Page 14 of Theirs to Ruin

With an aggrieved sigh, I shut my locker, grabbed my gloves and helmet, and made my way to the track. Adrenaline buzzed through me as I took in the bustle of other drivers in the arena, as well as the mix of high-performance sports and open-wheel formula cars.

God, I needed this.

It had been a shit month but it had gotten worse when my father started sending me lists of candidates he thought would make a suitable husband for me. By suitable, he meant rich and powerful. Apparently, anyone under the age of eighty was a candidate so long as he could make all our financial troubles go away. Dad had even included Silas Prescott, the guy Bianca hadjust started dating. We’d known Silas since we were kids. His mom and ours had been best friends for years. They used to talk about Silas and Bianca getting married one day, but neither had been interested in each other. Until now.

I wasn’t sure Dad knew about Bianca and Silas, but if it would help bind our family to the powerful and mega-rich Prescotts, I think Dad would seriously consider giving Silas both me and Bianca.

Between the pressure of classes, trying to up my school ranking, and dealing with my father trying to pimp me out, I’d started to slide back into the depression that sometimes sank its ugly claws into me since Mom died. It was right around this time that Bianca surprised me with private lessons at the track. What better way to take back my power than by having me push the boundaries of speed and control in a car weighing two thousand pounds, she’d said.

Today was my first official race.

“You ready?” my instructor asked as I strolled over to him.

“I’m feeling good,” I told him.

He nodded. “Just remember, take it easy on the corners. You want to come out of this alive, yeah?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

But deep down, I knew I was going to push myself as hard as I could.

I was there to win.

I grabbed a seat in my pit lane, my fingers drumming on my knees. Finally, my race was called. I sank behind the wheel of my car. Fastening the seatbelt felt like locking in a piece of armor. After my instructor checked me over, gave me some last-minute tips, and wished me luck, I gripped the leather-covered steering wheel. A jolt of electricity surged through my fingertips, as if the car was feeding off my adrenaline, eager to roar. I started the engine then slowly steered the car into position at the start line.

Hands firmly on the wheel, I locked my gaze on the checkered flag. When the flag whipped down, signaling the start of the race, I shoved the car into first, then second, third, and fourth, the force sending me catapulting forward along with the rest of the field. The air was thick with the scent of burned rubber and the sound of tires screeching in unison as we charged down the track.

My heart pounded in time with the car’s roaring engine, each pulse a drumbeat of exhilaration. We rushed into the first curve, a chaotic jumble of metal and horsepower. I downshifted and threw the car into the bend, hugging the inner line. I felt the G-forces trying to wrest control from me, but I leaned into it, accelerating out of the curve and leaving two cars trailing behind.

A straightaway opened, two cars close together and with barely enough room to squeeze past them, but I seized the opportunity. Foot down, RPMs screaming, I sped forward, slick and smooth, and sailed through the gap, leaving the two cars to eat my dust. Every maneuver, every quick shift of gears was an extension of myself. I was in perfect sync with the machine.

I’d never felt more in control.

The track twisted and turned, a battleground that tested skill, guts, and raw power. The other drivers were relentless, overtaking on straight stretches and blocking on curves, their engines growling like caged animals. But I was in my element, pulling off a high-speed drift in one turn and a narrow dodge between two competing cars in another.

The final lap loomed ahead, the checkered flag waving in the distance like a taunt. I was in the top three now, the finish line beckoning. One last curve, and I braked hard, the car wobbling as I downshifted aggressively. The tires squealed—a desperate, exhilarating scream—and I shot out of the turn, flooring the accelerator for the home stretch.

I passed the two cars. For a breathless moment, it was just me, the stretch of asphalt beneath my tires, and the machine that had become an extension of my will, my desires, my boldness. I was a surge of energy and motion, free and unbound as I gunned toward the finish line.

Crossing it felt like breaking a chain made of all my doubts and fears. I loudly screamed my triumph. I had won. I had fucking won against nine drivers, some of them seasoned racers, in my first ever race.

Full of adrenaline and feeling more powerful than I had in my entire my life, I continued down the track to a safe distance then tried to pull the car to a stop in a flashy display, the way my driving teacher had taught me. Only I blew it and the car whipped around. Suddenly I was spinning donuts—and not of my own choosing. My heart leaped to my throat.

“Shit!”

I finally managed to get the car under control and pulled into the pit area, the car purring but my cheeks flaming.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed out of the car, relieved to hear cheering. No one seemed to notice I failed to land the stop I had been going for. I stepped forward, my legs like jelly. My instructor hugged me then hoisted me up onto his shoulders. I took off my helmet and waved at the cheering crowd. There were so many people clapping and cheering, and it was all for me.

I was on such a high.

And then I spotted him in the stands. He was standing in a crowd of spectators, his eyes locked on mine. My heart pounded as he stared at me, his gaze so intense it sent shivers down my spine.

Dante Morillo. One of CU’s school counselors.

Myschool counselor for most of last year until I bailed on our appointments because of how attracted I’d been to him.

It sucked because I missed our sessions. I missedhim. He was amazing at his job. He’d pulled stuff out of me I never thought I’d reveal to anyone. I’d also felt safe with him, even safer after he’d held me during one session when I’d cried about my mom. I’d always thought he was gorgeous but after he held me that time I’d spent most of our sessions worried he’d see how much I desired him. It had gotten so stressful that I’d finally told him I no longer needed counseling, and although he’d looked at me like he’d known the truth, he hadn’t pushed.

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