The Full Velocity Series Box Set

by Tracie Delaney

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  I met her eyes, grinning. “Like what?”

  She walked toward me and straightened my collar. “You know what. It’s two hours. We can survive two hours.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I muttered.

  She curved her hands around my face, her expression concerned. “Tate, I mean it. If you’re finding this so difficult, let’s cancel.”

  I shook my head and forced a smile. “No, you’re right. I need to do this, if only to prove myself right.”

  “They might surprise you.”

  I arched a brow. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “I admit I’m curious about tonight.”

  “That makes one of us,” I grumbled.

  She gripped my upper arms and gently kissed me. “I’m right here.”

  My chest pulled tight. I’d gotten so damn lucky the day she walked into my life, and I dreaded to think where I’d be if she hadn’t.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I know,” she replied gently. “Love you right back. Now, let’s go.”

  I chose the new two-seater BMW I’d imported from Germany, needing the challenge of handling a powerful car to detract me from the nightmare evening ahead. Madison kept up a stream of chatter, but even she grew quiet fifteen minutes out from my parents place. As I turned off the road and headed up the winding driveway, a gloom settled over both of us. I cut the engine and climbed out, capturing Madison’s hand as she exited on her side. When she flexed beneath my grip, I realized I was holding her too tightly. I relaxed my hand and shot her an apologetic glimmer of a smile.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  I didn’t get a chance to respond. The large imposing door to my childhood home drew back and a maid I didn’t recognize gave a little bow. I rolled my eyes at the fact my parents were still keeping up with that pretentious crap. Anyone would think they were part of the British royal family.

  My mother certainly thought of herself as a fucking Queen.

  “Mr. Flynn, Ms. Brady, do come in.”

  She padded quietly across the vast hallway, but instead of leading us to the drawing room where my mother liked to entertain guests, she headed in the opposite direction, toward my parents’ private quarters. She stopped outside what used to be a formal living room, a cold, dark space that, as a child, I’d imagined housed monsters under the couch.

  Standing back, the maid gestured for us to enter.

  I took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and strode through. Surprise hit me in the chest. Instead of the oppressive mahogany paneling, Queen Anne sofas, and iron fireplace, inside was a light, bright, airy space. The awful fireplace had been replaced with a log burner, the uncomfortable furniture swapped for a large, plush, corner sofa in a warm beige, and the hardwood floors were covered over with a thick-pile carpet. Curtains in a soft cream hung at the windows, and the ceiling had been painted a bright white.

  That wasn’t the greatest shock, however. No, that came when my mother and father rose to greet us, both wearing the most genuine smiles I’d ever seen them attempt. Mother held out her arms and hugged me.

  Actually hugged me.

  I stood there, stiff and unwieldy, without a clue how to react. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother put her arms around me. It didn’t feel right. I’d grown up lacking in affection, and for her to start now was as weird as if she suddenly decided to tell a dirty joke.

  It was too late for that.

  Too late for us.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Tate,” she said, choosing to ignore that my arms had remained by my sides. “And Madison, how lovely to see you again.”

  “Son,” Father said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “You’re looking well.”

  Okay, who are these people, and where are my real parents?

  On automatic pilot, I shook his outstretched hand and sneaked a sideways glance at Madison. She hid it well, but even she’d been tipped off-kilter by the exuberant, unexpected, and wholly out of character welcome.

  “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Flynn,” Madison said finding her voice while mine refused to cooperate.

  “The pleasure is all ours,” Mother replied. “Come in, sit down. We can’t wait to hear all about the wedding arrangements.”

  Madison took a seat.

  I remained standing, stunned into a frozen state, and narrowed my eyes. My voice returned in a whoosh. “What’s going on?”

  “Son, why don’t you come and sit down. How about a glass of scotch? I’ve opened a rather nice malt that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  “I’m driving,” I gritted out. That was twice he’d called me “son” now in less than sixty seconds. I couldn’t recall the last occasion he had. Maybe when Cam died, but it hadn’t been in that context, more in a “You’re the only son we have left now”, his tone loaded with disappointment.

  “Tate.”

  Madison’s firm but gentle voice broke through, and I managed to force my legs to work. I sat beside her, and she instantly placed her hand on my thigh and when I looked at her, she gave me one of her special smiles.

  “We’re looking forward to the wedding, also, Mrs. Flynn,” Madison said. “Very much. Aren’t we, Tate?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “It was so generous of you to invite us,” Mother said. “We were thrilled when we received the invitation in the mail, weren’t we, Eric?”

  Before my father could answer, I cut right across him.

  “Can we all stop pretending? It’s giving me a goddamn headache.”

  “Tate,” Madison said in warning, increasing the pressure on my leg.

  “Don’t ‘Tate’ me,” I snapped, taking my irritation out on the one person in this room who absolutely didn’t deserve it. “Let’s take a moment to remember the last time we were all in the same room as one another. You, Mother.” I jabbed a finger in her direction. “You hit Madison in front of a roomful of guests just because she and I didn’t fit in with your plans. And you.” This time the finger jab was aimed at Father. “As always you pandered to her and simply swept it all under the carpet. So can we all, please, just stop with the pretense. At least be honest.”

