Thwack.

“No!” I shout again, panic reigning within every ounce of me. “No! I’m right here! Right here! I’m okay.”

Thwack.

Tears fall. Disbelief stutters. Possibilities vanish. Hope implodes.

My life blurs.

My eyes focus on my hand hanging limp and lifeless off of the gurney—a single drip of blood slowly making its way down to the tip of my finger before another compression on my chest joggles it to drip on the ground beneath. I focus on that ribbon of blood, unable to look back at my face. I can’t take it anymore.

Can’t stand watching the life drain from me. Can’t stand the fear that creeps into my heart, the unknown that trickles into my subconscious, and the cold that starts to seep into my soul.

“Help me!” I turn to the little boy so familiar but so unknown. “Please,” I beg, an imploring whisper, with every ounce of life I have in me. “I’m not ready to …” I can’t finish the sentence. If I do then I’m accepting what is happening on the gurney before me—what his place beside me signifies.

“No?” he asks. A single word, but the most important one of my fucking life. I stare at him, consumed by what is in the depths of his eyes—understanding, acceptance, acknowledgment—and as much as I don’t want to leave the feeling I have with him, the question he’s asking me—to choose life or death—is the easiest decision I’ve ever had to make.

And yet, the decision to live—to go back and prove like fucking hell that I deserve to be given this choice—means that I’ll have to leave his angelic little face and the serenity his presence brings to my otherwise troubled soul.

“Will I ever see you again?” I’m not sure where the question comes from, but it falls out before I can stop it. I hold my breath waiting for his answer, wanting both a yes and a no.

He tilts his head to the side and smirks. “If it’s in the cards.”

Whose fucking cards? I want to yell at him. God’s? The Devil’s? Mine? Whose fucking cards? But all I can say is, “The cards?”

“Yup,” he responds with a little shake of his head as he looks down at his helicopter and back up to me.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound becomes louder now, drowning out all noise around me, and yet I can still hear the draw of his breath. Still hear the pounding of my heart in my eardrums. Can still feel the soft sigh of peace that wraps around my body like a whisper as he places his hand on my shoulder.

All of a sudden I see the helicopter—Life Flight—on the infield, the incessant sound of the rotors—thwack, thwack, thwack—as it waits for me. The gurney shunts forward as they start to move quickly toward it.

“Aren’t you going?” he asks me.

I work a swallow in my throat as I look back at him and give him a subtle, resigned nod of my head. “Yeah …” It’s almost a whisper, fear of the unknown heavy in my tone.

Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

“Hey,” he says, and my eyes come back into focus on his perfect fucking face. He points back to the activity behind me. “It looks like your superheroes came this time after all.”

I whirl around, heart lodged in my throat and confusion meddling with my logic. I don’t see it at first, the pilot’s back is to me, helping load my stretcher in the medevac, but when he turns around to jump in the pilot’s seat and take the joystick, it’s clear as day.

My heart stops.

And starts.

A hesitant exhale of relief flickers through my soul.

The pilot’s helmet is painted.

Red.

With black lines.

The call sign of Spiderman emblazoned on the front of it.

The little boy in me cheers. The grown man in me sags with relief.

I turn back to say goodbye to the little boy, but he’s nowhere to be found. How in the hell did he know about the superheroes? I look all around for him—needing the answer—but he’s gone.

I’m all alone.

All alone except for the comfort of those I’ve waited a lifetime to arrive.

My decision’s been made.

The superheroes finally came.

CHAPTER 1

Numbness slowly seeps through my body. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t bear to pull my eyes from the mangled car on the track. If I look anywhere else, then this will all be real. The helicopter flying overhead will really be carrying the broken body of the man I love.

The man I need.

The man I can’t lose.

I close my eyes and just listen, but I can’t hear anything. The only thing in my ears is the thumping of my pulse. The only thing besides the blackness that my eyes see—that my heart feels—is the splintered images in my mind. Max melting into Colton and then Colton fading back to Max. Memories that cause the hope I’m grasping like a lifeline to flicker and flame before dying out, like the darkness smothering the light in my soul.

