Aced

FUCKIN’ BECKETT.

He knows just how to push my buttons. Get me where I need to be. Even if it takes a few fibs as he calls them. More like bald-faced lies.

But who’s the fool? I fell for them. I’m right where he wants me. On the track. In the car and just hitting my stride on my thirtieth lap after some new adjustments.

God, I needed this. Everything about it: the routine, the camaraderie with the crew, the vibration of the car all around me, the control and response when everything else has felt so chaotic.

The freedom.

I shift, coming into turn one. Let my car own the track since I’m alone on it, getting a feel if the last adjustment was right or wrong.

“Wood?” No other words need to be said to know what he’s asking me.

“Feels good. Ass end’s not sliding as I come outta the bank.” I take a sip of water from the tube. It’s piss-warm. Fuck.

“Okay. Open her up then for a few laps once you hit the line. Push to pass. Let me see what the gauges say when we do that.”

“Open her up? You get some last night, Daniels? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say those words.” Hands grip the wheel, body braced for the force as I come out of turn four toward the start/finish line.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckles. That’s an affirmative on getting laid. “Let’s see what she can do.”

I drop the hammer. Race the motherfucking wind. Let the vibration of the car and the fight of the wheel own my mind and body: escape from the worry about Rylee—the constant responsibility of Ace, the everything that feels like it has been on my shoulders—and just be.

The car and me. Machine and man. Speed against skill. Chaos versus control.

Each lap peels away the world around me a little bit more. Pulls me into the blur. Lets me become a part of the car, hear each rattle, feel every vibration, and listen to what she’s saying to me.

If she’s going to be a whore or a wife for the next race: let me use her, abuse her until I get mine at the start/finish line, or if I need to praise her, stroke her with foreplay, and hope she gets off by the time the checkered flag is waved.

“Gauges are looking good. How’s she feel?”

“A good mix.” He knows I mean she’s a little bit of both—whore and wife—the perfect mix to win a race.

“We need a little more whore for the next race. Push her harder. See if she sucks or swallows.”

I laugh into the open mic as I head into turn three. Routine entry, down shift, gaze drops down to the gauges one last time before the track and car own them with the concentration the turn takes.

The ass end slides high, fishtails at the topside of the curve. Rubber tires hit a rash of pellets. I hydroplane across them, slick tires over balls of rubber.

FUCK!

Split seconds of time. Increments of thoughts. Routine of movements.

The nose end turn turns high. Arms tense fighting the wheel. A flash of concrete wall.

Ace. An image of him flashes before my eyes. A slideshow of frames. His cry is in the whine of the engine.

Releasing the wheel. Crossing my arms so I can hold onto the harness.

Ryles. Soft smile. Big heart. Incredible strength. Just when she’s coming back to me.

Shoulders shoving into the seat. The car spins. Nosecone hits the wall. Metal sparking as it shreds.

“Wood!”

Spinning. Hands grip seatbelts tight. Waiting for the second impact.

Nothing.

C’mon. C’mon. C’mon

Spinning.

Slipping down the track.

Spinning.

Grass flying as I hit the infield.

Coming to a stop.

Taking a breath.

Hands stiff from holding tight to the seatbelts.

“Goddammit, Colton! Answer me.”

Sound comes back. Adrenaline takes over. My heart pounds. My mouth is dry.

But I’m fine.

“I’m good. Fine,” I rasp as my body starts to tremble from the aftereffects. “Fucked up the nosecone and front right side.”

“You’re good?” His voice is shaky.

“I’m good.” Well, I will be. After I have a stiff drink.

“Fuck, Colton! I told you to open her up, not tear her up and slam her into the goddamn wall!” he yells through the mic as I unpin the wheel to get out.

My chuckle fills the connection—the tinge of hysteria in it clear as fucking day.

I’m grateful for his comment. For getting me back to the norm when a part of me is so lost in my own head over shit I never allow myself to think about.

