Page 69 of Trip

“My God,” Gunner gasped, holding his stomach. “I take back everything I’ve said about that brat. He’s the fucking master.”

“Only Cameron could take what happened and turn it around to fit his needs.” Pyro chuckled, shaking his head.

“He’s a pain in my ass,” King grumbled.

“Well, you adopted him.” Scribe smirked. “And I’ve got the papers to prove it.”

“Told you all, my little buddy is a genius.” Frank smiled.

“He’s still a pain in the ass,” Banks snarked.

“Yeah.” Priest nodded. “But he’s ours, and he did us proud. He didn’t panic, he thought on his feet, and he got help. Couldn’t ask for anything more.”

“Just some handcuffs so I can shackle his ass to his bed at night,” King muttered, which caused everyone to laugh louder. Even King couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Alright, fun time is over. Let’s get down to business before Cameron puts his world domination plan into action. Now that Ansel and Mitch are taken care of, we have a race to get ready for.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Trip

February 16th, 2025, Daytona, Florida...

“It’s opening day at the Daytona International Speedway and boy is the crowd ready to go! This year is going to be exciting with several returning seasoned drivers and a few new faces such as car 9 being driven by the Texas boy himself, Justin Powers, but the one everyone is eager to see is the number 11 car and rookie driver C.C. DuBois!”

“I agree, Rusty.” The other commentator nodded. “C.C. DuBois may be a new driver, but she isn’t new to the circuit, and with Calvin ‘Trip’ Hall as her crew chief, I am sure she will give everyone a run for their money. And can we just take a minute to talk about the owner? The Sons of Hell Motorcycle Club out of Rosewood, Virginia.”

“That’s right, Michael,” the lead commentator agreed. “A first for NASCAR, as Callum ‘King’ Montclair, the president of the Sons of Hell Motorcycle Club, took over after Ansel Edwards’ untimely death, overhauling the entire outfit. So don’t be surprised if you see a few motorcycles around pit row, folks, but do yourself a favor and don’t touch them as they belong to the brothers of the Sons of Hell.”

“OMG!” Sarah shouted, clapping her hands as she jumped around. “They are talking about us!”

Shaking her head, Bailey walked over and huffed. “They’ve been talking about us for weeks now, Sarah. It’s nothing new.”

“Well yeah,” the beautiful wife of Gunner scoffed. “But this time we are on live TV!”

“Babe,” Gunner chuckled as he hugged his wife, gently rubbing her small but protruding belly. “Let’s go find a place to sit. You can wave to the camera from the stands.”

“Does my hair look alright? What about my makeup?”

Rolling his eyes, Gunner led his wife away and muttered, “You’re beautiful, baby. The camera is gonna love you.”

Hiding my smile, I walked over to where C.C. was standing as she looked out toward the track. Dressed and ready to ride, I noticed she stood stiffly as she fiddled with her fingers, her nerves getting the better of her. Shaking my head, I wrapped my arms around her, leaned forward, and whispered, “If you tell anyone this, I will spank your ass, but the night before my first race, I got so stinking drunk, I was puking my guts out the morning of the race. My dad chalked it up to nerves, but the truth was, I was nervous. I didn’t want to let anyone down, especially him. I was the son of Bill Hall, the three-time Daytona Champion, and all eyes were on me. That was a lot of responsibility for a rookie driver.”

“What if I don’t win?”

“What if you do?”

C.C. smiled weakly, her nerves still apparent but slightly diminished by my words. “Thanks, that actually helps a lot,” she replied, taking a deep breath and straightening her posture. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” I assured her. “You’ve got this. Just remember to keep your focus and stay calm. You’ve trained hard for this moment.”

With a determined look in her eyes, C.C. nodded. “Right. Let’s do this.”

As she walked toward the car, I felt a surge of pride. This was more than just a race; it was a statement. The Sons of Hell were here to make their mark, and C.C. was leading the charge.

The roar of the engines filled the air as the racers lined up, each one a testament to the dedication and resilience that had brought them to this point. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation, the crowd’s excitement palpable.

“Good luck, C.C.,” I whispered, though I knew she couldn’t hear me over the noise. It didn’t matter. She knew I was rooting for her. We all were.

The loud screams of the crowd did nothing to drown out the engines as they sped past the stands. Twenty-five cars all vying for that checkered flag. As the race unfolded, my woman was a force to be reckoned with as she held her own among the seasoned drivers. She kept her cool, navigating the track with precision and strategy. The crowd roared its approval as she deftly avoided a pile-up on the hundred and twenty-first lap, showcasing her quick reflexes.

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