Aced (The Driven #5) (23 page)

“Watch the loose stuff,” my spotter says into the mic. I bite back the smartass comment
I know it’s there
because I’m busy fighting its pull on the wheel. Hitting the concrete barrier beside me at two hundred miles per hour because of loose debris on the top of the track isn’t on the agenda today.

Three laps to go.

My arms burn as I fight the wheel into the next turn. My eyes flicker to the traffic ahead of me, to the car right in front of me, and to the ones on either side of me so I can find a sliver of space to try to pass.

I see it just as Becks yells into the mic. “He’s out! He’s out! Go. Go. Go. Wood!”

Split seconds of time. Luke Mason beside me. Luke Mason on the apron at the bottom of the track as I pass him.

Gotta have gas to go, asshole.

Fuck yeah. One car down. One car left to go.
C’mon, baby
. I press the throttle and check the gauges to make sure I push her to the brink because there’s one lap left. I refuse to leave anything left in the car when I can lay it all out on the start/finish line.

Steady, Colton. Steady
, I tell myself as the tach edges the red line just as I get up behind Stewart’s ass end. Getting sucked into his draft helps conserve my gas. And thank fuck for that because I’m sure Becks is busting a nut on pit row questioning if I’m going to burn her up.

White flag. One lap left.

Turn and burn, baby. Turn and burn.

“Traffic is coming up in two,” the spotter says as I come out of turn one and see the cluster of lapped traffic clogging the track. “Go low,” he instructs, causing Becks to swear into the mic. Means I’ll have to let up a little, and I can’t let up when I’m chasing the one spot.

“You sure?” Becks asks. He never questions this kind of shit. I don’t have time to wait for an answer because I’m already moving down to the white line of the apron praying to fuck this works since lapped traffic usually stays low to make way for the lead cars.

And just as I start to question him a hole opens up between the top of the track and the middle in front of me and it’s only big enough for one car: Stewart or me. I slingshot around the car I’m behind, use the conserved energy from the draft to help give me the boost. Our tires rub. Stewart from the top line. Me from the bottom line.

It’s like a game of fucking chicken. Split-second reactions. Who’s going to back off? Who’s going to keep their foot on it? And I’ve faced a whole shitload of fear in my life so I’m not letting it own me right now. No way. No how.

I hear the squeal of tires as the car begins to get loose again when we connect. Forearms straight and hands gripping, I fight to keep the wheel straight as we fly an unheard of four wide out of turn two.

And I know it’s crazy. Has to look like a suicide mission to those watching, because there are four of us and not enough track to keep this up, and yet no one backs off. Something’s gotta give and it sure as fuck isn’t going to be me if I can help it. Fear is temporary. Regret lasts forever. And another press on the gas pedal ensures I’ll have neither.

We barrel into turn three as the two outside cars fall off. It’s Stewart and me, nose to nose, coming into the track’s final turn.

And the final stretch to clinch the win.

I slingshot out of the turn and give her all she’s got: throw the car into the red and pray it pays off. I can’t tell who’s ahead, our noses seem even, our cars testing the barriers of machine’s ability against man’s will.

C’mon, one three. C’mon, baby.

The checkered flag waves one hundred yards out. Keep the car straight, Donavan. Out of the wall. Away from Stewart. Don’t touch. If we touch, it’s over for both of us.

“C’mon, Wood!” Becks shouts into the mic as the checkered flag waves and a whelp comes through the radio. I have no idea which one of us won. Split seconds pass that feel like hours.

“Goddamn right we won!” Becks yells. Elation soars through my tired body, reviving it, and bringing it back to life as I pump a fist in the air.

“Fuckin’ A straight!”

Victory lane. People and cameras are everywhere as I pull the car into it. Becks and the rest of the crew greet me. Funny thing is I’m still searching for the one face I want to see the most and know isn’t there.

And I don’t think I realized how much that would fuck with my head—how much it mattered she was there every race—but pulling into the checkered victory lane without seeing her feels a little less complete. She’s so much more than just my wife. She’s my goddamn everything.

And then I laugh when I look up as I take the pin out the wheel to see Becks standing there. “Motherfucking victory, Wood,” he says. He takes my helmet and balaclava, handing them off to someone else as he helps me stand from the car. My legs are wobbly and I’m hotter than fuck, but when my best friend pulls me in for a quick hug, it sets in that I’ve finally won the elusive title on this track I’ve been chasing for so damn long.

“Great job, brother,” I tell him as I grab a baseball hat Smitty hands me and put it on, body dead tired but fueled on the adrenaline of victory.

The next minutes pass in a blur: confetti raining down, speeches thanking sponsors, interviews, the cold Gatorade that has never tasted better, the spray of champagne onto the crew. I’m riding that high, so goddamn glad to have this monkey off my back in winning this race. I do my proper dog and pony show, thank the sponsors, talk well of the competitors, thank the fans, but all I really want to do is get back to the pits, call Ry, take a shower, and sit back with Becks and have a stiff drink before facing more media circus.

