The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  He smirks before pressing a toe-tingling kiss to my lips and says, “Checkered flag time, baby.”

  “Checkered flag time,” I repeat.

  “See you in victory lane,” he says with a wink before turning and walking back toward a crew standing motionless, waiting for their driver.

  I watch them help him slide his helmet on, mesmerized with both love and fear, and then allow Davis to lead me up the stairs to the pit box so I can watch from an elevated level. I place the headset on as I look down over the sill and watch them fasten Colton’s HANS device, yank on his harnesses, and tighten the steering wheel down.

  “Radio check, Wood.” The disembodied voice of Colton’s spotter fills my ears, startling me. “Check one, two. Check one, two.”

  There’s silence for a moment and I look down as if I’d be able to actually see him through his helmet and the surrounding crew.

  The spotter tries again. “Check one, two.”

  “Check, A, B, C.” Colton’s voice comes through loud and clear.

  “Wood?” The spotter calls back, confusion in his voice. “You okay?”

  “Never better,” he laughs. “Just giving a shout out to the alphabet.”

  And the nerves eating at me dissipate immediately.

  “The alphabet?”

  “Yep. A to motherfucking Z.”

  Quinlan grips my hand as I look up at the ticker on the top of the screen counting down the laps left to go.

  Ten.

  Ten laps to go through the gamut of emotions—nervous, excited, frantic, hopeful, enamored—just like I have the past two hundred and thirty eight laps. I’ve stood, I’ve sat, I’ve paced, I’ve yelled, I’ve prayed, and have had to remind myself to breathe.

  “He’s gonna pull it off,” Quinlan murmurs beside me as she squeezes my hand a little tighter and while I agree with her—that Colton is going to win his comeback race in a flurry of glory—I won’t say it aloud, too afraid to jinx the outcome.

  I look down below to where Becks is talking furtively with another crew member, their heads so close they’re almost touching as they scribble on a piece of paper. And I don’t know much about racing, but I know enough that they’re worried their fuel calculations are so slim in margin that Colton may literally be running on fumes on the final lap.

  I watch as the lap number gets lower, my pulse racing and heart hoping as it hits five. “You’ve got Mason coming up hard and fast on the high side,” the spotter says, anxiety lacing his usually stoic voice.

  “Ten-four,” is all that Colton says in response, concentration resonating in his voice.

  “He’s going for it!” the spotter shouts.

  I glance at the monitor in front of me to see a close up version of what I’m seeing on the track, and my body tenses in anticipation as they fly into turn three, masses of metal competing at ungodly speeds. I swear that everyone leans forward from their position in the booth to get a closer look. I fist my hands and rise up on my toes as if that will help me see more, quickly pushing my prayers out to Colton as Mason challenges him for the lead.

  I hear the crowd the same time my eyes avert back to the monitor, just in time to see rear tires touching together, Mason overcorrecting and slamming into the wall on the right of him, while Colton’s car swerves erratically on the bank of asphalt from the force of their connection.

  Everyone in the box is on their feet instantly, the same sound, different track, wreaks havoc on our nerves. My hands are covering my mouth, and I’m leaning out of the open-windowed booth to see the track.

  “Colton!” Becks shouts out as I gasp, a blaze of red car sliding out of control onto the apron. Colton would normally reply instantly, but there is absolute radio silence. And I think a little part of me dies in that instant. A tiny part forever lost to the notion that there will always be this trickle of unease and flashback of the riotous emotions from Colton’s crash every time I see smoke or the wave of the yellow flag.

  I see Beckett pull on the bill of his baseball cap as his eyes fixate on the track. Anxiety rules over my body right now, and yet I still feel those seeds of certainty Colton planted with his confidence earlier ready to root and break through. And I can’t imagine what’s going through his head—the mix of emotions and memories colliding—but he doesn’t let up. The car doesn’t slow down one bit.

  And yet he still hasn’t spoken.

