Fueled (Driven, #2)(46)

I nod in acknowledgement and all I can manage is a stilted, “Bye,” as my head is in a whirlwind of chaos over her unexpected revelations.





The scream wakes me in the dead night. It’s a strangled, feral plea that goes on and on, over and over before I can even get out of the bedroom door. I race through the house toward the sound of unfettered terror, Dane and Avery right behind me, our footsteps pounding with urgency.

“Moooooommmmm!” Zander screams. I bolt through the door of his room as the soul shattering sound ricochets against the bedroom walls. He thrashes violently in his bed. “Nooooo! Noooo!”

I hear Shane’s panicked voice in the hallway, trying to help Dane settle down the little guys who have woken up and are now frightened. The thought flits through my mind on how sad it is that night terrors are such a regular visitor in this house that Shane’s no longer phased by them. But I focus solely on Zander now, knowing that Dane will take care of Shane and the rest of the boys. I hear Dane tell Avery to help me if I need it. Welcome to your first night at The House, Avery.

I cautiously sit on Zander’s bed. His body twists and writhes beneath the sheet, his face wet from tears, his bedding damp with sweat, and fearful whimpers escape from deep in his throat. The unmistakable smell of his terrifying fear suffocates the small room.

“Zander, baby,” I croon, careful to not raise my voice and add to the violence already haunting his nightmare. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” His crying doesn’t stop. I reach out to try and shake him awake and am taken aback when he thrashes ferociously, his fist connecting with my cheekbone. The pain registers just beneath my eye, but I shake it off, needing to rouse Zander to prevent him from hurting himself.

“Daddy, no!” he whimpers with such heartbreak that tears spring to my eyes. And despite it being a dream that cannot be used legally, Zander just confirmed the suspicion that his father killed his mother. Right before his eyes.

I struggle to wrap my arms around him. Despite his small size, the strength he has from the adrenaline induced terror is heightened. I manage to wrestle my arms around him and pull him into my chest, murmuring to him all the while. Letting him know I’m here and that I’m not going to hurt him. “Zander, it’s okay. C’mon, Zand, wake up,” I whisper over and over to him until he wakes with a start. He struggles to sit up and get out of my grip, searching the bedroom with hollow eyes to orient himself to his surroundings.

“Momma?” he croaks in such desperation that my heart shatters in a million pieces.

“It’s okay, I’m right here, buddy,” I soothe, rubbing my hand up and down his back softly.

He looks at me, eyes red and raw from crying and falls into my arms. He clings to me with such despair that I know I’d do anything to erase his memory of that night if given the chance. “I want my mommy,” he cries, repeating it over and over. It’s the first sentence I have ever heard him say and yet there is nothing to be excited about. There is nothing to encourage or celebrate.

We stay huddled together, arms wrapped tight for the longest time until his even breathing convinces me that he’s fallen back asleep. I slowly shift him to lie down on the bed, but when I attempt to withdraw my arms from around him, he clings even tighter.

It’s not until the sun’s rays peek through the closed mini-blinds that we both fall into a deep sleep.





The shudder of the motor vibrates through my body as I flick the paddle coming into turn four. Fuck. Something doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. I ease up more than necessary as I cross over and into the apron coming out of the turn.

“What’s going on?” Becks’ disembodied voice fills my ears.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I grate out as I bring the car back up to speed to try and decipher what she’s telling me. Every shudder. Every sound. Each jolt of my body. My attention straining to try and pinpoint what feels off—something to substantiate why she doesn’t seem to be handling how she should. I can’t figure out what I’m missing, what I might be overlooking that could cost us a race.

Or put me headfirst into the wall.

My head pounds with stress and concentration. I pass the start/finish line, the grandstands to my right one big stretch of mixed colors. The blur I live my life in.

“Is—”

“How much preload in the differential?” I demand as I hit another paddle heading into turn one. The rear of the car starts to slide as I press the gas coming out of it, accelerating the car up to top speed. My body automatically shifts to compensate for the pressure imposed on it by the force and angle of the track’s bank. “Possibly the clutch plate? The ass end is sliding all over the place,” I tell him as I fight to get the car back under control on the chute before heading into turn two.

“That’s not poss—”

“You driving the f*cking car now, Becks?” I bark into the mic, my hands gripping the wheel in frustration. Beckett obviously reads my mood, because he goes radio silent. My mind flickers to the nightmares that plagued my sleep last night. Of not being able to talk to Rylee this morning when I called. Of needing to hear her voice to help clear the remnants from my mind.

Goddamnit, Donavan, get your head on the track. Irritation—at myself, at Beckett, at the f*cking car—has me pushing the pedal down harder than I should down the back straightaway. My f*cked up attempt at using adrenaline to drown out my head.