Page 31 of Ride Me Reckless
Mom was getting worse.
And I wasn't there.
My fingers tightened around the phone, as if I might will her clarity back through the static. But all I heard was the rustle of her moving around the house, humming a hymn like she used to when I was a girl getting dressed for church.
"I'll call you tonight, Mama," I said softly. "Okay? Just… don't go anywhere."
She didn't respond. Then—"Love you, baby."
My throat went tight. "Love you, too."
The line went dead.
I stared down at the screen until it dimmed in my palm. Then I slid the phone into the pocket of my coveralls and leaned back against the trailer, pressing my head against the aluminum like it could keep the ache from spreading.
I should be home.
I should be doing more.
But I needed this win. Not just for the car, not just for the sponsors, not even for me. If I didn't cross that finish line ahead of the pack today, there wouldn't be another shot. No more parts. No more entry fees. No more fake-it-til-you-make-it pep talks over cold gas station coffee.
No way to get back to Lovelace and figure out how to help her before it was too late.
The guilt crept in like an oil stain—slow and seeping. I hated that it took money to fix everything. Hated that love wasn't enough, but today, love had to wait.
I had a race to win.
The staging lights flickered yellow, flickering like the excitement inside of my chest.
I slid the helmet over my head, every breath shallow and hot. The world narrowed behind that tinted visor—just me, the track, and the ticking clock that could save or sink everything.
The dragster vibrated beneath me like a coiled beast. I nudged the throttle, feeling her hum through my bones. She wanted to run. She always did.
So, did I.
I stared down the strip, that long, straight promise stretching out like a dare. A quarter mile of judgment. A few seconds to prove I wasn't done. That I still had it. That maybe I could keep this thing alive long enough to get home and fix what mattered most.
This wasn't so different from barrel racing.
Back when it was just Colt and me, dusty arenas, and late-night kisses behind the chutes. I used to live for the cloverleaf pattern—the way Biscuit and I became one solid blur of instinct and control.
This was the same kind of dance.
Only faster. Hotter. Louder.
I lined up, blinking at the light stack. Red. Yellow.
Green.
I hit it.
The launch slammed me back in my seat, the G-force stretching time itself. My hands were steady, feet tight. I didn't even think. I just moved—automatic, precise, ruthless.
The engine screamed like it wanted blood.
I hit second. Then third. My body was fire. My mind was ice.
Halfway down the strip, I could feel it—how good the run was. Every shift hit clean. No drift. No drag. Just speed and silence roaring louder than thought.
