Fueled (59 page)

Today I’m taking the checkered flag, and not just those dick hardening panties that fucking Rylee has on.
Sweet Christ, am I claiming that flag
. But I can feel it. Everything feels right with the world, and shit, maybe I’m being a pussy but that
right
feeling started when I woke up with Rylee wrapped in my arms, head nuzzled under my neck, lips pressed to my skin, and heart beating against mine.

Right where she’s supposed to be.

I take a bite of another of my pre-race superstitions—a Snicker’s bar—and look up to search her out. She’s sitting quietly out of the way toward a corner, and her eyes lock with mine immediately. Her lips form that shy smile that turns me motherfucking inside out, and instead of the fear that usually snakes through my system, I feel settled. At ease. Can you say fucking pussy to the whip? But you know what? I’m okay with it because I’m pretty sure she’ll be gentle with me. Won’t crack it too hard. Well, unless I want her to.

“Wood?” I turn and look at Beckett.

Now Becks on the other hand is still going to hand my ass back to me in a hand basket once the stress of this race is over and he realizes it’s minutes before a race and I’m thinking about my fucking voodoo pussy.
My fucking Rylee
.

I flash a quick smile at Ry before I turn to Becks. “Yup?” I say as I stand and begin the routine of zipping up my suit.

Getting ready to race.

Getting ready to do the one thing I have always loved.

Getting ready to take that motherfucking checkered flag.

There is so much to take in. So many sights and sounds to assault and overwhelm. Hand over my heart, I stand beside Colton as the national anthem is sang on the stage at our backs. Flags wave. The breeze blows. The crowd sings. And my nerves go into overdrive for the man beside me that has transformed into an intense, introspective man as he focuses on the task at hand.

He reaches out a free hand and places it at the small of my back as the camera crew makes its way down the line of drivers standing on pit row with their crew and significant others at their sides. The fact that he’s trying to comfort me in a moment strictly about him warms my insides. I’d tried telling him that I could sit in the pit box during the anthem—that it wasn’t a big deal to me—but he refused. “I’ve got you now, sweetheart, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he’d said. Argument won. Hands down.

Fireworks boom as the song comes to an end, and all of a sudden pit row is a flurry of activity. Crews going to work to try and make all of their hard preparation come to fruition for their driver. Men descend around Colton before I can wish him one last good luck. Ear buds are stuffed in and taped down. Velcro is fastened. Shoes are double checked to make sure nothing will interfere with the pedal. Gloves are pulled on and situated. Last minute directions are given. I allow myself to be led from the craziness and am helped over the wall by Davis.

“Rylee!” In all of the complete, organized chaos, his voice rings out. Stops me. Starts me. Completes me.

I turn around and face him in all of his suited up glory. His white balaclava is in one hand and helmet in the other. So achingly handsome. So damn sexy. And all mine.

I look at him confused since we already had our moment of privacy in the motor home. Did I do something wrong? “Yeah?”

His smile lights up. A solid figure standing still while everyone else moves in one big blur around him. His eyes hold mine, intense and clear. “
I race you, Ryles,
” he says in a voice that’s implacable and unwavering amidst the swirling chaos.

My heart stops. Time stands still and it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. Just a damaged boy and a selfless girl. Our eyes lock and in that exchange, words that I can’t shout out in the chaos between us are said. That after the little he explained last night, I know how horribly difficult it is for him to utter those words. That I understand he’s telling me he’s still a broken child inside, but like my boys he’s giving me his heart and trusting that I will hold it with gentle, compassionate, and understanding hands.

“I race you too, Colton.” I mouth to him. Despite the noise, I know he hears what I’ve said for a shy smile graces his lips, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to understand all of this too. Beckett calls his name and he gives me one last glance before his face transforms into work mode. And I can’t help but just stand there and watch him. Love swells, overwhelms, and heals my heart that I once thought was irreparable. Fills me with happiness over the man that I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

My storm before the calm.

My angel breaking through the darkness.

My ace.

My chest reverberates as the cars fly down the backstretch. Fifty laps in and I’m still a nervous wreck, my eyes flicking between the track and the television monitor in front of me when the cars are at my back and out of my sight. My knee jiggles, my fingernails have been picked clean of nail polish, and the inside of my lip has been chewed raw. And yet Colton’s voice comes through confident and focused at the task at hand every time he speaks on the headset I’m wearing.

Each time he talks to Beckett or his spotter I feel a trickle of ease. And then they hit a turn, cars side by side—masses of metal flying at ungodly speeds—and that trickle of ease turns into a pound of anxiety. I check the monitor again and smile when I see “13 Donavan” under the number two spot fighting his way back to the lead after a pit stop prompted by a caution.

“Dirty air ahead,” the spotter says as Colton comes out of turn three and heads toward traffic a lap down.

“Ten-four.”

“Last lap fastest yet,” Beckett pipes into the conversation as he studies a computer screen several seats down from me that’s reading all of the gauges in number thirteen. “Doing great, Wood. Just keep her steady in that groove you’ve got. The high line has a lot of pebbling already so stay clear.”

“Got it.” His voice strains from the force of the car as he accelerates out of turn number one.

There is a collective gasp from the crowd as a car comes into contact with the wall. I turn to look, my heart jumping in my throat, but I can’t see it from our position. I immediately look to the monitor where Beckett is already focused.

“Up one, Colton. Up!” The spotter yells in my ears.

It all happens so fast but I feel like time stops. Stands still. Rewinds. The monitor shows a cloud of smoke as the car that hits the wall first slings back down the track at a diagonal. The speeds are too fast so the remaining cars are unable to adjust their line in that quick amount of time. Colton had once told me you always race to where the accident first hits because it always moves afterwards due to the momentum.

There’s so much smoke. So much smoke, how is Colton going to know where to go?

“I’m blind,” the spotter yells, panicked as the mass of cars and the ensuing smoke is so large that he can’t direct Colton. Can’t tell him the safe line to drive with his car flying close to two hundred miles per hour.

I watch his car fly into the smoke. My heart in my throat. My prayers thrown up to God. My breath held. My soul hoping.

Motherfucker.

The smoke engulfs me. The blur around me now gray with flashes of sparking metal as cars collide around me. I’m fucking blind.

Don’t have time to fear.

Don’t have time to think.

Can only feel.

Only react.

Daylight flashes on the other end of the tunnel of gray. I aim for it. Not letting up. Never let up. Race to where the crash was.

Go, go, go. C’mon, one-three. C’mon, baby. Go, go, go.

The flash of red comes out of nowhere and slings in front of me. No time to react. None.

I’m weightless.

Lifted.

Weightless.

Spiraling.

Spinning.

White knuckles on the wheel.

Daylight again.

Too fast.

Too fast.

“Fuck!”

I see Colton’s car rise above the smoke. It’s up on the nose. Spiraling through the air. I hear Beckett yell, “Wood!” It’s only one word, but the broken way he says it has lead dropping through my soul.

I can’t react.

Can’t function.

Just sit in my seat and stare.

My mind fracturing to images of Max and Colton.

Broken.

Interchangeable.