High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  This kid was really not comfortable with eye contact.

  Cass glanced down. Oh. Maybe her thin tank top and pajama bottoms were making him uncomfortable.

  She rose. “Get you anything?”

  He looked hopeful. “Got any Supernova—the energy drink? Any energy drink actually, I live off of them these days since I don’t sleep.”

  Cass pulled on a lightweight yellow fleece and filled a glass of water in the kitchen. She handed it to Paul and sat, curling her legs up under her.

  “That stuff’s no good you know, not for kids.”

  “I’m not a kid. Not anymore.”

  She met his tormented gaze directly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, as his face went from pale to mottled pink. “It’s my fault … what happened. My parents paid a fine, and I’ve been doing community service, but it’s not enough.” He raised tear-filled eyes to Cass. “Will it ever be enough? I just want it to never have happened.” He dashed his thin arm across his face, then hunched over, studying his hands in his lap.

  Tears welled in Cass’s eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you, Paul. We all make mistakes. You’re young, you’re allowed to make mistakes. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “You were driving drunk, right?”

  A nod.

  “And you wrecked. It was our job to take you to where you could be treated. But you weren’t the cause of our crash. I was.”

  “But if I hadn’t gotten drunk that night and wrecked—”

  There were no platitudes.

  She sat stiffly, hands clenched, holding onto her self-control. She shook with the effort.

  And now the boy was crying, great, gasping, half-man, half-boy sobs.

  She got up and sat next to him on the sofa, instinctively putting one hand to his shoulder. “Paul?” It took a few minutes, but eventually the sobs died into hiccups. “Steve was a great guy. An amazing guy, actually, with a huge heart. And I think if he were here,” she fought for control of her voice, “if he were here, he’d tell you don’t drink and drive—ever again.”

  The kid nodded. “I won’t.”

  “He’d tell you not to let the guilt define your life.” Then she added softly, “Maybe the best we can do is make his sacrifice worthwhile.”

  After a few moments of letting him cry, Cass patted him firmly on the back. It was time for both of them to stop floundering. “I really appreciate you searching me out. I’ll let the medic’s family know how you feel, okay?”

  His shoulders slumped with relief. He gave her an awkward hug, and she walked him to the door. He shuffled down the path and gave her a farewell wave before climbing in his battered Toyota and driving away.

  Could it be that simple?

  Steve had cared about her. Cared about all his crew. He’d never want her to spend her life wallowing in guilt. Calm certainty and a kind of peace crept through her. It was time to move on, figure out where to go from here. Figure out how to forgive herself. Figure out how to fly again. And she couldn’t do it alone. What Anderson and Ronan had hinted at was very true. In a daze, she walked over to her purse and fished out the cell phone number of the psychiatrist that Julie had talked to after the accident who specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder.

  She dialed the number with trembling fingers.

  Chapter 19

  His race was in Germany in five days.

  Cassidy paced the waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office. She was coming out of her skin. Not over her past, for once, but over Ronan and his stupid car. Apparently Ronan and Maddux had a shoving match at the track as they exited their vehicles after a test drive in Germany. Crew members had rushed in to separate them. The YouTube video of that little spat had a million hits and counting. The press was breathless about the rivalry, and Formula One PR was in heaven exploiting it. Today’s Race Fan Magazine headline had been “Maddux Baits Hawes.” And this Vivienne McCloud creature in her slinky, black dresses moping about in the tabloids like a poor man’s Audrey Hepburn in her giant hats and sunglasses, only added to the frenzy. She played the role of femme fatale to perfection, managing to get caught by photo-stalkers as she went into retail-therapy mode all over London.

  They’d practically had a seizure this morning when she got on a flight to Germany. Was she headed to make up with Ronan? Or his archrival Maddux? Or, the cynic in Cass thought, paid by the F1 PR firm to drum up interest in the final race? After everything that went down in Texas, she refused to believe he had rekindled things with Vivienne. She staunchly suppressed the tiny, niggling doubt.