  “C’mon, son,” Andy murmurs to no one in particular down the line from me, hands gripping the edge of the table he stands behind, knuckles turning white.

  Only seconds pass but it feels like forever as I watch Colton’s car aim erratically toward the grass of the infield, heading straight for the barrier, before miraculously straightening out.

  And then the whole booth lets out a collective whoop when the telltale red and electric blue nose of the car flies back up the apron and onto the asphalt, under control. And still in the lead. Colton’s voice comes through the speaker. “Fuckin’ A straight!” he barks, the overflow of emotion breaking through both his voice and the radio, followed by a “Woohoo!” The adrenaline rush hitting him full force.

  “Bring it home, baby!” Becks shouts at him as he paces below us and blows out a loud breath, taking off his headset and hat for a moment to regain his composure before putting them back on.

  Four laps left.

  I feel like I can breathe again, my fingers twisting together, my nerves dancing, and my hopes soaring to new heights. C’mon, baby. You can do this, I tell him silently, hoping he can feel my energy with the thousands in the stands pushing for him to claim this victory.

  Three laps left. I can’t stand it anymore. My body vibrates from more than the rumbling of the engines as the cars pass us one after another in an endless sequence. I shove back from the counter and shrug at Quinlan when she gives me a questioning look about where I’m going. I want to be as close to him as possible so I make my way to the stairs and start running down them.

  “Two to go, baby!” Becks shouts into the mic as I make it to the bottom step and stay close to the wall below on the inside border of the pits. I can’t see the track very well from here but I smile as I watch Becks look at the monitor and shake his head back and forth, body moving restlessly, energy palpable.

  I look up at the standings and see that Colton is still in the lead before my eyes are drawn to the flag stand where the flagger is getting the white flag denoting last lap ready. And then it waves and my heart leaps into my throat. Becks pumps a fist in the air and reaches over to squeeze the shoulder of the crew member next to him.

  Someone brushes against my shoulder and I look over to see Andy beside me, cautious smile ready to light up his face when the checkered flag takes flight. I look back up but my view of the flag stand is obstructed by the row of red fire suits standing atop the pit row wall, watching, waiting, anticipating.

  And then I hear it.

  The crushing roar of the crowd and the jubilant whoops of the crew as they jump off the wall hooting and hollering in victory. I’m so overcome with emotion I don’t even remember who grabbed who, but all I know is that Andy and I are hugging each other out of pure excitement. He did it. He really did it.

  The next few minutes pass in a blur as hugs and high fives are given all around, headsets are removed, and we all move quickly in a big mass toward victory lane. The motor revs as Colton pulls into his spot fresh off his victory lap.

  And I don’t know what the protocol is for non-crew members, but I’m right in the thick of it, fighting my way to see him. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from him right now.

  My view is blocked temporarily by camera crews and I’m so anxious—heart pounding, cheeks hurting from smiling so wide, heart overflowing with love—that I want to push them out of the way to get to him.

  When they shift to get a better shot, I see him standing there, accepting congratulations from Becks, bottle of Gatorade to his lips, hand running through his sweat soaked hair sticking up in total disarray, and the most
incredible expression on his face—exhaustion mixed with relief and pride.

  And then as if he can feel my gaze on him, he locks his eyes on mine, the biggest, most heart-stopping grin blanketing his face. My heart stops and starts as I take him in. I swear the air zings with sparks from our connection. He doesn’t even say a word to Beckett but leaves him behind and starts pushing through the crowd, the mass moving with him, his eyes never leaving mine, until he’s standing before me.

  I’m against him in an instant, his arms closing around me and lifting my feet off the ground as he throws his head back and emits the most carefree laugh I’ve ever heard before crushing his mouth to mine. And there is so much going on around us—utter chaos—but it’s nothing compared to the way he’s making me feel inside right now.

