Here we go again. Let the Becks psych evaluation begin.

I refuse to look at him, not wanting him to know I’m not okay. That this banter is all a front because my head feels like it’s been put in a blender: too much, too goddamn fast, with too many doubts, and too many unknowns. My fucking past that never goes completely away.

Goddamn ghosts.

“Colton?” he goads.

My beer stops midway to my mouth as irritation fires anew and sarcasm becomes my friend. “Are you asking as my crew chief, my best friend, or my shrink?”

“I’ve got lifetime privileges for two of the three, so does it really matter?”

Fuck. He’s got me there. Why is he pushing the goddamn issue? Does he really want to know the truth? Because I sure as fuck would rather stick my head in the sand. Ignorance is bliss and all that shit.

“I’ll get the job done. No worries there,” I say way too easily and immediately curse myself because Becks will see right through that response in a heartbeat. I just wonder if he’s going to let sleeping dogs lie or if he’s going to jingle the leash so they come out to play.

“Ah . . .” he says, drawing the sound out. “But you forget, I do worry. It’s my job. You’ve got a lot of shit going on, and I need your head straight before you even board a plane to the Grand Prix.”

“Jesus Christ, Becks. Always worried about the track. Well, there’s other shit to life besides the goddamn track!” I snap at him, pissed he knows just what to say to set me off and at the same time hating that he’s right.

Baited hook? Meet line and sinker.

Motherfucker. You’d think by now I’d be immune to Becks pushing buttons, and yet every damn time I react on cue like a puppet.

“No worries. My head will be just fine,” I say, trying to gain some traction. “You satisfied?”

“You think I care about the fucking track, Donavan? You think racing rules my every thought? No. Not hardly. What does though is having to pick up a phone and call your wife who’s nine months pregnant and tell her I put you in a car knowing you had a fucked-up head, that you crashed and died because you were distracted and couldn’t focus on the task at hand. Now that? That’s what I worry about . . . so you can take out whatever it is you don’t want me to know and tell me I’m a selfish asshole for thinking about racing. What I really want to know is that your head is in the goddamn game enough that I don’t have to watch some medic put you in a fucking body bag because you can’t focus and won’t tell anyone why. Call me selfish, call me whatever the fuck you want to . . . talk to me, don’t talk to me . . . Christ . . . just make sure you’re good to go so that doesn’t happen.” And then in perfect Beckett fashion, he ends his tirade as quick as he starts it.

Silence returns. Eats at me. Pulls from me the truth I don’t want to confess.

“I’m trying to find my dad.” Fuck. Where did that come from? I wasn’t going to tell anyone until I had something solid—like concrete-barrier solid—and yet there I go spilling secrets like a leaky faucet.

Wanting to see his reaction, I glance his way from behind my mirrored lenses; he takes a deep breath and nods his head twice as he digests what I’ve just said.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand the why behind this . . . but man, aren’t some things better left for dead?” There’s understanding in his tone, but at the same time, there’s no way he can understand. No one can. My shoes have walked through the proverbial Valley of Death more times than I care to count. Maybe I need to go there one more time to finally shake the shadow so I can move forward without it hanging over my head.

“That’s just it though—he’s always been a loose end. I need to tie it up, cut the strings for good, and never look back.” I take a long tug on my beer and try to wash away the bitter taste thinking of him leaves. “It’s a shot in the dark. Kelly probably won’t find him. And if he does? Maybe just knowing where he is will be enough. Maybe not.” I sigh. Feeling more stupid for calling Kelly now than I did before. “Fuck it. Forget I said anything.”

“No can do. You said it. I heard it. At least that explains what’s crawled up your ass lately. Does Ry know?”

“There’s nothing to tell yet.” I ignore the twinge of guilt. “She’s already stressed about the new kid at work and the baby . . . The last thing I need is for her to worry about me.”

“That’s what you’ve got me for.”

“Exactly,” I say with a definitive nod of my head.

“And your pops? What does he say about all of this?”

Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.

“Same thing. I’ll tell him if something comes of it. Besides . . . he’s my dad, if I need to do something, he always supports me.” And yet if that’s the case, why aren’t you telling him?

“Exactly,” Becks says, and the simple word validates my guilt.

Why in the world am I looking for the piece of shit who never wanted me when I have a man who took me in battered and broken and never looked back?

Exactly.

Thoughts. Doubts. Questions. All three circle the other. But only Kelly will be able to confirm if I’ll ever find the answers.

“I promise my head will be clear when I hit the track.” It’s the only thing I can say to my best friend. My fucked-up way of apologizing.

He nods his head and adjusts the bill of his ball cap. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, brother, but I kind of think you already have.” When I glance over to him, he tips the green neck of his bottle toward the deck over my shoulder. Confused, I follow his line of sight and look up to see Rylee standing at the railing talking to guests.

Our eyes lock. That goddamn sucker punch of emotion hits me like a battering ram, because for a man who thought he’d never feel anything, she makes me feel everything. The whole fucking gamut.

I remember to breathe. That pang of desire just as strong now as that first time I saw her. But there’s so much more that goes with it now: needs, wants, tomorrows, yesterdays, and every fucking thing in between.

Becks is most definitely right.

My father’s not the endgame. Just another ghost to exorcise from my soul.

I’m a lucky fucker because I have found what I never knew I was looking for. Thank fuck she’s looking right back at me.


THE FEAR STILL HOLDS My heart hostage.