  Most of the time, Cass was thankful for Vivienne McCloud. It should be her the media was stalking. Cassidy Miller, American woman helicopter pilot, killer, and drunken occupant of Hawes’s vehicle in Texas, had vanished from their radar. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, stuffing it into a ponytail.

  “Cass?”

  Dr. Ames pushed open the door, and Cass marched in.

  “I sense you’re a bit agitated today. Are you rethinking the medication we talked about?”

  “No. I’m—It’s not that. I think the exposure therapy is helping. I’m hoarse from talking about what happened that night, to you, to Julie, to Anderson, and Jim, and my mom. I’m getting sick of hearing myself talk about it. And I haven’t had nightmares since I started seeing you last week. For once I’m not obsessing over the accident. My—”

  He leaned forward in his chair and gestured to the couch. “Sit. Please.”

  Cass tossed herself onto the beige loveseat with a grunt.

  “The man I … my … Ronan Hawes’s race is just days away. He’s taking a huge risk. His car has been modified, and it’s a modification that makes it less safe. It’s the reason we broke up.”

  “You broke up over a car part?” The psychiatrist’s voice rose half an octave.

  “No, over the risk … Never mind.”

  “It’s a risky occupation. How does it make you feel, caring for someone who puts his life on the line every week?”

  “That part I get. That part I can accept. The problem is that the car’s not safe, and it’s not just his life at stake. There are other drivers out on that track who could be hurt or killed if something were to happen.”

  “I can see where a high level of risk brings up some issues for you,” he said calmly.

  “What? For me?” she said. “Please. Flying EMS is the one of the riskiest occupations out there. I accept that he’s willing to risk his life for his job. How could I have a quarrel with that?”

  “Because it causes you more anxiety.”

  “Okay, yeah. It is hard to watch. At first it was fun, thrilling. But now that I … I love him, it’s terrifying,” she admitted. “But it’s what he does, part of who he is. I don’t believe in people giving up what they love for someone else. And he wouldn’t either. What I can’t accept is that he would race a car that’s not safe. And it makes me angry. Not just that he might be injured or killed, but that he might kill someone else in the name of speed.”

  “Ah.” He scribbled on his notepad. “Listen to what you’re saying. You understand him putting his life at stake, the way you do for your job, but risking the life of others is unacceptable to you after your experience.” He scribbled something in the journal next to him.

  She hated when he made notes. She hated it more when he tracked everything back to her accident. This wasn’t about that. “You think I’m wrong?” she said.

  “I think his situation and the choices he’s making are creating conflict because you’re having trouble separating what he’s doing with your accident and the repercussions.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So if you were Ronan, what would you do?”

  “Me?” Cass asked. “I wouldn’t race with parts that weren’t fully vetted and functioning properly. I’m a pilot. If you get indicators telling you an engine or a part is on the fritz, you don’t fly. Period.”

&n
bsp; “And he’s told you that’s what’s happening?”

  “Not in so many words. But it was a problem. And I’ve heard—” What had she heard? Rumors. Had Ronan actually said the new technology wasn’t working properly? He’d said, “It’ll do.” Maybe this was all sour grapes fueled by the other teams because he was faster than anyone else and privy to a better, faster car. No. He was stressed about it. But wouldn’t he be stressed about the final race, the pressure, and the changes to the car anyway? Was this a given in racing?

  Maybe it came down to trust. She hadn’t been so great at that lately.

  “Let’s get back to your feelings about flying and your career.”

  • • •

  Ronan ground his teeth together and hung up the phone. Jesus. It would be a miracle if he could get his head together for the race tomorrow. He was obsessing. And the hell of it was, he didn’t disagree with her. She’d said all the things he initially said to Martin. But it was just one more race. And most of the time the damn car did phenomenally well with the new system. If only they could figure out what had put it out of sorts toward the end of the race in Texas. If only Cassidy understood the sport. Or understand why he was willing to take these risks. She was an idealist. It was probably what drew her to flying sick people around in the first place. Idealism didn’t fare well in the cold, hard world of F1 that he inhabited. Yet he accepted her. Damn it, he loved her. Her feelings couldn’t possibly be as strong if she ran at the first hint of trouble.

