Page 73 of The Accidental Text

Each spring Cooper’s puts on this event, and we donate the proceeds to various local charities. We’ve used the same track since we started—the owner donates the facility. Our high-profile clients can come out and race their own car, the entrance fee acting as a donation. We also sell tickets for onlookers to come and watch the fun.

All in all, it’s been a very successful venture. Something to be proud of. I know I am, and Chelsea is usually happy with everything once the event is over and she can relax, when she declares that she willneverdo this again. But, somehow, she musters up the energy to do it again the next year. Thank goodness, because neither Devon nor I could.

“Are you ready?” I ask, looking up at Chase, who’s still taking in everything. We’re here early, with the Cooper’s employees and vendors finishing up last-minute things.

As part of Chase’s quest for adventure, I’ve arranged it so Devon will give him a ride around the track in the Lamborghini. Chase sent a GIF of someone fainting when I asked him if he wanted to do it.

It wasn’t hard to set up—I just mentioned it to Devon, and being the salesman that he is, he thought it would be a great idea to give some extra attention to our “potential client.” I feel a little sick about the dishonesty, but I’m already in too deep here.

So I told Chase to meet us here early, before all the festivities start.

“Let’s go,” I say, dropping my hand from around Chase’s waist and gesturing for him to follow me. He ditches his toothpick in a trash bin on the way.

We walk over to the entrance to the track, where Devon is waiting, looking official in his Cooper’s racing suit, the Lamborghini still wrapped in bright green with the company name all over it. We didn’t have time to change out the wrap like Chelsea had requested. I had to talk her down after she found that out. The green works, even if it doesn’t go perfectly with her color theme of red and charcoal gray.

“Hey, man,” Devon says as we approach.

“Devon,” Chase says. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Not a problem. Mags gave you all the info, I’m assuming.”

I nod my head.

“Then let’s do this,” he says.

I did give Chase the rundown: no breakfast beforehand in case he gets carsick, get a good night’s sleep—all the stuff Devon told me to say. But I also needed to make sure Chase didn’t somehow blurt out how we met. I might have repeated myself a lot. I don’t need my family finding out that Chase is not a client but the current owner of our mom’s old phone number.

Devon gives Chase a helmet and I walk him over to the passenger side. He stands by the door, helmet in hand, Devon already in the car waiting.

He gives me a mischievous grin and I eye him dubiously.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks.

“I don’t think so …”

He reaches up and taps on his cheek with a finger. “Where’s my kiss for good luck?”

I shake my head as I approach him and give him the quickest of kisses on his cheek so as not to be caught by Devon. Not that he could see anything from his vantage point in the low-riding car.

Chase smiles, takes off his sunglasses, and puts on his helmet. He gets in the car and with a rev of the engine, they’re off. Starting slow and then building up the pace. Devon is trained to drive my dad’s car quite fast on this track. I have no idea how fast he’ll go, but he does like to show off.

The sight of them driving off reminds me of my mom and how much she used to love speeding around the track. Sometimes she’d drive, and sometimes she’d let my dad or Devon—when he was old enough—drive her. I can still see her face afterward, bright and glowing, and hear her laughter, warm and full.

I watch as Devon and Chase go around the track, and then again, and I think I count ten times before I see the car start to slow down. As they get closer, it looks like the car is swerving a little. Is something wrong? I can barely see them through the angle of the windshield. I feel a tingle of panic travel down my back as the car pulls up to me and stops with a jerk. Did Chase say something to Devon? Not that you can do much talking in that car, the engine is so loud.

Chase’s door opens and he practically crawls out. He makes a moaning sound as he throws off his helmet and proceeds to throw up all over the ground.

“Oh my gosh,” I say as I run over to him. I cover my mouth and nose with both hands, not wanting to smell anything, as I consider myself a sympathetic barfer. Some people cry whenother people cry. I do that too, but I also barf when other people barf. I’ve got a very healthy gag reflex.

“I thought you told him not to eat!” Devon says, irritated. He takes off his helmet and tosses it inside the car.

“I did!” I rub my hand up and down Chase’s back, keeping my mouth and nose covered with my other hand and my eyes on anything but him as he continues to throw up pretty much anything and everything in his stomach.

Chase groans when he’s finished. He sits back on his butt, on the asphalt of the track. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. My gag reflex struggles, and I choke back the feeling.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He looks up at me, his eyes red and watering.

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