Fueled (Driven, #2)(47)

I know Becks is probably beside himself right now, thinking I’m gonna burn her up. Trash all the time and precision we’ve dialed into the engine. I’m nearing turn three and a part of me wishes there was no turn. Just a straight stretch of road where I could keep going, drop the hammer, race the wind, and outrun the shit in my head—the fear squeezing at my heart.

Chase the possibilities just beyond the reach of my fingertips.

But there isn’t one. Just another f*cking turn. Hamster on a goddamn wheel.

I come into the turn too hot, my head too f*cked up to be on the track. I have to consciously remember to try and not over-correct as the ass end gets too loose on me and slides to the right, drifting too high. A shiver of fear dances at the base of my spine for that split second when I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull the car out in time to avoid kissing the barrier.

Beckett swears on the radio as I narrowly escape, and I shout out one of my own. The only way to voice the high of fear that just jolted through my system. Adrenaline, my momentary drug of choice, reigns until the realization of my stupidity will take over in the moments to come. It always takes a few seconds to hit.

Fuck me. I’m done. I shouldn’t be in the car right now. It’s stupid of me to be here when my head’s not right. I ease into turn four, decelerating when I hit pit row and stop where my crew stands behind the firewall. I silence the engine and blow out a loud breath. They all just stand there, no one stepping over, as I unbuckle my helmet and detach the steering wheel. I pull up on my helmet and it’s yanked from my hands.

“You trying to kill yourself out there?” Beckett shouts at me as I remove my balaclava and ear buds. Now I know why the crew stayed behind the wall. They’re used to the volatility and brutal honesty between Becks and me. They know when to stay clear. “Then do it on your own goddamn time. Not under my watch!” He’s pissed and has every right to be, but f*ck all if I’m telling him that.

I just stare at him, a slight smirk turning up the corners of my mouth at my oldest friend. My attempt at provoking him so that he doesn’t notice the trembling of my hands. A surefire way for him to know I scared the shit out of myself as well and add fuel to his own fire. What the hell was I thinking getting in the car with a f*cked up frame of mind? He just glares at me, jaw clenched and shoulders square before shaking his head, turning his back to me, and walking away.

The minute Becks turns the corner, my crew clears the wall and begins doing their various jobs as I climb out. I’m glad they steer clear of me, all obviously accustomed to my moodiness by now when testing goes to shit.

I scrub my hand over my face and through my sweat-soaked hair. I head the same way as Becks, knowing he’s had enough time to calm down so that we can talk. Maybe. Fuck. I don’t know. When things are off between the two of us, the rest of the team feels it. I can’t have that coming into a new season.

I follow him to the RV and climb up the steps. He’s sitting in the recliner across from the door, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He just looks at me and shakes his head, causing a twinge of guilt to hit me for taking years off of his life with my careless stunt.

“What the f*ck was that?” he asks in an all too quiet voice—the voice of a disappointed parent to their child.

I unzip my suit to the waist and let the sleeves hang, before peeling off my shirt and falling back onto the couch. I close my eyes, swiveling so that my head rests on one armrest and my feet on the opposing one. I am so tired. I need sleep that’s not filled with all the f*cked up dreams that’ve been coming repeatedly since that morning with Rylee. I’m a f*cking mess. Can’t think straight. Obviously can’t drive worth a shit. “I don’t know, Becks,” I sigh out. “My head wasn’t in the right place. I shouldn’t have—“

“You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have,” he yells at me. “That was a stupid f*cking stunt, and if you ever pull one like that again—get in the car when you’re head’s not straight—you can find yourself another goddamn crew chief.” The squeak of the chair tells me he’s just unfolded himself and stood. The motor home rocks with his movement and the door slams shut as he leaves.

I keep my eyes closed, sinking into the lumpy ass couch, just wanting to forget, wanting to talk to Rylee but knowing that she’s probably sleeping herself after the events of her night.

I don’t know why I got so panicked this morning when I couldn’t reach her. My mind immediately veered to thoughts of her in an accident. Trapped in a mangled f*cking car somewhere. Alone and scared. My chest tightened at the thought until I got a hold of Haddie who gave me the number to The House’s landline. I felt better—and worse—after speaking to Jackson about the chaos of Zander’s nightmare.

Poor f*cking kid. Nightmares can be so f*cking brutal. Cause such a setback and f*ck with your memories even more. Make them worse. Make you relive them in the worst possible way. Remember things you shouldn’t. Otherwise wouldn’t. Don’t ever want to. But at least he had Rylee to comfort him, stay with him, and keep the demons at bay with her soft voice and reassuring touch.

Exactly what I needed from her last night. What I still need from her today.

I sigh at the thought of her, wanting her in the worst way...in the best way. I laugh out loud at myself in the vacant RV. I can’t figure out what I want more, a dreamless sleep or to hear Rylee’s voice.