  But God, he’d do anything for her.

  He rubbed his chest. It wasn’t possible for his heart to actually ache, but it did. When she had walked out of his hotel room in Texas, everything had fallen apart.

  He’d certainly never felt this desperate, all-consuming bleakness. Him. At the top of his game, poised to win the championship. What he’d been planning for, dreaming of, for years couldn’t overcome the hollow emptiness. She’d managed to strip him of his protective outer layer and had left him raw and emotionally exposed. She’d found the part of him that he kept separate, the part he’d never opened to anyone, until her. He had no idea what to do with this almost violent desperation to be with her. To hold her when nightmares woke her. He couldn’t protect her from the fallout from her past, but at least he had been there for a little while.

  He hoped Anderson or someone was there for her, but God, he’d do anything to have her back.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Cass?

  His heart leaped, and he strode to the door and flung it open.

  Bloody hell.

  “Dad!”

  The man looked old. Frail, with a pasty complexion. Prison pallor, no doubt. Still, there was a lot of life behind those wicked, bright blue eyes. And Ronan felt … nothing. All those years he’d spent practicing speeches about ethics and humiliation. All the rage and shame. Here was the man responsible for all those feelings, and the only thing Ronan felt was emptiness?

  He stared at his father out in the hallway, still waiting for a delayed reaction, an avalanche of suppressed feelings. But nothing came. .

  “They released me on Thursday, son. I tried to get a ticket to the track from your team, but they advised me it wouldn’t be the best thing to be seen with you.” He wrung his hands “The press doesn’t need another scandal this week. That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Another scandal?”

  “That matter with the … the arrest?”

  Ronan sighed. “There was no arrest.”

  “Ah well, you know the American papers—big on their stories, not so big on their facts.”

  “It was nothing,” he said, wearily. It was too late to kill whoever had leaked that story. Maddux, no doubt.

  “Well, I saw it on the telly in the pub—they pulled you over with spirits on you. That’s not like you, son. But the speeding? That I can believe.” He grinned. “Occupational hazard, eh?”

  Ronan rubbed his forehead. God. This was all he needed.

  “I’ve a sponsor dinner now. Take a seat. I need to change. Be back in a moment.”

  Ronan closed the doors to his room, leaving his father perched on the couch in the sitting room in his ill-fitting suit.

  He went to the closet and pulled out his freshly pressed custom made Armani suit and shirt. He felt slightly ill as he did up the buttons. His fingers fumbled as they tied his blue tie, and it took twice as long as usual. His mind was blank with anger. Harry had taken the decision away from him as usual and just shown up on the worst possible night. It had been too much to hope that he’d just lay low in the British countryside after his release. No, he had to come charging across the channel, however the hell he managed to get past border controls, and shove his nose where it was least wanted.

  Tucking the phone in his jacket pocket, he flung open the doors to the suite.

  His father’s face lit up. “Son.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Look at you,” he whispered.

  Ronan took the straight-backed chair across from the old man.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To see you, of course.”

  The silence lengthened, becoming uncomfortable. Ronan shifted on the chair.

  Harry dabbed his eyes with the white square. “I’m just so proud.”

  The anger was dissipating now; chagrin and compassion were taking its place. The man had always believed in him. Even as a child. There’d been many moments when he’d uttered those words to a little boy. He was generous with praise when it was due.

  “I always knew you were capable of it. And I’m going to make you proud, too, son. I still have a few friends willing to back me.” He looked down, twisting the handkerchief. “That’s to say, as long as you’re behind me, they are.”

  Ronan’s spine straightened. “What?”

  “As long as you believe in me—”

  “Back you?”

  “Yes, these people understand my situation.”

