“Shane.” It’s the sound of Colton’s stilted voice that causes the first tear to slide over.
“I just wanted to try to make things right.”
The curtain lifts. Huge body-wracking sobs take over my body as the curtain lifts to the highest it’s been since my mind fell into this depression. And I still can’t speak. All I can do is show them that the smile on my face is not forced anymore—a break in the black clouds. A ray of light flooding me with the knowledge there is still good in the world. That I’ve raised seven boys who came to me damaged and beyond hope—with all odds stacked against them—and have turned them into compassionate, loving individuals who have formed a family.
My family. Their family.
“Ry? Baby, look at me.” It’s Colton’s voice that pulls me out of this storm of emotion. I actually want to stay in it though, because it feels so damn good to feel something other than the weight of sadness. But I look at him anyway. I want him to see the glimpse of the real me peeking through because I know as good as this feels, as long as it has lasted, it will probably be gone soon. In my compromised psyche, I know you don’t snap out of postpartum depression so easily.
But it gives me hope. Tells me I can do this. That the glimpse will turn into more. Baby steps as Colton says.
“These are happy tears, right?” he asks as I glance over to Shane and then back to him. Both of their eyes hold a cautious optimism.
“Yes.”
I might not be broken after all.
FUCKIN’ BECKETT.
He knows just how to push my buttons. Get me where I need to be. Even if it takes a few fibs as he calls them. More like bald-faced lies.
But who’s the fool? I fell for them. I’m right where he wants me. On the track. In the car and just hitting my stride on my thirtieth lap after some new adjustments.
God, I needed this. Everything about it: the routine, the camaraderie with the crew, the vibration of the car all around me, the control and response when everything else has felt so chaotic.
The freedom.
I shift, coming into turn one. Let my car own the track since I’m alone on it, getting a feel if the last adjustment was right or wrong.
“Wood?” No other words need to be said to know what he’s asking me.
“Feels good. Ass end’s not sliding as I come outta the bank.” I take a sip of water from the tube. It’s piss-warm. Fuck.
“Okay. Open her up then for a few laps once you hit the line. Push to pass. Let me see what the gauges say when we do that.”
“Open her up? You get some last night, Daniels? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say those words.” Hands grip the wheel, body braced for the force as I come out of turn four toward the start/finish line.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckles. That’s an affirmative on getting laid. “Let’s see what she can do.”
I drop the hammer. Race the motherfucking wind. Let the vibration of the car and the fight of the wheel own my mind and body: escape from the worry about Rylee—the constant responsibility of Ace, the everything that feels like it has been on my shoulders—and just be.
The car and me. Machine and man. Speed against skill. Chaos versus control.
Each lap peels away the world around me a little bit more. Pulls me into the blur. Lets me become a part of the car, hear each rattle, feel every vibration, and listen to what she’s saying to me.
If she’s going to be a whore or a wife for the next race: let me use her, abuse her until I get mine at the start/finish line, or if I need to praise her, stroke her with foreplay, and hope she gets off by the time the checkered flag is waved.
“Gauges are looking good. How’s she feel?”
“A good mix.” He knows I mean she’s a little bit of both—whore and wife—the perfect mix to win a race.
“We need a little more whore for the next race. Push her harder. See if she sucks or swallows.”
I laugh into the open mic as I head into turn three. Routine entry, down shift, gaze drops down to the gauges one last time before the track and car own them with the concentration the turn takes.
The ass end slides high, fishtails at the topside of the curve. Rubber tires hit a rash of pellets. I hydroplane across them, slick tires over balls of rubber.
FUCK!
Split seconds of time. Increments of thoughts. Routine of movements.
The nose end turn turns high. Arms tense fighting the wheel. A flash of concrete wall.
Ace. An image of him flashes before my eyes. A slideshow of frames. His cry is in the whine of the engine.
Releasing the wheel. Crossing my arms so I can hold onto the harness.
Ryles. Soft smile. Big heart. Incredible strength. Just when she’s coming back to me.
Shoulders shoving into the seat. The car spins. Nosecone hits the wall. Metal sparking as it shreds.
“Wood!”
Spinning. Hands grip seatbelts tight. Waiting for the second impact.
Nothing.
C’mon. C’mon. C’mon
Spinning.
Slipping down the track.
Spinning.
Grass flying as I hit the infield.
Coming to a stop.
Taking a breath.
Hands stiff from holding tight to the seatbelts.
“Goddammit, Colton! Answer me.”
Sound comes back. Adrenaline takes over. My heart pounds. My mouth is dry.
But I’m fine.
“I’m good. Fine,” I rasp as my body starts to tremble from the aftereffects. “Fucked up the nosecone and front right side.”
“You’re good?” His voice is shaky.
“I’m good.” Well, I will be. After I have a stiff drink.