Page 27 of Trip

I sank back into the chair, the weight of King’s words settling over me. It wasn’t just about claiming her; it was about proving to everyone—and to her—that I wasn’t going to back down, no matter what came my way.

Chapter Eleven

C.C.

“Mom!”

“In the kitchen!”

Dropping my gear at the front door, I trudged toward the kitchen, still a little shaken at what happened at the track. After Ansel left, and Trip told me to head home, that no one was driving today, I drove around for a bit, trying to make sense of what was happening. I mean, I knew there was an issue with the car, but I never considered something nefarious.

From the first time my dad took me to see my first race, I knew I was gonna win the Daytona 500. I didn’t know when or how, but nothing was going to stop me from achieving my goal.

I wanted that checkered flag.

Walking into the kitchen, I found my mom standing in front of the stove, stirring something in a big stock pot. Taking a seat at the bar, I leaned my head in my hand and asked. “Whatcha cookin’?”

“Gumbo.” My mom smiled, then said, “Thought you’d be at the track all day.”

“So did I,” I began, hesitating at first. My mom paused, turning her attention from the pot to me. Her gaze softened, and she tilted her head slightly, the way she always did when she sensed something was bothering me. “Something happened at the track.”

“Did somebody get hurt?” she asked, her voice low and calm.

“No, but it was bad. Someone put metal shavings in the oil. Mom, if I was on the track with that crap in the engine, it could have blown.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she set the spoon down deliberately on the counter. “Metal shavings? Are you sure?” she asked, her voice threaded with disbelief, but her eyes told me she believed every word.

I nodded. “The new mechanic Trip brought in found it.”

Mom sighed deeply, removing the apron tied snugly around her waist. She hung it on the back of a chair, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were piecing together the implications in her mind. “Who would do something like that?”

“I don’t know.” My voice cracked slightly, and I clenched my jaw to steady myself.

She walked over, wiping her hands on a towel, and reached across the bar to place one hand on mine. “You know I’ve never understood your need to drive, and I don’t have to. All I care about is you. What does Mitch say?”

I shrugged. “Don’t know. He wasn’t there.”

“Hello to the house!”

My mom smiled. “Speak of the Devil,” she muttered as the man himself walked into the kitchen.

“Hello, my beautiful ladies,” Mitchell Landry, my former crew chief, said happily. “Damn, Glorianna, whatever you’re cooking, I’m buying.”

My mom giggled, flicking her dish towel at him. “You big flirt. Now sit your butt down. C.C. has a problem.”

Doing as my mother instructed, Mitch nudged my shoulder. “What’s up, champ? Problems at the track already?”

“You could say that. Someone put shavings in the oil.”

Mitch stiffened for a split second, then asked, “What did Crane say?”

“It wasn’t him who found it,” I mumbled, then shook my head.

Mitch leaned back slowly, his brows knitting in a thoughtful frown. “Shavings in the oil? That’s no rookie prank. Someone’s trying to sabotage you, kid.”

I stayed quiet, the weight of his statement pressing over me like a heavy blanket. My mom set a steaming plate in front of him, her voice soft but firm as she interjected, “This isn’t just about the race anymore, Cosette. It sounds personal to me. Whatever they’re doing, they want to see you off the track.”

Mitch scooped up a forkful of food, chewing without his usual gusto. “You’re sure it wasn’t Crane?”

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