And yet sometimes when you’re forced to close your eyes, everything else becomes so much clearer.

“Colton?”

“Can I come in?” I look at my dad. There are so many things I want to say. No, need to say to him.

My mind hasn’t stopped since I left the track. The wreck made my mortality front and fucking center like never before. I have a kid now. Responsibilities. People that matter to me when before the only person I cared about besides my parents, Quin, and Becks was me, myself, and I.

I got out of the car needing to call Ry. Talk to her. Hear her voice. Get home so I could hold Ace. But know I can’t.

It was just another day at the track. I spun out. A job hazard. I couldn’t call her because even though she’s making huge strides, she’s still not one hundred percent, and I didn’t want to do anything to trigger her to pull away.

So I drove. Aimlessly. Ended up at the beach. Then drove some more. Checked in with Haddie to make sure Ry was good and ended up here. Fucking full circles.

“Come in. Everything okay? Ry and Ace?” he asks as I follow him into the house I grew up in.

“Yes. Yeah.” Shit. He’s worried. “Sorry. They’re fine. It’s all good.” We walk past the stairs I used to slide down on cardboard, and the liquor cabinet I used to sneak bottles from in high school. I focus on that shit because all of a sudden I’m antsy, nervous. Feel stupid for coming here but need to tell him nonetheless.

“It’s good to see you out and about,” he says.

“Haddie’s with Ry,” I explain when he doesn’t ask. “I had to get some time at the track.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good. Fine. Hit the wall.”

Fight or flight time, Colton. Say what you need to say.

“Colton?”

I snap from my thoughts. The shit that I’m here to say but have now lost the words for. “Sorry.” I sigh, lift my hat and run a hand through my hair.

“I said hitting the wall doesn’t sound like it went well. Are you okay?” His grey eyes look at me in that way he has since I was a kid. Checking for ghosts he’s not going to find.

“Yes. No.” I shake my head. “Fuck if I know.” I laugh and can hear the nerves in it as I watch him sit down and lean back on the couch, expression guarded, eyes an open fucking door that say, “Talk to me, son.”

I shove up out of the seat I’ve just sat in and walk toward the mantle where it is littered with picture frames of Q and me as kids. A house that has been featured in every style magazine known to man, and my mom keeps our homemade frames sitting on the mantle like they fit right in with the Louis whatever chair I was never allowed to sit on. I’m restless, fidgety, and just need to get this the fuck over with so I can stop thinking about it and get home.

“I had no right to ask you to go with me the other day.” That wasn’t what I was expecting to say but, fuck it, might as well go with it. He stares at me, father to son, body and eyes warring between asking for more and letting it come to me.

“I’m not following you.”

Of course you’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? Fuck. I sigh. Move. Pace. Hand through hair again.

“When I asked you to drive me so I could see my . . . uh . . .” Fuck. I can’t say the word. Can’t use the same term for that piece of shit as I do for this man in front of me, my endgame superhero.

“Dad. You can say it, Colton. I’m confident with my place in your life.”

“I know but it was a slap in your face, and it’s been eating at me. I shouldn’t have asked you to go,” I say as I turn around and meet his eyes again. “Or I should have told you where we were going. Given you a choice.”

“It’s never a slap in my face when you want to spend time with me, son. The fact you wanted me there with you tells me more than you’ll ever know.”

I stare at him, jaw clenched, and head a mess. I don’t deserve him. Never have. But sure as shit, I’m not letting him go.

“It was chickenshit of me.” It’s all I can say.

“It’s only natural for you to wonder. What you need to ask yourself is, did you get what you wanted out of it?”

“Yes. No. Fuckin’A straight I’m so angry but I don’t know why.” I pace again. Pissed I’m still bugged by it all.

“Why? Because you wanted him to see you, pull you into a hug, and start a relationship?” he goads, knowing damn well that wasn’t what I wanted. “Have a get-to-know-you session?”