Interview number five finished. I roll my shoulders, take a sip of Gatorade, and prepare myself to answer the same questions again for the next in line.

But when I look up and see the look on my dad’s face, the next in line is forgotten. The victory not so sweet. My heart leaps in my throat. My mind spins. My feet move on autopilot as I make my way to him.

“Dad,” I say. The dread and worry in my tone match the expression on his face.

“It’s Rylee.”

I
’M LOST TO DREAMS.

To darkness and warmth and a little girl with cherubic curls and a heart-shaped mouth. To her pudgy hand holding my pinky on my left hand. My eyes are mesmerized by her as she giggles, the sound warming my soul, filling my heart, and making them ache all at the same time.

There’s a tug on my right hand that startles me. I’m so transfixed on my lost baby girl I never realized someone else was beside me. I look down to the top of a dark head of hair just as he looks up to me. I’m greeted with a row of freckles, a lopsided grin, and green eyes that look so familiar.

“Are you lost?”

“Nope,” he says as he swings our joined hands back and forth some, a dimple flashing as his grin widens. “Not anymore.”

Arms slip around my waist. The welcome warmth of a body pulling me from the dream I already can’t remember. I snuggle into him, the scent of my husband unmistakable—a mixture of soap and cologne—and a calm falls back over me.

Then I hear the monitor beep, the whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filling the room, and I’m shocked awake to the here and now. I’m in a hospital bed being monitored rather than in the comfort of our home.

“It’s just me,” he murmurs into the back of my head. My hair heats from his breath as he pulls me tighter against him. Our bodies spoon and our hearts beat against each other’s in a lazy rhythm.

“You’re here,” I say, voice groggy.

“Special delivery,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “All the way from victory lane.”

“Congratulations. I’m so proud of you and so sorry you had to leave your celebration.” All those years chasing the win at the Grand Prix and of course, because of me, the one time he does, he doesn’t get to revel in the glory of it all.

“Hmm.” He presses another kiss to my head as his fingers lace with mine. “I’d rather be here. It wasn’t the same without you. I missed you, Ryles.”

How easy it is for him to make me smile and chase away the fear.

“I missed you too . . .” I wait for him to start the questions and as if on cue, the sigh falls from his mouth in resignation of ruining this moment.

“You two trying to give me a heart attack?” he asks, so many emotions overlapping in his voice in the single sentence.

“No. Everything is fine now. Just a few contractions they were able to stop. An ultrasound. Some fetal monitors. All routine things to make sure everything is okay,” I explain, attempting to hide how freaked out I was when being hooked up to machines to monitor the two of us. How the room was filled with a sea of scrubs, and even though Haddie held my hand and kept my anxiety at bay, all I wanted was Colton.

“Common things?” he asks, skepticism in his voice. “You’re still having issues with your blood pressure. That’s far from fucking common when we’re talking about you and the baby.”

Shit.
I close my eyes momentarily, sucking up my cowardice, and prepare to tell him the truth.

“Want to fill me in here, Ry?”

My mind flickers to the many warnings we’ve been given about my pregnancy: The high risk, the damaged arteries from the accident and the miscarriage that could pose a problem with heavy bleeding during labor, the stress on my uterus that will increase the bigger the baby gets.

“You have every right to be mad at me,” I whisper, because for some reason it’s easier to say it that way. “I had the stress under control, attempting to keep my blood pressure in the range it’s supposed to be in . . . and then between the race and . . .” My words fall off as I replace them with a sigh representative of the heaviness in my heart about Zander.

“And what?” he prompts. “What else happened to push you too far?” The minute the words are out of his mouth I know he regrets them by the quick tensing of his body against mine.

Should I count the ways multiple things are causing stress right now?

“Zander called before the race started. He was scared, confused. A wreck. His uncle is trying to foster him.” My words are so quiet. I try to keep my emotions in check since the constant rhythm of my heartbeat is visible on the monitor beside us.

“Okay,” he says slowly, and I can sense his mind working, trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “You gotta give me more than that to make me understand why it put you in the hospital.“

“It’s his uncle.” I swallow over the anger in my throat and continue. “The druggie asshole who wanted nothing to do with him when he first came to us.”

“Why come forward now?” His simple question, and the confusion in which he says it, expresses exactly how I feel. I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful for his identical response, because it adds validation to my gut reaction over this.

“Why do you think?” Disgust laces my tone and even though it’s not directed at him, I know he takes it that way.

“The video. Your work promo pictures splashed all over the fucking place,” he says as everything clearly clicks into place for him.

“Mm-hmm.” Because there is nothing else I can say without making it sound like I blame him in part for this turn of events.

“Money?” he asks.

“The monthly foster stipend isn’t a ton but—”