Page 74 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“Medical team to car 13. Driver unresponsive. We need immediate extraction.”

My blood runs cold. The world tilts, the data on my monitor blurring into a meaningless jumble. All I can see is the mangled wreckage of the Viper, a twisted monument to our shattered dreams.

The world around me dissolves into a chaotic blur of motion. I’m vaguely aware of the crew scrambling, their faces etched with worry and fear, their voices a cacophony of urgent commands. But I can’t focus, can’t think, can’t breathe. All I can hear is the empty void where Cole’s voice should be filling my headset. All I can feel is my heart shattering.

The medical team swarms the car, a flurry of white coats and flashing lights, their movements a silent choreography of urgency and expertise. They work swiftly, extracting Cole from the mangled cockpit, his body limp, his helmet obscuring his face.

Time stretches, distorts, each second an agonizing eternity. Then, they’re whisking him away on a stretcher, disappearing into the ambulance, the wail of sirens a mournful cry against the backdrop of the race, a race that has become meaningless, a hollow spectacle in the face of this overwhelming fear.

And then, another wave of noise crashes over me—shouts, gasps, a collective roar from the crowd. I glance up at the monitor, my mind struggling to process the new wave of data flooding in.

Chad’s car, a twisted mess of blue and polished chrome, is embedded in the tire barrier, smoke billowing from thecrumpled hood. Karma, swift and brutal, has delivered its own brand of justice.

But it’s not enough.

Rage, a primal, burning fury, surges through me, eclipsing the fear and the heartbreak. I rip off my headset and fling it onto the table, ignoring the startled gasps of the crew, and storm out of the garage. My only goal is to reach Chad, to make him pay for what he’s done.

I burst into the medical center, ignoring the protests of the officials, my eyes scanning the room, searching for that smug, arrogant face—the one that haunts my dreams and that now embodies everything I hate.

And then I see him, leaning against a wall, his arm in a sling, his face a mask of pain, but those damn eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, still hold a flicker of triumph.

“You!” I scream, my voice raw with rage, the sound echoing through the sterile room.

I launch myself at him, fists flying, fueled by adrenaline and a need for retribution that burns hotter than any engine. My knuckles connect with his jaw, a satisfying crunch that barely registers over the roar in my ears. My brother taught me how to throw a mean punch, after all.

Strong arms grab me from behind, pulling me back, restraining me. I struggle against their hold, kicking and screaming, desperate to unleash the fury that consumes me. Desperate to land another fist to Chad’s smug face, maybe break his nose.

“Let me go!” I shriek, my voice breaking. “I’m going to kill him! He deserves to?—”

“Lola!” It’s Gene, his voice firm but laced with concern. “Calm down! This won’t help Cole!”

His words, like a bucket of ice water, pierce through the red haze of my anger. Cole. He’s all that matters.

My struggles cease, my body slumping, drained by the emotional rollercoaster of the last few minutes. Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision.

“How is he?” I whisper, my voice trembling.

Gene hesitates, his gaze softening. “He’s unconscious. They’re running tests now but plan to send him to the hospital once they’re done. We’ll know more soon.”

He guides me to a chair, his hand resting on my shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort. I collapse onto the seat, my body trembling, my mind a battlefield of fear and hope.

All I can do now is wait. Wait and pray that Cole will be okay. That this nightmare will finally end.

CHAPTER THIRTY

LOLA

The stenchof antiseptic assaults my nose as I burst through the hospital doors, my heart pounding like a blown engine. My mind’s stuck on repeat: Cole. Accident. Chad.That bastard.

I skid to a stop at the nurse’s station, probably looking like I just crawled out of a burning wreck myself. “Cole Lawson,” I rasp, my voice as raw as my nerves. “Where is he?”

The nurse eyes me warily. Can’t blame her. I must look like a lunatic. “Room 313,” she says. “He’s stable, but?—”

I’m gone before she can finish, my feet carrying me down the hallway faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I really hope my lucky number works its magic. 301… 305… 313.Finally.I practically rip the door off its hinges.

And there he is. Cole. My Cole. Lying in a hospital bed, looking like he went ten rounds with a cement mixer and lost. His face is a patchwork of cuts and bruises, and the way he’s holding himself tells me his ribs are giving him hell.

“Cole,” I choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.

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