  Ronan leaned forward. “What situation? You defrauded thousands of people.”

  “No, no, that’s where you’re wrong. I know you don’t understand the financials, the market. You see, I had the money invested, but the market turned.” The liver-spotted hands were strangling the white cloth.

  Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “I read the files, Harry, I read the court documents.”

  “Oh, yes, the court documents.” Harry shook his head. “They needed someone to blame when the pensioners lost money. But if the market hadn’t turned the way it did, well, they’d have made their investment and then some.”

  My God. He hadn’t changed a bit.

  “So, I have new clients, but, well, I don’t have much start-up capital. But with you behind me—”

  “So it’s my money, my name, you want to capitalize on now?”

  His father’s held tilted, his blue eyes intent. “I know Formula One has kept you from me. I know that my reputation—well, I understand F1 needed to keep up appearances. Especially after those pensioners went to the press. But, son, just being seen with you—”

  “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe you would come here—”

  “Who put you here?” Harry asked, tone deceptively soft. “Who put you in this suite, in that fancy suit?”

  “I put myself here, Harry.”

  His father shook his head. “You didn’t do it alone, did you? And I’m not asking for much.”

  “You’ll get nothing from me.” Ronan stood, hands clenched into fists by his side. “I’ve spent the past five years funneling money, trying to make amends to the people you stole from. I’ll be damned if I give you the chance to steal again.”

  Harry sprang forward in his seat. “You what?”

  Ronan took a few paces around the room, never moving his eyes off his father’s face. “One quarter of my income each year goes into a fund to pay restitution to the people you stole from.”

  In one shaky maneuver, his father stood, his face no longer pale. Instead, it was mottle
d with rage. “Those people? They took a gamble, and they lost, and you’ve been giving them money?”

  Ronan laughed, but it was bitter. “Yes. And you,” he strode to the door and opened it, “have overstayed your welcome.”

  “So holier-than-thou,” his father hissed from the threshold. “Such a saint of a son that I have,” he sneered. “When you’re as likely as me to be bending and twisting the rules.”

  Ronan recoiled.

  “At least that’s what they’re saying, my boy. Anything to win. You got that from me.” His father dropped his hand, releasing the door and backed away as Ronan stood. Frozen.

  He felt the blood drain from his face. Is this what he’d turned into? A man willing to do whatever it took? Risk his life and those of everyone else out there on the circuit for a shot at a win? When he’d already lost the one thing that mattered?

  Ronan all but pushed his father out the door. He walked to the bed, sat down, and pulled out his phone.

  • • •

  “Then you need to find yourself another driver,” Ronan said, calmly.

  “What? Have you lost your bloody mind? The race is tomorrow!” Martin sputtered.

  “Right. And if you don’t take out that hybrid technology and put in the authorized one, you’ll be needing to replace me for the race.”

  Martin smiled slyly. “You won’t do it.”

  Ronan’s blood pounded in his ears, but he kept his face expressionless. “Watch me.”

  He turned on his heel. Good thing he hadn’t already suited up for the practice. It was out of his hands now.

  Martin called after him. “Wait. Ronan.”

  He stopped in his tracks. The other man trotted up, red-faced and scowling. “Okay, we’ll change it out.”

  Ronan nodded.

  Martin moved closer and pointed at Ronan’s chest, his thin lips white with fury. “But know this, you’ll be looking for another ride next season—no matter what happens tomorrow.”

  “You better believe it,” Ronan said, standing his ground. “I take that risk out there. And why do I take it? Because I’ve faith in my ability to drive that car to its limits, yes. But also because I’ve one hundred percent faith in that team you’ve assembled. I’ve chosen this life and these risks. Call me arrogant, fine. I’m arrogant. It takes arrogance to get out there and risk your life, health, and safety for a race. But it’s not just me out there. This is no test track. No driver would,” he amended, “no driver should take those kinds of risks—knowing the modification isn’t ready. When the car is telling me that there are problems, I choose to listen.”