I hear the light switch, bathing the dark room in light.
He’s lying face down, with his arm shoved under the pillow along with the IV cables. And still, he looks so masculine, making the bed seem small and stark white compared to that sexy dark hair of his. Those sexy muscles and tanned skin.
“Racer,” his dad says bluntly.
Racer seems exasperated as he turns his head towards the door very slowly, as if he doesn’t want to, and his eyes see me, and he freezes.
His eyes fix on his father, and his voice is craggy and dark. “I told you I didn’t want her here.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want.”
I hear his dad step out, and I swallow.
Racer clenches his jaw and drops his face back down, and I see his chest expand on a deep inhale. The usual hum around him is down. I don’t know why it affects me so much. I’m used to seeing him in charge, confident and strong, so determined—the most determined man I know.
I lift the sheets and climb in bed with him.
I can see him trying to be distant as he rolls to his back as if to make room for me, but his arm comes around me as if instinctively.
I hold my breath, expecting him to say something when I curl at his side.
He doesn’t.
He won’t look me in the eye.
I touch his face. He inhales deeply, still not looking at me. I reach my fingers up his forearms, and they’re so hard, hard as the rest of him. Drivers have very well developed arms, necks, chests, and abs—but the forearms and necks are especially strong. Racer’s are the strongest I’ve ever seen, more ripped than anyone I know.
I silently cry as I feel him stiff next to me. He doesn’t belong here. This guy belongs at the top of the podium, behind the wheel of a car, in a woman’s bed, in every fantasy, but not here.
“Don’t shut me out,” I beg.
I stroke his jaw quietly, and Racer shuts his eyes. He just shuts his eyes. His jaw so tight that a muscle works wildly in the back of it. I can’t help but want to touch him more, crave to kiss him and tell him what I wanted to tell him since so long. What I’ve been so scared to admit.
But he looks like he’s battling something in silence—as if he doesn’t know if he wants me here or not.
“Let me take care of you,” I whisper.
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, and keeps his eyes closed.
The words sting, but he’d warned me that he’d say shit to hurt me, and even this—the worst moment I’ve had with him—is better than not being with him.
He remains with his jaw clenched, his arm around me. I set a kiss on his jaw. His hand tightens and he shuts his eyes tighter.
I run my fingers over his jaw.
Silent.
My phone is buzzing like crazy. I check the message and it’s Drake.
We’re gonna start looking for replacement drivers what the fuck is going on.
I look at him—and I realize he’s more important than my dream, than my dad’s dream and my brothers’ dream. Than anything.
I text back, Start looking for a replacement.
And shut my phone off.
I see he opened his eyes and was eyeing my profile.
I look back at him “You’ll be well soon and driving your car, heading off somewhere, you and I. I’ll play some music on your stereo … we can play some now.”
He just looks at me in silence as I search for one.
“Have you heard this one?” I show him Favorite Record and smile teasingly.
He drinks me in for a long, achingly wild heartbeat, and I smile at him wider, but my smile trembles on my face when he says nothing.
Nothing at all.
His eyes scan me quietly, his expression intense and fierce as I slide one earbud into his ear and play the music. I don’t know why this song is the one I play, but I want him to remember the good times, I want to take him to a place away from here. Away where he’s just … himself. So Fall Out Boy is singing and even with the upbeat song, the memories of being anywhere else with him but here make my chest hurt. I just desperately want my boy back.
Racer
I’m in fucking hell.
Trying to cheer me up, sweetly and innocently. Smiling at me, trying her damn best to get me out of the dark. She looks fucking incredible. Like a wet dream. The only thing worth looking at in this shitty room. The moonlight touches her skin and she looks like a damn angel, an angel sent for me.
A wave of despair punches me in the gut when I think of how she stood there, looking at me in this damn bed. Helpless and fucked up. Fuck.
I could hardly look her in the eye.
Too fucking afraid that what I saw there would finish breaking me.
She looked at me at the door and I almost glanced backward to see who she was staring at with all that concern in her eyes.
She was looking at me.
My girl was looking at me.
All fucked up as bad as I can be.
And Lana Heyworth the girl I love was staring straight at me with a look no woman has ever given me before.
Yeah because I just don’t deserve her. I just don’t think I deserve her at all.
Why does it feel like she was fucking made for me, if I was made wrong for her? I was made so fucking wrong I can’t even keep my shit straight.
I want to rip my fucking heart out because I hurt her.
I said I didn’t need her.
It gutted me to say it.
To know it cut her deep and that I did it because I’m too proud to admit that I do. Because I’m too proud to want her to see me like this.
I didn’t say more, was afraid to say more.
I look at her now, in my arms, her eyes closed as the music playing stopped and the only sounds are her even breathing and the beeping of the IV monitor.