied the dash, ran his hands over the instruments, and wrapped gnarled fingers around the shifter. He said, ‘I never see these much no more, but every time I do, I think about the best damn racecar driver I ever had the pleasure of knowin’, and honey, I know ‘em all.’”
    Interest flared in the crowd’s eyes, because I’d hooked my story to their passion.
    “Now, his wife makes me look tall, but she jumped right on him. ‘Tip,’ she said, wagging a finger, ‘don’t you even get started. Look at her, she can’t be twenty. She don’t wanna stand here while you run on about some driver she’s never gonna meet’.”
    The crowd laughed again, but Dale’s brows went up. Richard sat his drink down and turned his complete attention my way. So did Doris, which I counted a huge victory, since her eyelids had begun to droop as if they couldn’t hold up under the weight of those false lashes much longer.
    “The man just kept sitting there, caressing that wheel. ‘Francine, I’m gonna tell this story, so you just hush the hell up,’ he said.”
    I threw up my hands, much as I’d done that day. “I gave up, figuring the sooner he got his story told, the sooner I could get my sugar fix and get back to school.”
    Dale shifted, putting his elbows on his knees. Linking his hands between his legs, he stared at the carpet. Colt and Caine stared holes through me. I gazed around the room, meeting more than one enraptured gaze.
    Kolby got up and stalked toward the hallway leading to the garage. Fuck you, too, jerk.
    I raised my voice just a bit. “‘See, honey,’ the old man continued, ‘this guy, he grew up in an orphanage. Kid never had no car of his own, but he drove like Earnhardt. One day, up in Michigan, a fella offered to sell him one of these here cars. The young driver wanted that Barracuda so bad he could taste it, I tell you. He shook the man’s hand on a price and started puttin’ back every dime. Picked a good year to do it, because that year, he was named Rookie of the Year. I sure was proud of him, and as soon as the season ended, he asked if I’d ride with him to pick up his car.’”
    “‘But, that driver, see, was better lookin’ than Earnhardt. He had a lot of luck with the ladies. Too much luck, I reckon, ‘cause before we could leave, an old girlfriend showed up and left a baby on his doorstep. Just dropped that young’un on him and run.’”
    The couple and I had become close since the day I was describing. I doubted Ernie Tipton would care if I imitated his manner of speech. I sure hoped not, because I looked past the tables to see him and his wife standing just inside the atrium. Harry—and Phillip—beamed from behind the couple. I’d browbeaten Harry into driving them up. Ernie just couldn’t see to drive anymore. Francine, his wife, disliked driving after dark on unfamiliar roads.
    I gestured. “Ernie, this is your story. Want to take over? Ladies and gentleman, please meet my friend, and Dale’s, Mr. Ernie