Page 63 of Trip

The second Ansel said the name, I stepped back, shaking my head. “My dad’s former crew chief? That Mitch?”

“It was all his idea,” Ansel blurted, his words coming fast. “I had a buyer all lined up, but your dad wouldn’t let you sign over your half of the designs. Mitch and I tried to talk to him, but he fucking flat out refused. Said it was your design, and I had no right to them. I bankrolled that build. I was owed!”

Rage boiled in my veins like molten lava, but I forced myself to take a step back as my mind raced through the implications.

Mitch.

Of course, it made sense now—his fingerprints were all over this mess. The betrayal cut deep and twisted in my chest like adagger. Dad had been right to resist them, and now his defiance had cost him, cost all of us.

“The great Calvin Hall, the golden boy of NASCAR, wouldn’t do shit without his daddy’s approval. It was sickening! That bastard watched me like a fucking hawk after that. I couldn’t piss without him breathing down my neck. Then he had that fucking hillbilly redneck Gator look into your contract. It was only a matter of time before he found out the truth.”

“What truth?” King growled, leaning closer.

“Motherfucker took out an insurance policy on Trip,” a firm voice said, and everyone turned to find Worm, a brother in the Bourbon Kings, glaring at Ansel. “Just like he has with every driver since then, including C.C.” Handing Scribe a file, Worm walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat. Leaning back in his seat, he smiled. “Hello, Ansel. I’m here to collect the debt you owe the Bourbon Kings.”

Ansel paled and stumbled back as if Worm’s words had struck him like a blow. “I-I still have time,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just need a few more—”

“Spare me the excuses,” Worm interrupted, his tone cold and final. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the scarred wooden table, the smile fading from his face. “A debt is owed, Ansel. And all debts to the Bourbon Kings are paid one way or another.”

The room quieted. The weight of Worm’s statement hung in the air like a storm cloud about to break. My pulse thundered in my ears. The revelations were piling up too fast to process.

Mitch, the insurance policies, the betrayal—it was all too much.

And now this.

The Bourbon Kings didn’t just make threats; they followed through.

King stepped closer to Ansel, his towering frame casting a shadow over the trembling man. “Where in the hell is my son?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that held no room for argument.

Ansel’s lips quivered. His gaze darted between King and Worm like a cornered animal searching for an escape. “I-I don’t know,” he stuttered, his voice barely audible. “I swear, I don’t know where he is.”

King’s hand shot out and grabbed Ansel by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet in one swift motion. The chair screeched against the worn floorboards, the sound sharp in the oppressive silence. “Don’t you fucking lie to me,” King hissed, his face inches from Ansel’s, the fury in his eyes burning like a wildfire, which was dampened momentarily by the sound of his cell phone ringing.

Shoving the sniveling bastard away, he answered the call and stiffened. “What? Are you sure? Don’t let them out of your sight. We’re on our way!” Hanging up the phone, he ordered, “Worm, the sniveling weasel is all yours! The rest of you, gear up. We’re heading back to West Virginia.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

C.C.

Earlier that morning...

I didn’t know what had woken me, but when I sat up wide awake, I rubbed my hands down my face and realized the morning sun hadn’t even crested the horizon yet. Sighing, I quietly got out of bed, not wanting to wake Trip, and quickly made use of the bathroom, before I got dressed for the day. Heading downstairs, I made a beeline for the kitchen when I heard something funny. Walking out the backdoor of the clubhouse, I looked around at the vast mountainside and caught sight of Cameron sneaking out of the greenhouse and heading for the club’s garage.

“What the hell?” I whispered as I quietly followed him. It was too damn early in the morning for shenanigans. That kid needed to be in bed, not doing whatever he was doing.

I trailed after him, careful to keep my distance. The last thing I wanted was to be spotted and have to explain my early morning snooping to a seven-year-old. As I rounded the corner of the garage, I saw Cameron sneak behind the large bay door and slip inside.

I crept closer, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Why was he up so early in the morning?

More importantly, what the hell was he doing in the garage?

I peered through the window, trying to get a better view.

That’s when I saw it. A beautiful, fully restored metallic midnight blue 1962 Shelby Cobra, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I watched as Cameron carefully ran his finger over the hood of the car, his eyes wide with desire as he looked around before opening the driver’s seat and climbing in. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The kid caught the bug.

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