Crashed(book three)(186)

He smirks before pressing a toe-tingling kiss to my lips and says, “Checkered flag time, baby.”

“Checkered flag time,” I repeat.

“See you in victory lane,” he says with a wink before turning and walking back toward a crew standing motionless, waiting for their driver.

I watch them help him slide his helmet on, mesmerized with both love and fear, and then allow Davis to lead me up the stairs to the pit box so I can watch from an elevated level. I place the headset on as I look down over the sill and watch them fasten Colton’s HANS device, yank on his harnesses, and tighten the steering wheel down.

“Radio check, Wood.” The disembodied voice of Colton’s spotter fills my ears, startling me. “Check one, two. Check one, two.”

There’s silence for a moment and I look down as if I’d be able to actually see him through his helmet and the surrounding crew.

The spotter tries again. “Check one, two.”

“Check, A, B, C.” Colton’s voice comes through loud and clear.

“Wood?” The spotter calls back, confusion in his voice. “You okay?”

“Never better,” he laughs. “Just giving a shout out to the alphabet.”

And the nerves eating at me dissipate immediately.

“The alphabet?”

“Yep. A to motherf*cking Z.”



Quinlan grips my hand as I look up at the ticker on the top of the screen counting down the laps left to go.

Ten.

Ten laps to go through the gamut of emotions—nervous, excited, frantic, hopeful, enamored—just like I have the past two hundred and thirty eight laps. I’ve stood, I’ve sat, I’ve paced, I’ve yelled, I’ve prayed, and have had to remind myself to breathe.

“He’s gonna pull it off,” Quinlan murmurs beside me as she squeezes my hand a little tighter and while I agree with her—that Colton is going to win his comeback race in a flurry of glory—I won’t say it aloud, too afraid to jinx the outcome.

I look down below to where Becks is talking furtively with another crew member, their heads so close they’re almost touching as they scribble on a piece of paper. And I don’t know much about racing, but I know enough that they’re worried their fuel calculations are so slim in margin that Colton may literally be running on fumes on the final lap.

I watch as the lap number gets lower, my pulse racing and heart hoping as it hits five. “You’ve got Mason coming up hard and fast on the high side,” the spotter says, anxiety lacing his usually stoic voice.

“Ten-four,” is all that Colton says in response, concentration resonating in his voice.

“He’s going for it!” the spotter shouts.

I glance at the monitor in front of me to see a close up version of what I’m seeing on the track, and my body tenses in anticipation as they fly into turn three, masses of metal competing at ungodly speeds. I swear that everyone leans forward from their position in the booth to get a closer look. I fist my hands and rise up on my toes as if that will help me see more, quickly pushing my prayers out to Colton as Mason challenges him for the lead.

I hear the crowd the same time my eyes avert back to the monitor, just in time to see rear tires touching together, Mason overcorrecting and slamming into the wall on the right of him, while Colton’s car swerves erratically on the bank of asphalt from the force of their connection.

Everyone in the box is on their feet instantly, the same sound, different track, wreaks havoc on our nerves. My hands are covering my mouth, and I’m leaning out of the open-windowed booth to see the track.