Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I never get nervous.
Except, apparently, when I’m racing in my hometown.
“This town is fun. And beautiful. A little cold for being on the beach, but there are some good-looking women here, Wolfe.”
“The race starts in thirty,” I remind him. “Stop ogling the women and focus. You can ogle tonight.”
“Oh, I plan to. There’s a blonde who’s caught my eye. Hopefully, she shows up later.”
“Hopefully, she isn’t married like that chick in Daytona.”
I give my friend the side-eye, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, well, that wasn’t entirely my fault. She didn’t say she was married. Wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“Might be something you want to ask before you get them naked,” I suggest as we approach the car. “Now, let’s work on winning this race before we shift focus to other activities, shall we?”
“Of course, you’re going to win,” Zeke points out. “This is a dirt track. You’re a stock car champion. These guys all do this as a hobby, and you’ve won more cups than I can count on two hands.”
“Thanks for reciting my resume.”
“You’ve got this in the bag. It’s all to show off for your hometown and raise some money,” he says with an arrogant grin. “But I’m not complaining. We needed some R&R.”
“And we can start that after we finish this.”
Twenty-six minutes later, after the national anthem’s been sung and I’ve waved to the crowd some more, we’re ready to go.
Ten laps in, the car is warming up nicely, and I’m pumped full of adrenaline and in the lead. Someone pulls up beside me on the straightaway and tries to cut me off, drifting around the corner. But they’re too close. Way too damn close.
“Back off,” I mutter, eyeing the other car in my mirror as I grip the wheel harder. “You’re going to kill us, asshole.”
The next thing I know, they’ve clipped my bumper with theirs, and I’m spinning, then rolling—at almost a hundred miles an hour. I see the wall coming for me.
And then I don’t see anything at all.
“You’ve only been in therapy for a few weeks,” my doctor, Amaryllis Lovejoy—who was also my senior prom date—says with a scowl. “You have a lot of work to do, Wolfe.”
“I’m not leaving town,” I reply in resignation as I tie my shoes. My head is pounding again. The migraines are the worst part of what’s left over from the accident, even worse than the leg injury. I feel like I’m in a tunnel with someone pounding a sledgehammer on the top of my head, and I can’t hear or see well. “But coming in every day is a waste of time. I’m walking fine.”
I may be able to walk, but the career I built over the course of fifteen years is over. Just like that, in the literal blink of an eye, it’s all gone.
“I’d like for you to come in three times a week.”
“The leg is healed,” I reply impatiently. “I don’t even walk with a limp anymore, and you said yourself that that’s impressive, given the accident was only a month ago. The bruises are faded, and there’s nothing you can do for the headaches.”
She frowns and then sighs, lifting a shoulder in resignation. “What are you going to do, Wolfe?”
“I’ll figure it out.” If my head would stop pounding long enough for me to think straight.
“I want to see you in a week,” she says sternly. “If the leg starts to give you any issues, we’ll need to work on more therapy.”
“Okay.” I sigh and set my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jerk. Thanks for everything, Amy.”
I want a dark room and some ice. And I don’t want to be in a damn hospital every day anymore. Sure, it’s outpatient, but it’s still a pain in my ass.
And now that we know the therapy won’t put me in the cockpit of a race car ever again, I’m over it.
I don’t know what comes next, but it’s time to figure it out.
“This house is fucking falling apart,” I mutter, and with my hand on my hip, stare at the cabinet door that just fell off in the kitchen.
I opened it to get a coffee mug, and the whole thing just came off in my hand.
I lean the old, out-of-date oak door against the bottom cabinets, make my coffee in a different thermal mug, and set off for outside.
It’s summer in Huckleberry Bay, but it’s a nice sixty degrees this morning even with the sun high in the sky. The air is heavy with salt from the ocean, and if I have to take a walk to exercise this leg, I’d rather do it outside than on a damn treadmill in a hospital.
Besides, I’ve found the less time I spend in my parents’ house, which is crumbling around me, the better.