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.

“Fuck, Colton! I told you to open her up, not tear her up and slam her into the goddamn wall!” he yells through the mic as I unpin the wheel to get out.

My chuckle fills the connection—the tinge of hysteria in it clear as fucking day.

I’m grateful for his comment. For getting me back to the norm when a part of me is so lost in my own head over shit I never allow myself to think about.

And yet sometimes when you’re forced to close your eyes, everything else becomes so much clearer.


“Colton?”

“Can I come in?” I look at my dad. There are so many things I want to say. No, need to say to him.

My mind hasn’t stopped since I left the track. The wreck made my mortality front and fucking center like never before. I have a kid now. Responsibilities. People that matter to me when before the only person I cared about besides my parents, Quin, and Becks was me, myself, and I.

I got out of the car needing to call Ry. Talk to her. Hear her voice. Get home so I could hold Ace. But know I can’t.

It was just another day at the track. I spun out. A job hazard. I couldn’t call her because even though she’s making huge strides, she’s still not one hundred percent, and I didn’t want to do anything to trigger her to pull away.

So I drove. Aimlessly. Ended up at the beach. Then drove some more. Checked in with Haddie to make sure Ry was good and ended up here. Fucking full circles.

“Come in. Everything okay? Ry and Ace?” he asks as I follow him into the house I grew up in.

“Yes. Yeah.” Shit. He’s worried. “Sorry. They’re fine. It’s all good.” We walk past the stairs I used to slide down on cardboard, and the liquor cabinet I used to sneak bottles from in high school. I focus on that shit because all of a sudden I’m antsy, nervous. Feel stupid for coming here but need to tell him nonetheless.

“It’s good to see you out and about,” he says.

“Haddie’s with Ry,” I explain when he doesn’t ask. “I had to get some time at the track.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good. Fine. Hit the wall.”

Fight or flight time, Colton. Say what you need to say.

“Colton?”

I snap from my thoughts. The shit that I’m here to say but have now lost the words for. “Sorry.” I sigh, lift my hat and run a hand through my hair.