Fueled (21 page)

It’s not until the sun’s rays peek through the closed mini-blinds that we both fall into a deep sleep.

The shudder of the motor vibrates through my body as I flick the paddle coming into turn four.
Fuck
. Something doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. I ease up more than necessary as I cross over and into the apron coming out of the turn.

“What’s going on?” Becks’ disembodied voice fills my ears.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I grate out as I bring the car back up to speed to try and decipher what she’s telling me. Every shudder. Every sound. Each jolt of my body. My attention straining to try and pinpoint what feels off—something to substantiate why she doesn’t seem to be handling how she should. I can’t figure out what I’m missing, what I might be overlooking that could cost us a race.

Or put me headfirst into the wall.

My head pounds with stress and concentration. I pass the start/finish line, the grandstands to my right one big stretch of mixed colors.
The blur I live my life in.

“Is—”

“How much preload in the differential?” I demand as I hit another paddle heading into turn one. The rear of the car starts to slide as I press the gas coming out of it, accelerating the car up to top speed. My body automatically shifts to compensate for the pressure imposed on it by the force and angle of the track’s bank. “Possibly the clutch plate? The ass end is sliding all over the place,” I tell him as I fight to get the car back under control on the chute before heading into turn two.

“That’s not poss—”

“You driving the fucking car now, Becks?” I bark into the mic, my hands gripping the wheel in frustration. Beckett obviously reads my mood, because he goes radio silent. My mind flickers to the nightmares that plagued my sleep last night. Of not being able to talk to Rylee this morning when I called. Of needing to hear her voice to help clear the remnants from my mind.

Goddamnit, Donavan
,
get your head on the track.
Irritation—at myself, at Beckett, at the fucking car—has me pushing the pedal down harder than I should down the back straightaway. My fucked up attempt at using adrenaline to drown out my head.

I know Becks is probably beside himself right now, thinking I’m gonna burn her up. Trash all the time and precision we’ve dialed into the engine. I’m nearing turn three and a part of me wishes there was no turn. Just a straight stretch of road where I could keep going, drop the hammer, race the wind, and outrun the shit in my head—the fear squeezing at my heart.

Chase the possibilities just beyond the reach of my fingertips.

But there isn’t one. Just another fucking turn. Hamster on a goddamn wheel.

I come into the turn too hot, my head too fucked up to be on the track. I have to consciously remember to try and not over-correct as the ass end gets too loose on me and slides to the right, drifting too high. A shiver of fear dances at the base of my spine for that split second when I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull the car out in time to avoid kissing the barrier.

Beckett swears on the radio as I narrowly escape, and I shout out one of my own. The only way to voice the high of fear that just jolted through my system. Adrenaline, my momentary drug of choice, reigns until the realization of my stupidity will take over in the moments to come. It always takes a few seconds to hit.

Fuck me.
I’m done
. I shouldn’t be in the car right now. It’s stupid of me to be here when my head’s not right. I ease into turn four, decelerating when I hit pit row and stop where my crew stands behind the firewall. I silence the engine and blow out a loud breath. They all just stand there, no one stepping over, as I unbuckle my helmet and detach the steering wheel. I pull up on my helmet and it’s yanked from my hands.

“You trying to kill yourself out there?” Beckett shouts at me as I remove my balaclava and ear buds. Now I know why the crew stayed behind the wall. They’re used to the volatility and brutal honesty between Becks and me. They know when to stay clear. “Then do it on your own goddamn time. Not under my watch!” He’s pissed and has every right to be, but fuck all if I’m telling him that.

I just stare at him, a slight smirk turning up the corners of my mouth at my oldest friend. My attempt at provoking him so that he doesn’t notice the trembling of my hands. A surefire way for him to know I scared the shit out of myself as well and add fuel to his own fire. What the hell was I thinking getting in the car with a fucked up frame of mind? He just glares at me, jaw clenched and shoulders square before shaking his head, turning his back to me, and walking away.

The minute Becks turns the corner, my crew clears the wall and begins doing their various jobs as I climb out. I’m glad they steer clear of me, all obviously accustomed to my moodiness by now when testing goes to shit.

I scrub my hand over my face and through my sweat-soaked hair. I head the same way as Becks, knowing he’s had enough time to calm down so that we can talk. Maybe.
Fuck
. I don’t know. When things are off between the two of us, the rest of the team feels it. I can’t have that coming into a new season.

I follow him to the RV and climb up the steps. He’s sitting in the recliner across from the door, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He just looks at me and shakes his head, causing a twinge of guilt to hit me for taking years off of his life with my careless stunt.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks in an all too quiet voice—the voice of a disappointed parent to their child.