  My chest heaved by the time I’d finished my outburst, and I crossed my arms in anticipation of Mother doing one of her fainting acts in a bid to draw the attention away from what she’d see as “unbecoming behavior”.

  Instead, she said, “I’m so sorry. We failed you.”

  Madison

  I’d never believed silence had a sound, but after the bombshell—and that wasn’t exaggerating—Tate’s mother dropped, the air crackled even though not one of the four people in that room uttered a single word.

  Beside me, Tate fizzed, a ball of fury that could explode at any moment. I flitted my eyes in his direction and held my breath.

  “Sorry?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Do tell, Mother, how you think you failed me.”

  Mrs. Flynn—I must ask Tate what her first name was at some point—bowed her head while Mr. Flynn—Eric—wrapped his fingers around his wife’s bony hand.

  “I think you know,” Mrs. Flynn whispered.

  Tate barked a laugh. “Yeah, I fucking know alright, but I want to hear you say it.”

  “Tate, please,” I said when his mother’s bottom lip trembled.

  “No, Madison,” he stated. “I’m owed this. For all those months and years they abandoned me, left me to my own devices to concentrate on Cam. And for after he died, when their antipathy toward me got worse, not better. The wrong son died, huh, Mother?”

  She shook her head violently. “No. No.”

  Tate got into his stride, decades of pain spewing out, pain he’d repressed, that he’d allowed to fester. The hand of friendship extended by his parents almost acted as a catalyst, an unblocking of the emotions he’d kept locked inside.

  “Do you ha
ve any idea what it was like for me, growing up?”

  When neither of his parents spoke, Tate roared, “Well, do you?”

  A single tear rolled down his mother’s weathered face, and only then did I notice how much she’d aged in the time since I’d last seen her. Her skin had a clammy pallor, artfully hidden beneath layers of carefully applied makeup.

  “No,” his father answered for her.

  “It was shit. The shittiest, loneliest, most miserable childhood you could imagine. I had everything money could buy, but the only thing I truly craved was the unconditional love of my parents. Tell me, what did I do wrong? Why did you hate me so much?”

  His voice cracked, and so did my heart.

  Openly crying now, his mother extended a hand. It hovered in thin air, and then fell back into her lap.

  “Tell me what to do, Tate? Tell me how we can make this right.”

  He snorted. “Make it right? Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’ll tell you how you can make it right. You can stop with the crocodile tears and the bullshit fake happiness and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “Your mother is dying,” Mr. Flynn cut in. “She has cancer. They’ve given her a few weeks to live.”

  I inhaled sharply. God, I’d thought she’d looked ill. As a doctor, it always amazed me how the idea of facing death forced us to examine how we’d lived.

  “I’m sorry,” Tate said. “But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

  “I don’t expect it to,” his mum replied. “But please, all I ask is that you give me the chance to sit in the church and watch you get married.”

  Tate threw his hands in the air. “You were invited. You could have simply turned up, watched, then fucked off. But no, there has to be a drama, a circus, a way to draw all the attention on to you.”

  “That’s enough, Tate,” I interjected. His mother looked on the edge of collapse, and while I understood his rage, I couldn’t allow it to go on. It was like kicking a defenseless puppy.

  His head snapped around, a sneer lifting one side of his mouth. “How right you are, Mads. It is enough.”

  He sprang to his feet and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  “It’s the shock,” I said, hurriedly trying to explain. “Let him calm down. I’ll talk to him.”

  “How is it that you’re so kind, Madison?” Mrs. Flynn asked. “Because I don’t deserve such sympathy.”

  I drew my teeth over my bottom lip, trying to conjure up a response that didn’t sound like a platitude given just because she was dying. “Don’t misunderstand, Mrs. Flynn. I’m firmly on Tate’s side. The scars his childhood left him with, caused by both of you, run very deep. But I also understand loss. My brother died when he was nineteen, and I’ve never gotten over it. I’d give anything for one last conversation with him. I will talk to Tate and try to encourage him to speak with you, but only because I don’t want time to run out and he misses the opportunity to say the things he needs to get off his chest.”

  “You mean there’s more?” Mr. Flynn asked with a wry grin.

  I smiled and rose slowly from the chair. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I left the room. No sign of Tate. Sighing, I set off in the direction of the imposing entranceway. I found him outside, pacing, his fists clenched at his sides, his chin up high.

  “Hey,” I said, my tone calm, as if talking to an antsy thoroughbred who might kick out at any moment.

  A good analogy as it turned out.

  “They can fuck off with that ‘I’m dying’ bullshit,” he roared, increasing the pace with which he marched up and down, his feet crunching on the gravel. “Did they honestly expect me to fall into their arms and say all is forgiven? Did they?”

  “We don’t know what their intentions were,” I murmured. “You didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”

  His eyes widened, and he jabbed a finger in my face. “Don’t start with that bollocks, Madison. I shouldn’t have allowed you to send that invitation, and I shouldn’t have come here. Now it’s opened up a whole can of shit, and I can’t deal with it.” He fisted his hair. “I won’t.”

