Ocean (Damage Control Book 5) (30 page)

“What?”

“The T-shirt I gave you. I want to see it on you. Please.”

He blinks at me, probably wondering why I’d want that now, but that’s easy. Any excuse to get him out of his clothes again is a valid one.

And delay leaving.

But he gets up and opens his closet, and there is the T-shirt, neatly folded, the gloves placed beside it. He takes the T-shirt out and unfolds it, spreading it out on the bed. Pats it gently.

“You were serious about not wanting to get it dirty, then?” I walk into the room, glancing at his face.

“Don’t wanna destroy it,” he replies quietly. “Rip it, or spoil it.”

“It’s not such a big deal.”

“Yes, it is. For me.” He straightens and pulls off his T-shirt, distracting me for a moment.

Bare-chested Ocean moment. Please step back. Could be hazardous.

Then he takes my T-shirt and puts it on, and damn, I’m good. That color really brings out his eyes and hair, and it fits perfectly.

“So why is it such a big deal for you?”

He smooths his hands over the fabric. “It’s a present. Your present.”

And then I remember what he said about not having presents as a kid. Hell, as an adult, either. He made gifts for his brother, but nobody made gifts for him.

“I’ll make you more,” I say, swallowing past the knot in my throat. “Come here.”

He looks uncertain as I approach him but hugs me back when I slip my arms around him. “What is it?”

“I’ll make you muffins and T-shirts, and pants, and gloves, and hoods. I’ll bake you cakes and cook you soups and prepare you sandwiches. I love you, Ocean Blue.”

He snorts against my shoulder. “So I have two first names now?”

“You always did, it seems.” I pat his back and release him. “You’re Ocean, born in a trailer park outside Milwaukee, with a talent for drawing, a guy who looked after his brother and fought for scraps of food in the trash.” God, the knot in my throat only grows. “And you’re Blue, a self-made entrepreneur, car-racer and bad boy extraordinaire who’s free and a little crazy.”

“And who do you love?” he asks, his voice hoarse and his gaze hot.

“Is this a trick question?” I narrow my eyes back at him. “Both. I love the whole of you. You needed both sides of yourself to survive. Without Blue you wouldn’t have made it. Without Ocean, you wouldn’t love me. Am I wrong?”

He mutters something that sounds like my name and like cursing, and then he’s crashing me to his chest before I can protest about his ribs and the pain, like he’s never going to let me go.

***

We don’t park outside the trailer park like last time. Ocean directs me to a place closer to town. We enter an empty plot where a couple of muscle cars are parked. A couple of guys in leather jackets and stylish clothes lounge around them.

My stomach is all twisted up, and the race hasn’t even begun.

We park, and a guy makes his way toward us. Ocean takes a deep breath and takes my face in his hands. “Love you, Kay.” He kisses me, pulling back before he deepens the kiss. “It will be fast.”

Not sure if that’s meant to be reassuring.

God, I wish I had my cards. I wish I could trust in them. I wish I had time to trace the lines on his palms, try to read them.

He exits the car, and I scramble out to follow him.

“Blue,” a lean middle-aged man with graying hair says, clasping Ocean’s hand. “I thought maybe you changed your mind. I might have raced this baby myself.”

He turns and runs a hand over a shiny silver Ford.

“As if you ever would.” The scorn in Ocean’s voice is light, faint, but the guy glares at him. “Hey, Duane.”

I don’t know much about cars, but what’s the fuss all about? Yes, the car’s shape is low and aerodynamic. But what’s the big deal?

“Remember I’m doing you a favor, Blue,” the middle-aged guy grumbles.

“Not the way I see it. You’ve been begging me to race your car for years now.”

“Don’t make me change my mind, dickhead. Just get in, run her around the block. Make sure she runs fine. Race’s about to start.”

The car doesn’t look like much, but this impression changes when Ocean shrugs off his jacket, folds his tall frame behind the wheel and starts the engine.

That roar. The rumble. I swear I feel it in my chest, just like I feel his voice when he’s speaking close to me, like when I have my hand pressed to his diaphragm.

So that’s what a muscle car sounds like from up close.

He’s still wearing the T-shirt I made him. I’m glad. It’s as if I’ll be in the car with him somehow.

