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Fueled (Driven #2) Page 45
Author: K. Bromberg

“Zander, baby,” I croon, careful to not raise my voice and add to the violence already haunting his nightmare. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” His crying doesn’t stop. I reach out to try and shake him awake and am taken aback when he thrashes ferociously, his fist connecting with my cheekbone. The pain registers just beneath my eye, but I shake it off, needing to rouse Zander to prevent him from hurting himself.

“Daddy, no!” he whimpers with such heartbreak that tears spring to my eyes. And despite it being a dream that cannot be used legally, Zander just confirmed the suspicion that his father killed his mother. Right before his eyes.

I struggle to wrap my arms around him. Despite his small size, the strength he has from the adrenaline induced terror is heightened. I manage to wrestle my arms around him and pull him into my chest, murmuring to him all the while. Letting him know I’m here and that I’m not going to hurt him. “Zander, it’s okay. C’mon, Zand, wake up,” I whisper over and over to him until he wakes with a start. He struggles to sit up and get out of my grip, searching the bedroom with hollow eyes to orient himself to his surroundings.

“Momma?” he croaks in such desperation that my heart shatters in a million pieces.

“It’s okay, I’m right here, buddy,” I soothe, rubbing my hand up and down his back softly.

He looks at me, eyes red and raw from crying and falls into my arms. He clings to me with such despair that I know I’d do anything to erase his memory of that night if given the chance. “I want my mommy,” he cries, repeating it over and over. It’s the first sentence I have ever heard him say and yet there is nothing to be excited about. There is nothing to encourage or celebrate.

We stay huddled together, arms wrapped tight for the longest time until his even breathing convinces me that he’s fallen back asleep. I slowly shift him to lie down on the bed, but when I attempt to withdraw my arms from around him, he clings even tighter.

It’s not until the sun’s rays peek through the closed mini-blinds that we both fall into a deep sleep.

The shudder of the motor vibrates through my body as I flick the paddle coming into turn four. Fuck. Something doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. I ease up more than necessary as I cross over and into the apron coming out of the turn.

“What’s going on?” Becks’ disembodied voice fills my ears.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I grate out as I bring the car back up to speed to try and decipher what she’s telling me. Every shudder. Every sound. Each jolt of my body. My attention straining to try and pinpoint what feels off—something to substantiate why she doesn’t seem to be handling how she should. I can’t figure out what I’m missing, what I might be overlooking that could cost us a race.

Or put me headfirst into the wall.

My head pounds with stress and concentration. I pass the start/finish line, the grandstands to my right one big stretch of mixed colors. The blur I live my life in.

“Is—”

“How much preload in the differential?” I demand as I hit another paddle heading into turn one. The rear of the car starts to slide as I press the gas coming out of it, accelerating the car up to top speed. My body automatically shifts to compensate for the pressure imposed on it by the force and angle of the track’s bank. “Possibly the clutch plate? The ass end is sliding all over the place,” I tell him as I fight to get the car back under control on the chute before heading into turn two.

“That’s not poss—”

“You driving the fucking car now, Becks?” I bark into the mic, my hands gripping the wheel in frustration. Beckett obviously reads my mood, because he goes radio silent. My mind flickers to the nightmares that plagued my sleep last night. Of not being able to talk to Rylee this morning when I called. Of needing to hear her voice to help clear the remnants from my mind.

Goddamnit, Donavan, get your head on the track. Irritation—at myself, at Beckett, at the fucking car—has me pushing the pedal down harder than I should down the back straightaway. My fucked up attempt at using adrenaline to drown out my head.

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 fucking turn. Hamster on a goddamn wheel.

I come into the turn too hot, my head too fucked 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.

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K. Bromberg's Novels
» Sweet Ache (Driven #7)
» Aced (Driven #5)
» Raced (Driven #4)
» Crashed (Driven #3)
» Fueled (Driven #2)
» Driven (Driven #1)
» Hard Beat (Driven #8)