Page 13 of Speed

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know if I’d ever have one. All I knew was that Noah had ignited something in me that I couldn’t ignore. Something that scared the hell out of me—and made me feel alive.

“Yeah,” I said miserably. “For a little while, I was happy.”

Logan counted off his fingers. “One, you are aformerdriver; two, Grandfather is a bigoted racist, sexist asshole; and three, what’s stopping you when one and two are taken out of the equation?”

Three-year-old Avery launched herself onto my lap with enthusiasm. Her eyes were bright, and she grinned at me. Her tiny hands grabbed my sweater to steady herself.

“I hadta’hav two Skittles, Uncle Brody!” she announced, her voice full of excitement.

“Wow,” I said, smoothing her hair and settling her against me.

She beamed; her excitement infectious. “But I’m okay, and I went on the swings! And there were ducks!” she continued, her words tumbling out so fast I couldn’t keep up. She leaned against my chest, her small hand waving as she tried to mimic the ducks swimming. I loved holding her like this, feeling her tiny frame against mine, her chatter filling the room.

I caught Logan watching us as Avery rambled about the park and the ducks. He smiled, his expression searching.

“What?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

Logan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s stopping you?”

My stomach twisted, his question hitting too close to home. I looked away, focusing on Avery as she chatted about the colors of the ducks’ feathers. She didn’t have a care in the world, warm and trusting in my arms. And God, I loved this family—Logan, Sadie, and Avery. They were my safe place, the only thing that felt real when everything else spun out of control.

But Logan’s words stuck with me, echoing in my head long after the conversation shifted back to Avery and her Skittles.

Whatwasstopping me?

* * *

I never toldLogan I was visiting our grandfather.

Not that he would have stopped me, but I’d have to listen to ten minutes of him cursing about me stepping into the lion’s den.

Given my aneurysm was small, stable, and not causing symptoms like dizziness, seizures, or vision problems, the doctor had cleared me to drive, and I always kept one of my cars in Logan’s garage.

Thank fuck for that.

He didn’t need to drive me anywhere, which meant that when I said I was leaving for home, I could go wherever I wanted.

Including the big old house where my grandfather lived.

I don’t know why I answered the summons—but he’d found out I was in Washington and expected a visit. I thought he’d given up on me. After all, I’d already had speeches ranging from emotional to deranged about giving up racing, and our grandfather was one of those on the list of people I hadn’t told about the aneurysm. I fed him the lie of retirement, and he hated it.

I’d spent my entire life carrying the weight of the Vance name in motorsport like a badge of honor—and a noose around my neck. Admitting to the aneurysm? That would be like admitting defeat, like proving him right all along. Weak. A coward. The words he’d never said outright but had always been there, hanging between us, unspoken but sharp enough to cut.

He wouldn’t see the aneurysm for what it was—a goddamn ticking time bomb in my skull. No, he’d see it as an excuse, a way to explain why I wasn’t good enough. Another reason to question my worth was to remind me that I was failing the family name.

Weakness wasn’t tolerated.

And worse, I knew how much he thrived on control. If I told him, it wouldn’t end there. He’d take that vulnerability, twist it, use it against me. I’d spent years trying to prove I didn’t need him, that I could stand on my own two feet, and telling him the truth would feel like handing him all the power I’d fought so hard to take back.

I hated that I was standing in this house, surrounded by walls that hadn’t changed in two decades, feeling like a kid again, crying in my grandmother’s arms after everything had fallen apart.

I stopped outside my grandfather’s office and paused, staring at a photo that had hung there for as long as I could remember.

The three Vance kids—Logan was twelve, me nine, and Charlie, only seven. We all looked so much alike, with our mom’s dark hair and our dad’s pale gray eyes. It had been taken a few weeks before the accident—Mom, Dad, and Charlie—gone in an instant. A plane crash—Dad piloting, probably drunk—that shattered everything we knew. After that, it was just Logan and me, two grieving kids trying to navigate a new world. Of course, we had family; our grandparents took us in, but living with our grandfather became both a blessing and a curse. He was a racer like me, more of a legend in motorsport than I could ever be, and he poured everything he knew into us. We had every advantage to reach the pinnacle of racing: the best trainers, the best karts, the sponsors, and the legacy of what our grandfather–and to a lesser extent, my father–had achieved.

Everyone knewoneof the Vance boyshadto drive.

It was an inescapable destiny.

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