“No,” I shout, hand banging down on the table beside me. The sound echoes around the room while I rein in my temper. I don’t want to have emotion over the loser. None. So why do I feel so fucked up when I thought I had it all under wraps? “I didn’t want shit from him other than to see him so I could look at the fucking reflection of what I never want to be to Ace. You happy?”

“Perfectly,” he says with a ghost of a smile that taunts me. I’ve punched guys for less. But I force myself to breathe. Unclench my fists. Redirect my anger. Try to at least.

“Really? My fucked-up head makes you happy?” I grate out between gritted teeth.

“Nope. But you’ve been through a lot of shit this month, Colton. Taken on a lot of responsibilities and haven’t really gotten to deal with any of this, so here I am. Scream and yell. That vase right next to you? Throw it. Watch it break against the wall. I’ll cover for you with your mom. Tell her I fell or something.” He pauses and lifts his eyebrows.

“What? She’d kill you. That’s like some antique-ey thing we were never allowed to touch.”

“Even better. Expensive shit sounds better when it breaks.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” I laugh, not really sure what else to say because he looks dead serious. What is going on here?

“Yeah, well, you have to be crazy to be a good parent.” His lips curl up, eyes flash with something, and I know I’m about to get schooled. Too bad I have no idea what the lesson covers. So I just stare at him and wait, knowing from experience that something else is coming. The difference is that as a kid, I’d let it go in one ear and out the other. This time, I’m fairly certain I won’t be so blasé.

“Connect the dots here, Dad, because I’m lost.” White flag is waving. Help me out.

“Being a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s made me question my sanity more times than you can imagine,” he says dryly, and I know many of those times were because of me. “And there are times that you have to bite your tongue so hard you’re not sure if it’s going to be in one or two pieces when you open your mouth. It’s exhausting and you’re constantly doubting yourself, wondering if you’re doing the right thing, saying the right thing, being the right thing.”

I look at him like he’s crazy and yet every single thing he says is gold. So damn true I can’t argue a single point.

“But then there are those moments, Colton, when you watch your child do something and are so damn proud of them you are left speechless. And those moments take every single doubt and fear and heartache and moment of insanity you’ve ever had and wipe the slate clean. That’s how I felt watching you go to see your dad. That’s how I feel knowing you and Ry are going to adopt Zander. That’s how I feel watching you be a father. Hell, son, when you stepped up to the plate after Rylee got sick and swung it out of the goddamn park by taking care of Ace? I’ve never been prouder.”

My eyes sting with tears I don’t want to shed from the praise I never like to receive. Yet at the same time understand completely now that I’m a father.

“I’ve never been more proud to be your father than I am right now. That man,” he says, pointing over his shoulder to tell me he’s referring to my biological father, “doesn’t deserve to get to know the incredible person you are.”

The lump in my throat feels like it is the size of a football. “Thank you.” I feel like a shy little kid, unworthy of the no-holds-barred love he’s given me my whole life when I haven’t always been easy. Fuck. Who am I kidding? I’ve been a nightmare. And yet the quip that’s on my tongue dies when I look back to his eyes. I see love and approval and pride and shit that makes me uncomfortable to see. I know Ace needs to see it every day of his life so he can know exactly what I feel right now.

“No need to thank me, son.” We stare at each other for a moment, years of unspoken words traded in the span of silence. “Now . . . I’m sure you didn’t stop by to hear me blather on. What can I do for you?”

Just like him to lay down the law and then act like we’re not even in court.

“Believe it or not, you gave me the answer anyway.”

And he did. Tons of answers, in fact. He turned wounds into wisdom.

The most important thing is that he let me be who I needed to be, guided me when I needed it, and let me figure shit out on my own when I was too stubborn to ask for help. Regardless, he let me grow, let me experience, let me chase the goddamn wind as I raced, and the fact he was by my side without judgment the whole time, made me the man I am today.

Now I can’t wait to be that exact same man for Ace.