  Everyone and everything fades away because I’m right where I belong—in his arms. I feel the heat of his body pressed against mine rather than the press jostling us to and fro to get the perfect shot. I inhale his smell, soap and deodorant intermingled with a hard day’s work—and it has my pheromones snapping to attention, has them silently urging him to take me, dominate me, own me so I’m marked by that scent. I taste Gatorade on his lips and it’s nowhere near enough to satiate the desire coursing through me, because with Colton, one taste will never be enough. I hear his laugh again as he breaks from our kiss and presses his forehead to mine for a moment, his chest rumbling from the euphoric sound.

  “You did it!”

  “No,” he disagrees, pulling his head back to look in my eyes. “We did it, Ry. It was us together because I couldn’t have won without you.”

  My heart tumbles in my chest and crashes into my stomach that’s jolted up as if I’m free falling. And in a sense I am. Because my love for him is endless, bottomless, eternal.

  I smile at him, tears blurring my vision as I press one more chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re right,” I murmur. “We did it.”

  He squeezes me tight one more time and lowers me to the ground with another heart-stopping grin as the world around us seeps back. I step away, allowing everyone else their five seconds with him, and yet all I can think of are his words, we did do it.

  And I watch him—the man I love—and know his words have never been more true. We’ve really done it. We’ve faced our demons together.

  His past, his fears, his shame.

  My past, my fears, my grief.

  He looks over in the midst of an interview question and winks at me with a smirk. Pride, love, and relief flow through me like a tidal wave.

  Holy shit.

  We really did do it.

  SHE SWITCHED IT. WHEN THE hell did she do that?

  I pick up the picture from my bookshelf, the one that sits in exactly the same place the one of Tawny and me used to. Frame’s the same, picture’s not.

  The new one is of Ry and me at my comeback race. I don’t fight the smirk when I think that wasn’t the only victory lane I claimed that night with her arms wrapped around my waist.

  And something else around my cock.

  Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Her head is angled back, grin on her face, but her eyes are on me. And that look in them—that frozen moment of time—reflects clear as fucking day her feelings for me. Not a single doubt.

  I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

  Well shit. When I look at my image, there’s no denying I feel the same way about her. The look on my ugly mug tells anyone who sees the picture that she’s snagged me hook, line, and double-sinker.

  Funny thing is I see a man completely voodooed and I’m not even spooked by it.

  I’m still getting used to the thought of it, the taste of it. And hell if I’m quite liking the foreign feeling, especially because it means I get to slide between those sexy as fuck curves of hers and claim the finish line every chance I get.

  I know the game has caught up with this player because as much as that thought’s a turn on, I like the idea even more that when I wake up I can reach over to find her in my bed next to me, that sleepy smile on her lips and that rasp to her morning voice.

  God, I sound like a fucking pussy. All sappy and shit.

  The woman has topped me from the bottom when I never thought it was a possibility. But fuck me, being beneath her means I get a damn good view of those tits of hers while I’m looking up.

  My balls tighten at the thought alone.

  Yep. I’m a damn voodooed man. Who would’ve known it’d feel so good to be under a woman’s spell.

  I’m starting to feel cracks in the ground beneath me because Hell sure as fuck is starting to freeze over.

  I set the picture down, glancing one more time at it with a shake of my head. Nice, Ry. A sly removal of Tawny and subtle claiming of me.

  And fuck if I don’t like that claim. Who would’ve thought? Huh. Stranger fucking things have happened over the past few months I shouldn’t be so shocked by feeling so okay with this.

  Those baby steps of mine have turned into full on leaps. I guess I should start practicing for the long jump if this shit keeps up.

  I wander out of the office forgetting the article from Race Weekly, so completely lost in thought. And then I see the woman who holds them captive. She’s out on the patio in deep discussion with my mom and Quinlan over something.

  And it’s fucking weird how perfectly she fits here, there, everywhere in my life.

  Jesus, I sound like a fucking Dr. Seuss poem.