I unzip my suit to the waist and let the sleeves hang, before peeling off my shirt and falling back onto the couch. I close my eyes, swiveling so that my head rests on one armrest and my feet on the opposing one. I am so tired. I need sleep that’s not filled with all the fucked up dreams that’ve been coming repeatedly since that morning with Rylee. I’m a fucking mess. Can’t think straight. Obviously can’t drive worth a shit. “I don’t know, Becks,” I sigh out. “My head wasn’t in the right place. I shouldn’t have—“

“You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have,” he yells at me. “That was a stupid fucking stunt, and if you ever pull one like that again—get in the car when you’re head’s not straight—you can find yourself another goddamn crew chief.” The squeak of the chair tells me he’s just unfolded himself and stood. The motor home rocks with his movement and the door slams shut as he leaves.

I keep my eyes closed, sinking into the lumpy ass couch, just wanting to forget, wanting to talk to Rylee but knowing that she’s probably sleeping herself after the events of her night.

I don’t know why I got so panicked this morning when I couldn’t reach her. My mind immediately veered to thoughts of her in an accident. Trapped in a mangled fucking car somewhere. Alone and scared. My chest tightened at the thought until I got a hold of Haddie who gave me the number to The House’s landline. I felt better—and worse—after speaking to Jackson about the chaos of Zander’s nightmare.

Poor fucking kid
. Nightmares can be so fucking brutal. Cause such a setback and fuck with your memories even more. Make them worse. Make you relive them in the worst possible way. Remember things you shouldn’t
. Otherwise wouldn’t
. Don’t ever want to. But at least he had Rylee to comfort him, stay with him, and keep the demons at bay with her soft voice and reassuring touch.

Exactly what I needed from her last night. What I still need from her today.

I sigh at the thought of her, wanting her in the worst way...
in the best way
. I laugh out loud at myself in the vacant RV. I can’t figure out what I want more, a dreamless sleep or to hear Rylee’s voice.

Shit, my head must really be fucked up if all I want from Rylee is to hear her voice. I shake my head and scrub my hands over my face, feeling pussified from the thought. What I wouldn’t give to go back to a couple of months ago when sleep came easy.

When my dick and balls were firmly attached and in charge of my thoughts. When the choice between sleep, sex, or wanting to hear a specific woman’s voice was a no brainer; a few hours of uncomplicated sex led to the sleepless oblivion. Two down with one shot.
And the woman’s voice?
Who cared if she talked or what she did with her mouth as long as she opened wide and swallowed without a gag reflex.

 
Rylee flashes through my mind. Her dark hair on the white pillow as I hover over her. The look on her face—lips jolting apart, eyes widening, cheeks flushing with color—as I sink inside of her. How she tightens like a vice around me as she comes. Fucking voodoo pussy.

My dick stirs at the thought—wanting, no needing her—but my exhaustion overwhelms, and swallows me whole into its oblivion.

Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.

Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.

I jolt from the nightmare with a start, disoriented from the unknown passage of time. My heart thunders in my ears. My stomach churns. My head forgets specifics instantly, but the nightmare’s clutches of fear still hold me against my will, dragging me backwards through poisoned memories.

“Fucking Christ!” I yell out to the empty RV as I force myself to calm down and breathe. To try and forget the fear that’ll never go away. Never. Fear gives way to anger as I pick up the closest thing to me, one of the crew’s hackey-sacs and chuck it across the aisle as hard as I can. The thud it makes does nothing to abate the feelings clawing through me, embedding themselves in every fiber of my being, but it’s all I can do. My only source of release.

I’m helpless and hostage to the poison within me. Sweat trickles down my cheek. I’m fucking drenched with it. The smell of fear clings to me and my stomach twists in protest again.
Shit!

I shove up from the couch and strip out of my fire suit as if the fabric is on fire. I need a shower. I need to clean the grime from the track and the stain of his imaginary touch from my unwilling flesh.

The water scalds. The soap does nothing to wash away the memories. I press my forehead against the acrylic stall, letting the water burn lines as it slides down my back. I will my brain to shut off and rest for five goddamn fucking minutes so I can have my own temporary radio silence.

Rylee’s words keep looping through my head, badgering me, questioning me, making me wonder if it’s a solution to the constant poison that I’m afraid is going to consume me. I pound a fist against the wall, the sound resonating through my fucked up thoughts. I drag myself from the shower, drape a towel around my waist, and grab my cell. I need to do this before I lose the courage. Before I puss out and think of the ramifications. The answers I’m afraid to find. The truth I fear will crumble me. I punch the number in my phone and swallow the bile threatening to rise, preparing myself with each passing ring of the phone.

“Colton? I thought you were testing today?”

Warmth spears through me at the sound of his voice, at the concern flooding into it. And then fear. How is he going to handle the questions I need to ask? The ones that Rylee thinks might help me, might ease the weight on my soul and torment in my mind.