I race you, Ryles. His voice so strong and unwavering fills my head and then dissipates, glittering through my mind like ticker tape.

I double over, willing the strangling tears to come or a spark to fire within me, but nothing happens, just lead dropping through my soul and weighing me down.

I force myself to breathe while I try to fool my mind into believing the past twenty-two minutes never happened. That the car never cartwheeled and pirouetted through the smoke-filled air. That the metal of the car wasn’t cut apart by somber-faced medics to extricate Colton’s lifeless body.

We never made love. The single thought flits through my head. We never had the chance to race after he finally told me the words I’d needed to hear—and that he’d finally accepted, admitted to, and felt for himself.

I just want to rewind time and go back to the suite when we were wrapped in each other’s arms. When we were connected—overdressed and underdressed—but the horrific sights of the mangled car won’t allow it. They have scarred my memory so horribly for a second time that it’s not possible for my hope to escape unscathed.

“Ry, I’m not doing too good here.” They’re Max’s words seeping into my mind, but it’s Colton’s voice. It’s Colton warning me of what’s to come. What I’ve already lived through once in my life.

Oh God. Please no. Please no.

My heart wrings.

My resolve falters.

Images filter in slow motion.

“Rylee, I need you to concentrate. Look at me!” Max’s words again. I start to sag, my body giving out like my hope, but arms close around me and give me a shake.

“Look at me!” No, not Max. Not Colton. It’s Becks. I find it within myself to focus and meet his eyes—pools of blue fringed with the sudden appearance of lines at their corners. I see fear in them. “We need to go to the hospital now, okay?” His voice is gentle yet stern. He seems to think that if he talks to me like a child I won’t shatter into the million pieces my soul is already broken into.

I can’t swallow the sand in my throat to speak, so he gives me another shake. I’ve been robbed of every emotion but fear. I nod my head but don’t make any other movement. It’s utterly silent. There are tens of thousands of people in the grandstands around us, and yet no one is talking. Their eyes are focused on the clean-up crew and what’s left of the numerous cars on the track.

I strain to hear a sound. To sense a sign of life. Nothing but absolute silence.

I feel Becks’ arm go around me, supporting me as he directs us out of the tower on pit row, down the steps and toward the open door of a waiting van. He pushes gently on my backside to urge me in like I’m a child.

Beckett scoots in next to me on the seat and pushes my purse and my cell phone into my hands as he fastens his own belt and then says, “Go.”

The van revs forward, jostling me as it clears the infield. I look out as we start to descend down the tunnel, and all I see are Indy cars scattered over the track completely motionless. Colorful headstones in a quiet graveyard of asphalt.

“Crash, crash, burn …” The lyrics of the song float from the speakers and into the lethal silence of the van. My blank mind slowly processes them.

“Turn it off!” I shout with panicked composure as my hands fist and teeth grit, as the words embed themselves into the reality I’m unsuccessfully trying to block out.

Hysteria surfaces.

“Zander,” I whisper. “Zander has a dentist appointment on Tuesday. Ricky needs new cleats. Aiden has tutoring starting on Thursday and Jax didn’t put it on the calendar.” I look up to find Beckett’s eyes trained on mine. In my periphery I notice some of the other crew seated behind us but don’t know how they got there.

It bubbles up.

“Beckett, I need my phone. Dane is going to forget and Zander really needs to go to the dentist, and Scooter ne—”

“Rylee,” he says in an even tone, but I just shake my head.

“No!” I yell. “No! I need my phone.” I start to undo my seat belt, so flustered I don’t even realize it’s in my hand. I try to scamper over him to reach the sliding door of the moving van. Beckett struggles to wrap his arms around me to prevent me from opening it.

It boils over.

“Let go of me!” I fight against him. I writhe and buck but he successfully manages to restrain me.

“Rylee,” he says again, and the broken tone in his voice matches the feeling in my heart taking the fight out of me.

I collapse into the seat but Beckett keeps me pulled against him, our breathing labored. He grabs my hand and squeezes tightly, the only show of desperation in his stoic countenance, but I don’t even have the wherewithal to squeeze it back.