Page 4 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

C.C.

New Orleans, Louisiana, that same day...

“This is bullshit, Crane, and you fucking know it,” I shouted, storming out of the garage. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter!”

“C.C., you are reckless, and you crashed the last three cars. I’m sorry, honey.

You don’t listen to anyone. Mitch is down.

You gave the guy fucking ulcers, and you never listen to the crew.

You do whatever you fucking want! We all know you want the cup, C.C.

, but not if it means your life. Ansel is only trying to help. ”

“I told you I heard something funny in the engine.”

“And the guys are going over it with a fine-tooth comb. If they find that someone tampered with the engine, then they will be the first to notify the circuit and start an investigation, but, C.C., this can’t go on.

You haven’t been the same since the accident.

It’s like you’re trying to prove something, but, honey, you’ve got nothing to prove.

We’ve got the first clash heat of the season in two months, and three weeks after that is opening day at Daytona. Girl, we need your head in the game.”

“I know.” Sighing, I kicked a trash can and asked, “Who the fuck is he bringing in?”

“Calvin Hall.”

I froze. Calvin Hall. The name hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.

It had been years since I’d heard that name spoken aloud, but the memories of that fateful crash came rushing back, sharp and unrelenting.

The last time I saw him, he was walking away from the circuit, his helmet tucked under one arm, his gaze as cold as the steel beneath his boots.

Calvin wasn’t just another racer; he was a legend, a man who lived and breathed the track—a man who knew how to win, and how to tear you apart while doing it.

“Calvin Hall?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. “Ansel’s bringing in Calvin Hall to babysit me?”

“Not babysit,” Crane clarified, his tone softening, but his eyes didn’t waver. “To mentor. To coach. To keep you alive, C.C.”

I opened my mouth to fire back a retort, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, I felt a deep, simmering anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Calvin Hall wasn’t just a mentor; he was a relic of everything I’d fought against. The idea of him watching, judging, critiquing every move I made—it was unbearable.

Yet, something in the pit of my stomach twisted with a mix of anger and dread.

“When does he get here?” I finally asked, my voice clipped.

“Tomorrow,” Crane said, almost apologetically. “That’s if Ansel can get him to agree. Those two didn’t end on a friendly note. Not after how Ansel left him hanging in the wind after the accident.”

“I remember it well,” I muttered. “I was barely twelve and watched it all play out on television with Rome. The investigation went on for weeks. I’d never seen anything like it before. The circuit lost two good people that day.”

“Three, because Calvin never got behind the wheel again. After the circuit cleared him of all wrongdoing, he disappeared. No one has heard from him or seen him since.”

“Then why is Ansel bringing him back?”

“Because he designed the engine, C.C. Ain’t no one around who knows that engine better than Calvin Hall.”

“I don’t care if he built the whole damn thing with his bare hands. I don’t want him here.”

“Well, you better get used to the idea. Ansel is supposed to be speaking with him today, and if he agrees, Calvin will be on the next flight down here.”

I clenched my fists, my pulse racing as if I’d just stepped out of the car after a hundred laps.

The idea of Calvin Hall walking into my garage felt like a betrayal, like inviting the enemy into the heart of my fortress.

But the truth was, Crane was right. Calvin knew the engine like no one else.

That knowledge could mean the difference between a winning car and a disaster waiting to happen.

“Don’t think I’ll play nice,” I said through gritted teeth, my voice raw.

Crane sighed and placed a hand on my shoulder, his tone softening. “C.C., we need every edge we can get this season. Let him do his job—he might surprise you. And who knows? Maybe this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

I shook his hand off, unwilling to concede even an inch. But as I stood there in the dimly lit garage, the smell of oil and rubber hanging thick in the air, I realized I’d have to make peace with the idea sooner or later. Daytona wasn’t waiting for anyone, least of all me.

Needing to get out of there, I jumped in my car and drove. I didn’t know where I was going, but I just needed to be behind the wheel.

The highway stretched out before me, a winding ribbon of possibility under the setting sun. As the engine purred and the tires hummed against the pavement, the tension began to drain from my chest. For a brief moment, I could pretend the world didn’t exist beyond the road ahead.

No Calvin Hall.

No Daytona. Just me and the car—a fleeting escape.

But no drive lasted forever, and as the darkened streets of New Orleans came into view, reality came racing back in.

The city lights flickered like distant stars, a bittersweet reminder of both home and the pressures that came with it.

I found myself turning instinctively toward Bourbon Street.

Gator’s place had always been a refuge when life veered off course, a place where the whiskey flowed as freely as the advice.

The parking lot behind The Bourbon Bar was nearly empty as I pulled in, the familiar neon sign casting its warm glow over the brick facade.

I killed the engine, took a deep breath, and stepped out, letting the humid air wrap around me like an old, heavy coat.

Inside, the muffled sound of music and laughter reached my ears, drawing me toward the one place where I might find some clarity—or at least a cold drink.

“Well, lookee what the cat dragged in.” My cousin Gator smiled from behind the bar.

For as long as I could remember, The Bourbon Bar had been in Gator’s family.

A staple on Bourbon Street, the bar took in many tourists throughout the year.

With good food, good music and the whiskey flowing, The Bourbon Bar was the place to be.

Walking over, I sat on a stool, and my cousin handed me a cold beer.

“Thought you’d be at the track gettin’ ready for your next race.”

“Not medically cleared yet,” I muttered, taking a swig of the cold brew.

Gator leaned over, wiping down the bar as he gave me a knowing look. “Heard through the grapevine that Ansel’s bringing in some heavy heat.”

I exhaled sharply, my fingers tightening around the bottle. “Word travels fast.”

“You’re a local legend, C.C.,” Gator said with a grin. “Every soul from here to Talladega’s got their ears perked for your next move. But Calvin Hall? That’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”

“Yeah, well, some ghosts you just can’t shake,” I replied.

Gator nodded thoughtfully, setting the rag aside. “Just don’t let it eat you alive, cousin. Racing’s tough enough without carrying grudges around the track.”

I studied the amber liquid in my bottle, the words swirling in my mind but refusing to settle. The roar of engines was my church, my sanctuary, and the thought of Calvin Hall standing in my pit threatened to shatter that fragile peace.

“Gator, what’s the fastest way to forget?” I asked finally, tipping my beer toward him.

Gator’s laughter boomed through the bar, catching the attention of the handful of patrons scattered around. “Same as always, C.C. Music, drinks, and maybe findin’ some trouble to get into. But if it’s real forgiveness you’re after, well, that’s a whole other ballgame.”

I let his words hang in the air, the faint strains of jazz filtering in from the street outside.

For now, this cold beer and the familiar hum of Bourbon Street would have to do.

Tomorrow was another day, and whether I liked it or not, Calvin Hall was barreling toward my life like a car with no brakes.