Crashed(book three)(103)

I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me and know it must be Becks. Before I even have a chance to say anything to him, the sound of the car’s motor eases, and we both look toward it at the end of the vacant pit row. After a moment, the engine’s rumble revs again and the car moves slowly onto the track.

Beckett looks over to me quickly and hands me a headset. The look in his eyes tells me that he’s just as on edge and uneasy about this as I am, and a small part of me is relieved by this. He leans in close before I situate the headphones on my ears and says, “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

I just nod at him, eyes telling him thank you, lips telling him, “I think that’s for the best.”

He motions toward a chair at the front of the tower, but I just shake my head resolutely. There is no way in hell I can sit down right now. Nervous energy assaults my senses, and I shift back and forth on my feet while my soul remains anchored solid from my fear.

The engine purrs gently into the back end of turn one, and I twist so my eyes can track Colton, although I want to scream for him to stop, to get out, to come back to me. The car starts to accelerate into turn two.

“That’s it, Wood. Nice and easy,” Becks says to him in a gentle coaxing voice. All I hear on the open mic is the cadence of the engine and Colton’s harsh breathing, but no response from him. I bite my lip and glance over at Beckett, not liking the fact that he’s not speaking. I can only imagine what is running through Colton’s head.

“Goddammit, Becks!” It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in over a week and the sound in it—the fear woven through the anger—has me holding tight onto the ear pieces. “This car is shit! I thought you checked everything. It’s—”

“Nothing’s wrong with the car, Colton.” The evenness of Becks’ voice comes through loud and clear, and Beckett glances over to another crew member and subtly shakes his head no at something.

“Bullshit! It’s shuddering like a bitch and is gonna come apart once I open her up.” The vibration that’s normally in his voice from the force of the motor isn’t there, he’s not even going fast enough out of turn two to affect him.

“It’s a new car. I checked every inch of it.”

“You don’t know what the f*ck you’re talking about, Beckett! Goddammit!” he yells out into the car as it comes to a stop on the backstretch between turns two and three, frustration resonating over the radio.

“It’s a different car. No one’s on the track to hit you. Just take it nice and easy.”

There is no response. Nothing but the distant hum of an idling motor that I’m sure will die soon and then they’ll need to get a crank start out on the track to get it going again. More time for Colton to sit and think and remember and relive the crash that is incapacitating him.

And as time stretches, my concern for the man I love has my own anxiety escalating. Even though we’re all here supporting him, I know he’s over there feeling all alone, isolated in a metal casket on wheels. My heart lodges in my throat as the panic and helplessness I feel starts to strangle me.

Beckett paces back and forth, his hands shoving through his hair, uncertain how to coax his best friend off of the ledge when he’s not listening already. I shift again—Colton’s ragged breathing the only sound on the radio—and I can’t take it anymore.

I walk up to Beckett. “Get everyone off the radios.” He look at me and tries to figure out what I’m doing. “Get them off,” I say, desperation tingeing the urgency in my request.