Page 48 of Aced (Driven 4)
We barrel into turn three as the two outside cars fall off. It’s Stewart and me, nose to nose, coming into the track’s final turn.
And the final stretch to clinch the win.
I slingshot out of the turn and give her all she’s got: throw the car into the red and pray it pays off. I can’t tell who’s ahead, our noses seem even, our cars testing the barriers of machine’s ability against man’s will.
C’mon, one three. C’mon, baby.
The checkered flag waves one hundred yards out. Keep the car straight, Donavan. Out of the wall. Away from Stewart. Don’t touch. If we touch, it’s over for both of us.
“C’mon, Wood!” Becks shouts into the mic as the checkered flag waves and a whelp comes through the radio. I have no idea which one of us won. Split seconds pass that feel like hours.
“Goddamn right we won!” Becks yells. Elation soars through my tired body, reviving it, and bringing it back to life as I pump a fist in the air.
“Fuckin’ A straight!”
Victory lane. People and cameras are everywhere as I pull the car into it. Becks and the rest of the crew greet me. Funny thing is I’m still searching for the one face I want to see the most and know isn’t there.
And I don’t think I realized how much that would fuck with my head—how much it mattered she was there every race—but pulling into the checkered victory lane without seeing her feels a little less complete. She’s so much more than just my wife. She’s my goddamn everything.
And then I laugh when I look up as I take the pin out the wheel to see Becks standing there. “Motherfucking victory, Wood,” he says. He takes my helmet and balaclava, handing them off to someone else as he helps me stand from the car. My legs are wobbly and I’m hotter than fuck, but when my best friend pulls me in for a quick hug, it sets in that I’ve finally won the elusive title on this track I’ve been chasing for so damn long.
“Great job, brother,” I tell him as I grab a baseball hat Smitty hands me and put it on, body dead tired but fueled on the adrenaline of victory.
The next minutes pass in a blur: confetti raining down, speeches thanking sponsors, interviews, the cold Gatorade that has never tasted better, the spray of champagne onto the crew. I’m riding that high, so goddamn glad to have this monkey off my back in winning this race. I do my proper dog and pony show, thank the sponsors, talk well of the competitors, thank the fans, but all I really want to do is get back to the pits, call Ry, take a shower, and sit back with Becks and have a stiff drink before facing more media circus.
Interview number five finished. I roll my shoulders, take a sip of Gatorade, and prepare myself to answer the same questions again for the next in line.
But when I look up and see the look on my dad’s face, the next in line is forgotten. The victory not so sweet. My heart leaps in my throat. My mind spins. My feet move on autopilot as I make my way to him.
“Dad,” I say. The dread and worry in my tone match the expression on his face.
“It’s Rylee.”
I’M LOST TO DREAMS.
To darkness and warmth and a little girl with cherubic curls and a heart-shaped mouth. To her pudgy hand holding my pinky on my left hand. My eyes are mesmerized by her as she giggles, the sound warming my soul, filling my heart, and making them ache all at the same time.
There’s a tug on my right hand that startles me. I’m so transfixed on my lost baby girl I never realized someone else was beside me. I look down to the top of a dark head of hair just as he looks up to me. I’m greeted with a row of freckles, a lopsided grin, and green eyes that look so familiar.
“Are you lost?”
“Nope,” he says as he swings our joined hands back and forth some, a dimple flashing as his grin widens. “Not anymore.”
Arms slip around my waist. The welcome warmth of a body pulling me from the dream I already can’t remember. I snuggle into him, the scent of my husband unmistakable—a mixture of soap and cologne—and a calm falls back over me.
Then I hear the monitor beep, the whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filling the room, and I’m shocked awake to the here and now. I’m in a hospital bed being monitored rather than in the comfort of our home.
“It’s just me,” he murmurs into the back of my head. My hair heats from his breath as he pulls me tighter against him. Our bodies spoon and our hearts beat against each other’s in a lazy rhythm.
“You’re here,” I say, voice groggy.
“Special delivery,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “All the way from victory lane.”
“Congratulations. I’m so proud of you and so sorry you had to leave your celebration.” All those years chasing the win at the Grand Prix and of course, because of me, the one time he does, he doesn’t get to revel in the glory of it all.
“Hmm.” He presses another kiss to my head as his fingers lace with mine. “I’d rather be here. It wasn’t the same without you. I missed you, Ryles.”
How easy it is for him to make me smile and chase away the fear.