Then Ocean peels out of the field and onto the road, and I’m caught between exhilaration and terror. God, that car is fast. He vanishes around a corner, and before I take two steps, he reappears around another, in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

Holy shit.

He wasn’t kidding when he said it would be fast. That
he
would be fast, a blue shadow inside that silver car.

“You with Blue?” Duane calls to me, and I walk toward him, my gaze glued to Ocean where he’s parking the car at the side of the road and climbing out. “You should come stand here. Safer. Those cars go real fast.”

Yeah, I noticed.

“But they are safe, right?” I know the moment the question leaves my mouth how stupid it sounds. It’s a drag race. How can it be safe? “I mean, is it a straight stretch, no obstacles? Nothing tricky?”

“Well, we can’t make it too easy, now, can we? There are a few twists and turns. These city boys think they can show up with their toy cars and win.” He tsks. “Ocean knows this area like the back of his hand. He can win this with his hands tied behind his back.”

That’s reassuring, at least. “And if he wins, he’s done, right? He won’t be racing again.”

He scowls. “The buy-in isn’t too high on this one. It’s his call. There’s a lot of dough in racing, and he knows it. He used to do it on a weekly basis, back then. The first time he dyed his hair blue. Said it was war paint. And he kept it.”

I think of a young Ocean getting into these powerful cars, these deathtraps, to race every week, and my heart stops in my chest. How many brushes with death did he have, nobody caring, nobody dragging him away, telling him there’s another way to survive?

His blue hair gleams like the metallic paint on the cars in whose direction he’s walking. Three other guys, young like him, straighten from where they’ve been slouching and shake hands with him.

“So this is the famous Blue,” I hear one of them say. “Been hearing about you for years.”

“Nice of you to join us,” another says.

They all laugh.

The sound rattles in my ears, changing into something wicked and vicious. My mouth is dry. My throat parched. My palms are sweating.

Ocean turns around, looks straight at me. Smiles.

There has to be another way. If anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing another solution. Would Zane give him a loan? Would it be enough? Would Ocean get mad at me for doing something like that without asking him?

At least he’ll be alive to get pissed at me.

No time now, anyway. They all get in their cars and line up for the race.

Then Duane walks over to the side, lifts his hand, and brings it down in one swift chopping motion. The engines roar.

The race is on.

Ocean

My parents’ trailer never really felt like home. Nor did my apartment in Madison. Not until Kayla walked into my kitchen barefoot this morning, wearing my T-shirt and nothing else.

But for a long time, racing was my home. Being inside a powerful car, adrenaline pounding in my veins, running faster than the wind.

So it bothers me that I don’t feel it today. The car feels too small, too cramped. I feel caged, and cold sweat is dripping down my back.

Never thought I’d feel like this before a race.

A memory flashes before my eyes—of my Chevy sliding on the highway, out of my control, slamming into the metal fence, murky water rising outside the windows. I remember ice-cold panic.

I remember the twisted wreck of the car with the bodies of my brother and Livvy—one of them alive and the other dead.

In the rear-view mirror, I see Kayla, and the panic increases, turns into a vise around my chest. What if this is the last time I see her? What if I never hold her in my arms again?

I used to be fearless. I thought I had nothing to lose. Well, now I do.

Can’t lose her.

Duane appears by the side of the road, and I sigh in relief. No more time to think and get cold feet. No choice. I have to do this.

He lowers his hand. I slam on the gas and we’re off.

I didn’t lie to Kayla when I said this would be fast. We tear off down the road, then careen around a turn, the speed throwing me against the door, the car sliding for a second—
fuck, fuck
—then it’s back under my control, and we’re hurtling down the road.

Funny how my chest still feels fucking tight from that one moment of imbalance.

Get over it. Right now.

One of the others, a black Camaro, weaves a little, almost touching my car. I keep control, cursing a blue streak, until it moves away. There’s another turn coming up, and I hope the driver noticed. A turn with a metal fence and the walled yard of a storehouse.

Focus on the road.

I downshift as the turn comes up, the muscles in my arms and legs tensing—

The idiot from beside me accelerates and flies off. One second he’s beside me, the next his car is smashing through the fence and into the wall.

It’s just a glimpse of an image, a flash of twisted metal, and I’m already speeding away, the other two cars keeping pace.

