Redeemed (Dirty Air #4)(81)

It’s as if this girl knows exactly what to do without ever having to ask me. I’m definitely falling for her, and instead of fearing it, I accept it wholeheartedly.

I only hope she feels the same way. If how she kisses me is any indication, I might be safe.

She pulls away from my hold. “That’s it. No more kissing until after.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Chloe smiles over her shoulder as she opens the door. The buzz from the garage echoes through the small space.

Damn. Chloe didn’t just steal a piece of my heart. She carved her initials into it, branding me for life.





Entering the car, while awkward without my prosthetic, is easy. While I hate needing help, my safety is more important. My doctor recommended against driving with my prosthetic just in case another accident happens. It would become more of a liability than a help in that kind of circumstance, and more risk than it’s worth.

Even the mechanics pulling me up to the checkered line and James prepping me over the team radio goes without a hitch. But pushing my mind to its breaking point in order to move past my trauma? Now that is hard as fuck.

The engine purrs behind my back, reminding me of old race day sensations I blocked from my mind. Before, memories of the past brought me pain, and pain caused depression. But now, with me sitting in the race car, everything feels real again.

There’s a power about being behind the wheel. A mix of adrenaline and a God complex, intertwined to create athletes who test their limits each and every day.

I want to be that guy again. I want to be that guy so damn badly, I’m willing to work through the bad memories and stress to get there. Because in the end, broken champions don’t make history.

I look forward and focus on the road. The car rattles, and I’m sucked into a vortex. Images flood my brain. Tires squeal, and I rush to press my hands on my helmet. Something shudders against my back before metal scrapes. The humidity clings to my race suit, making my breathing heavy. Paved roads in front of me fade into rain-slick pavement.

Fuck. Not another flashback. I grab onto my stump and grind my teeth together. The motion grounds me, bringing me back to the present. Reminding me who and where I am.

This isn’t the same track. This isn’t that day. Breathe.

“Are you ready, Santi?” James speaks into the radio embedded in my ear.

I take a few deep breaths, regulating my heart rate. “About as ready as one can be after everything.”

“Remember what I told you. No one is expecting you to be an all-star on day one. It took Noah months before he could get a handle on the wheel, and you know how much of a perfectionist he is.”

I doubt it took Noah that long to master these controls, but I appreciate James’s comment nonetheless. “Let’s do this.” I tighten my fists around the grips of the steering wheel.

The crew steps away from the car. I mess with the toggles, familiarizing myself with the feel of them in my hands.

“Start with the throttle. Take it easy and test it out. It’s just like the sim lab.”

I lightly pull on the throttle. The engine purrs behind my back, rumbling as the car pushes forward faster than anticipated. Before I lose control, I smash the brake pedal with my left foot. My body jolts and my helmet smacks into the headrest. Tires squeal in submission and metal shudders around me as the car halts its movement.

“I said take it easy. That is not easy!” James laughs into the mic.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Sorry, you reminded me of Marko trying out his first kart in the pit lane.”

“Seriously, you’re comparing my driving to my four-year-old nephew? Way to build my confidence.”

James chuckles. “Okay, let’s try that again. You just need to get a feel for the throttle paddle and trust your gut. The brakes are the same as the old left foot pedal.”

“Okay, I got this,” I whisper to myself.

I try the same motion, this time giving my car the ability to make it down the straight before hitting the brakes again. It’s a slow start, but the wind rushing over the front wing has me smiling beneath my helmet.

“Much better! See, that’s what I mean by easy. You’re a natural out there,” James offers.

I stare at the first corner, wondering how I can manipulate the wheel, the throttle, and the brake at once. Worried thoughts eat away at my budding confidence.

“Now this is where things get tricky. You’re going to have to turn the wheel at the same time as you release the throttle, while monitoring the brake pedal beneath your foot. It’s all mental.”

I go through the motions in my head, attempting to commit the move to muscle memory. It’s not easy. Sweat drenches my back as I struggle to control the brake pedal and the throttle paddle simultaneously.

I tug on the throttle paddle, forcing the car to speed through the turn rather than slow down. My sneaker slams against the brake and my car spins. Tires shriek as the car halts.

Shit. Something in the car sputters as the steering wheel’s lights flash before going out.

“Battery is dead. Good try with the turn. You’ll get a handle on it eventually.” James speaks with such sincerity.

All I can do is scowl at the wheel. The Bandini crew comes to secure my car and push me back toward the garage. I stew in my toxicity, allowing it to cloak the post-driving glow.