  “How come you’re not at the track?”

  My dad’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I immediately realize I forgot to grab the article for him, distracted by Ry’s bait and switch. And then I wonder how long he’s been standing there watching me watch Rylee.

  “What? Why would I be at the track?” He’s lost me. It’s Sunday, a non-race day and no testing scheduled, so why the fuck would I be at the track?

  He looks me in the eyes like he always has to judge how I’m doing from what he sees there since talking’s not really my forte. And for the first time in forever, he gets this ghost of a smirk and just nods his head like he knows something I don’t. He stares at me a moment longer and then hands me the bottle of beer in his hand before sitting down in one of two leather chairs facing the fine-ass view in front of us.

  Of the ocean and the women.

  “Sit down, son.”

  Famous fucking last words. I suddenly feel like I’m thirteen again and about to get read the riot act for something or other that I most likely deserve to get punished for. I take a pull on the beer, enjoying my last meal before the sentence is handed down.

  I sigh and plop down next to him and repeat my question. “Why would I be at the track?”

  “Because that’s where you go when you need to think things through.”

  I look over at him like he’s lost it because he sure as fuck is losing me. “Is there something you know that I don’t? Like what exactly I’m supposed to be thinking through?”

  “You know life is one big scavenger hunt,” he says before falling silent. I stare at him as he looks out the window and try to follow the bread crumbs he seems to be dropping here. “Fate hands you a list of things to experience. Ones you never expected, ones that break you, ones that heal you. So many of them you swear you’ll never even attempt or want to cross off your list. You get caught up in the day to day, moment to moment, and then one day you look at your list and realize you’ve unexpectedly completed some of the tasks. It’s only then you realize that the brutal truths the scavenger hunt has made you face has not only made you a better person, but has also given you an unforeseen prize when all is finally said and done.”

  Has he been hitting the bottle today when I didn’t know? He’s gone from the track to a scavenger hunt. I get he’s talking about my life in some context, but I need help connecting the dots here.

  “Dad.” I sigh the word, part question, part exasperation. Throw me a goddamn bone here.

  Rylee laughs and the sound floats inside causing me to look back at her.
/>   Always back to her.

  “I’m not going to lie, your list has had some pretty fucked-up shit on it, son.”

  The way he says it, like he blames himself for the shit he couldn’t prevent, stabs at the parts deep inside of me. Parts I’d always thought dead until recently. The kid in me starts to apologize and then I stop myself. Can’t apologize if I don’t know what the fuck I did wrong, so I just sip my beer and give a noncommittal sound, not wanting him to feel guilty for the demons that came before he could protect me.

  “I just think it’s time that you look at your list. Take stock of all of those things—expected and unexpected—and look at what extra things you’ve earned for crossing those items off.”

  Silence falls between us as his words and what I think they mean start to sink in. The weight that has been lifted from my shoulders. The poison exorcised from my soul. The new chance at life without the demons snipping at my heels.

  All because of the defiant as fuck contradiction of a woman my eyes keep drifting back to.

  “Sinner and saint,” I murmur without thought. My dad either doesn’t hear me because he just pulls the beer to his lips and takes another sip or chooses to let my comment slide. And as thoughts connect, puzzle pieces begin to fall in place. “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look at me, just keeps his eyes forward when I slide a glance his way.

  “What is it you think I’m thinking about?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine when I ask it. It’s cautious, quiet, and I don’t care because all I want to know is his answer.

  “How you’re going to ask Rylee to marry you.”

  He delivers the statement so matter-of-factly that it takes a moment for me to register that I’m choking out, “Fucking Christ, Dad!”

  Disbelieving laughter follows right behind my words. I scrub my hands over my face, more than aware of his scrutiny, and yet my mind races with his comment. Parts way down deep that I’m not sure I want to acknowledge flutter to life like nerves right before the green flag is waved on race day. Nerves that tell me my adrenaline need is about to get its next fix.