Shit. Shit.

Keep it together, dammit. Almost there. One more stretch, one more turn, and it’s over. I’m at the front. I can win this race.

Only at the next turn, one of the other cars, a black Dodge Charger, slams into me, jolting me, almost sending me off road.

Fuck.

Memories of the impact, of the water pouring into my Chevy as I lowered the window, of the cold shock and the air burning in my lungs as I struggled to get out and swim up, to the light—

Son of a bitch—move!
I twist the wheel, step on the brake lightly, manage to straighten the car, and I’m stepping on the gas before I’ve drawn another breath, chasing after the bastard.

Not good enough. Not fucking good enough, because both bastards are now in front of me and racing toward the finish line Duane has sprayed in yellow on the road.

I hit the throttle, push the car to its limits as I accelerate past the first car, a yellow BMW, and concentrate on reaching the black Charger.

Too late. He hits the finish line and leaves me in the dust.

Goddammit.

I slam my fist into the wheel as I hit the brakes, screeching to a stop. The world around me is still fuzzy, spinning.

What the fuck?

Throwing the door open, I slide my legs out and bend over. I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, oh fuck. My chest burns. I think I’m gonna puke.

“Hey, hey! Ocean!” It’s a woman’s voice. Kayla, I think fuzzily. “Blue.”

She’s kneeling between my legs, in the dirt, reaching up to touch my face. Seeing her face so close is such a relief, I wanna cry like a fucking baby.

Instead, I lean into her touch and suck in a shaky, hissing breath. She’s here. I’m here. I didn’t die. I didn’t lose her. It’s okay.

Only it’s not. I didn’t win.

Holy fuck. Now what?

***

“You chickened out,” Duane is ranting at me as he hands me my cut. Too little. Not nearly enough even for the doctor’s next visit. “You went too damn slow on the turn. You used to be a daredevil. What the hell’s the matter with you, boy?”

He doesn’t know what happened, about crashing my Chevy. “That bastard in the Charger almost pushed me off the fucking road.”

Duane takes a step toward me, fists clenching as if he wants to punch me. Yeah, as if. He barely reaches my shoulder, and I bet he weighs not even half my weight.

“You say it as if you didn’t expect it. You should’ve fucking expected it, Blue. What’s the matter, lost your memory or something? This is how we roll. This is how this sport works. It’s nasty and violent and damn unfair, and it pays well only if you win.”

“Gotcha, Duane.”

“Did you, now? Got too used to your quiet, safe city life, huh?” He’s fucking pissed. Of course he is. That’s a lot of money, and he counted on me to win. Hell, I counted on it, too. “Forgot what it’s like to run every week for your life? What it’s like to be scared and to move past the fear, to enjoy it, to live for it?”

Guess I have. Guess I don’t mind not risking death every week, not fighting a constant war for my life.

But I don’t tell him that. I need to race again, need to make money—and the thought makes my stomach roil again, the bile rises in my throat with remembered panic.

“You need more money?” Duane is glaring at the other cars parked by the side of the road. “Be here tomorrow afternoon. The guy in the BMW wants a rematch.”

“And what about the other guy, in the Camaro? Does he want a fucking rematch?”

“He won’t be asking for a rematch,” Duane says quietly. “That fucktard is lucky if he’s alive with that hit he took. Speaking of which, I’m outta here, and so should you. Ambulance is on the way.”

Kayla’s face is white as a sheet. She looks like she wants to grab my hand and drag me away but is struggling not to.

“Tomorrow,” I say, because I need that fucking money, even if it’s killing me.

Pocketing the cash Duane gave me, I take Kayla’s hand and lead the way to Kayla’s car. She says nothing when I take the wheel, only sitting in the passenger seat, trembling.

She says nothing when I drive to the trailer park, when I tell her to wait, and I go give the money to my mom to pay the bills.

I don’t know what to say, either. I understand. Never had so much to lose. Never had Kayla.

But now I do, and the fear keeps riding me whenever I think of racing again. The Camaro crashing through the barrier and hitting the wall is playing on a loop in my mind.

It could have been me. It sure as hell could have been me, and I’m going back for more. That’s all I can think of as I drive back to Madison. The moment I froze in panic. The moment that could have ended my life.