  To anyone looking in from the outside they’d frown and accuse him of overreacting, but I knew the truth. His tirade came from a deep-seated fear that his mother’s imminent death would force him to examine feelings he’d buried deep for years. Even the best therapist in the world would need a hundred sessions to mine, and then treat, the pain Tate carried inside caused by the lack of love he received as a child.

  I held out my hand. “Give me the keys.”

  He shook his head. “I’m perfectly capable of driving. I do it for a fucking living.”

  I hitched a shoulder and slipped into the passenger side. Tate didn’t join me until a full minute later. When he finally climbed in the drivers’ side, I’d say his rage had reduced from Defcon five down to Defcon four and three quarters.

  I sighed, readying myself for a long drive home.

  Tate fishtailed the car, spraying gravel in a high arc. I expected him to take out a window, but they survived intact. I tolerated his angry driving until he almost tapped another car when overtaking too close.

  “Slow down,” I snapped, gripping onto the sides of the seat. “You’re not in bloody Monaco now.”

  He shot me a furious glare then returned his attention to the road. A tinge of red crept over his stubbled jaw, but he did reduce his speed marginally. I stole the odd glance in the mirror attached to the passenger door, expecting to see blue flashing lights in the reflection, but Tate’s luck held out and we made it home without incident—and in record time.

  My legs shook as I climbed out, the kick of adrenaline brought on by the high-speed journey coursing through my veins. The safe return had an unexpected side effect, though. Blind rage. He’d put my goddamn life in danger with that reckless drive, and I wouldn’t have it.

  I stomped to the private elevator and stabbed in my personal code. I didn’t wait for Tate. He could fizz and rail all on his own.

  My stomach growled—we’d planned to have dinner after all yet hadn’t even gotten as far as the drinks—so I yanked open the fridge and grabbed the first thing I saw. Leftover pasta from last night. I lifted a fork from the cutlery drawer and sat at the dining table. Tate’s soft footsteps alerted me to his arrival. I kept my back to him. The chair beside me moved, and Tate plunked himself down.

  “Enough for two?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  Stabbing the fork at the pasta, I fixed my gaze on a spot in the distance.

  “I’m sorry, Mads.”

  I kept my attention averted. If I looked at him, he’d set those big, soulful eyes on me, and my anger would wither and die.

  “For what?”

  He let out a resigned sigh, the kind that came from deep within, a sure sign of his diminishing rage and the return of rational thought.

  “I’m sorry I drove too fast. I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t thinking.”

  I faced him then. “And your parents?”

  “My parents what?” he retorted childishly.

  I canted my head. “Tate.”

  He shook his head. “What do you want me to do, Madison?”

  “It’s not about what I want.”

  “Then what is it about?” he yelled.

  I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. One of us had to. “Let me pose this question and then I’ll drop it, okay? Your mum looked awful tonight and, using my medical experience, albeit without examining her, I’d say you have a maximum of two months to make your peace. A maximum, Tate. She could die tomorrow, next week, next month. Figuring out when a body riddled with cancer might give up the ghost isn’t an exact science. My question is this; how would you feel if she died and you lost the opportunity to tell her, really tell her how bad it was for you growing up? Once you answer that question, then you’ll know the right course of action. For you. You’re my only concern in all of this. But regrets last a lifetime, Tate. Don’t let
bitterness and anger steal your chance for closure.”

  The way his face softened told me I’d gotten through to him. He grazed his finger beneath my chin and tilted up my head, bending his own to kiss me.

  “Come to bed,” he murmured. “Then afterward, I’ll order a chinese and feed it to you, one grain of rice at a time.”

  “That could take a while,” I said, grinning and more than a little relieved our spat was over. I hated fighting with Tate.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re worth the time.”

  Tate

  I slowly peeled Madison’s dress over her arms and let the material pool on the floor. She balanced on me, then stepped out of it. When I saw the lingerie she’d chosen, I smiled. She’d known how difficult tonight would be, although neither of us had anticipated the explosion of anger, its effects far reaching on everyone in that room, and she’d picked a set I bought for her a few weeks ago that she vowed to keep for a special occasion.

  I pushed the oncoming decision regarding my mother to one side. Right now, I wanted to forget everything except the feel of Madison’s smooth skin beneath my fingertips, the way her lips parted on a silent moan as I dropped to my knees to remove her underwear. The gasp she released when I lapped at her folds.

  Reveling in the taste of her, I used my mouth, my hands, and my tongue to bring her to orgasm. Her entire body shuddered, and she gripped my shoulders, her knees wavering under the force of her climax. I rose to my feet, my gaze roving over her face. I loved Madison’s expression right after she came. Pink cheeks, bright eyes, a slight sheen covering her skin.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not judging me on speed,” she said, grinning.

  “Nah,” I replied. “I’m more interested in endurance.”

  I swept her off her feet, and she squealed, her arms coming around my neck for balance. Tossing her on the bed, I undressed and crawled after her. I settled my hips between her parted legs and brushed a strand of hair off her face.