Page 70 of Racing for Redemption
The lights die all at once, leaving us in darkness so complete, I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Then, a single spotlight hits the stage, and four men who look like they were plucked straight from a Viking raiding party stride out in costumes. Long beards, longer hair, and arms covered in intricate tattoos. The crowd surges forward as the first guitar riff slices through the air, raw and hungry. The sound vibrates in my chest, under my skin, and I remember now—this feeling. This is why people chase live music. It’s not just hearing; it’s feeling the notes rearrange your atoms. The feeling of your heart becoming one with the emotions in the music.
The vocalist grabs the microphone, his voice a controlled roar that somehow transforms into melody. It’s harsher than what I usually listen to, but there’s beauty in its intensity—like watching a storm from a safe distance. The melodic metal weaves complex patterns, building and breaking in waves that sweep the crowd along. Three songs in, I’m completely absorbed, my body moving instinctively with the music.
I shift my weight, tired of standing in one spot. When I turn to check on William, the sight stops me cold.
He’s completely transformed. Head thrown back, eyes closed, hands forming metal horns in the air. His deep voice rises above the surrounding crowd, every lyric perfect, every note on key. The blue and purple stage lights catch on his right neck tattoo—a bird of some kind—making it seem alive against his skin. The black leather jacket hugs his shoulders, unzipped just enough to reveal a band T-shirt underneath. His distressed black jeans cling to his legs, ending at heavy Dr. Martens boots that he stomps in time with the drums.
This isn’t William Foster, Formula 1 driver. This is someone else entirely—someone wild and free and unrestrained. He looks dangerous, untamed.
The exact opposite of the polished corporate world I inhabit.
The type of man I’d cross the street to avoid if I passed him late at night.
The type I’d never, ever hang out with.
Yet, here I am.
William’s eyes snap open, catching me staring. His expression shifts from blissed-out to concerned in an instant.
“Everything okay?” he mouths, barely audible over the music and protective earplugs.
I nod, but he’s not convinced. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
“You sure? We can go if it’s too much.” His breath is warm against my skin, his voice low and gentle.
I haven’t noticed until now, but his hand rests lightly on my lower back, steady and grounding amid the swaying bodiesaround us. It feels… protective. Not possessive or controlling. Just there. A tether in the chaos.
“I’m good,” I tell him, suddenly aware of our proximity. “Actually enjoying it.”
He pulls back slightly, eyes closed momentarily as he asks, “Really? Not just saying that?”
When his eyes open again, just a couple of centimeters in front of me, something shifts inside me. I’ve seen his eyes before—in meetings, on the track, across the garage. But I’ve never really looked at them. Never noticed how his hazel irises have flecks of gold near the pupils. Never appreciated how expressive they are, how they crinkle slightly at the corners when he’s genuinely pleased.
His beard looks soft, meticulously trimmed despite his otherwise wild appearance. The way he’s looking at me—head tilted slightly, eyebrows raised in gentle inquiry—is simply…
Damn.What am I even thinking right now?
“Really enjoying it,” I say, turning back to the stage before my face gives away whatever this feeling is. “They’re good.”
I force myself to focus on the band, on the way the bassist’s fingers fly across the strings, on the lead singer’s theatrical gestures. But I remain acutely aware of his hand, still resting on my lower back. It stays there through three more songs, through a particularly rowdy mosh pit that forms to our left, through the surge of bodies when the band plays their most popular track, according to William.
I’m startled from my musical trance when a large man stumbles toward us, clearly drunk, eyes fixed on me in that unmistakable predatory way women learn to recognize early. Before I can react, William’s arm slides fully around my waist, pulling me against him in a protective embrace. The drunk man hesitates, registers William’s warning glare, then turns away.
William keeps his arm around me, but he avoids my gaze. In the flashing stage lights, I’m sure I detect a redness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. He stares resolutely at the stage, as if the most fascinating thing in the world is happening up there.
My first coherent thought is that he’s remarkably warm. Like a furnace in human form. Comfortable. My second thought is about his scent—a mixture of leather, some kind of woodsy cologne, and something uniquely him. It’s… nice.Really nice.
“Thanks,” I say, leaning into him slightly, so he can hear me.
Finally, he looks down at me, and the smile that spreads across his face is different from any I’ve seen from him before. Softer. More genuine. Gentle.
“Just protecting mypreciousfriend,” he says, giving me a little squeeze before returning his attention to the band.
Friend.
The word shouldn’t affect me like this. It’s such a simple thing, such a basic human connection. But when was the last time someone called me their friend and meant it? Not colleague, not boss, not business associate. Friend.
My eyes burn unexpectedly, and I’m grateful for the darkness that hides the stupid, inexplicable tears threatening to spill.What is wrong with me?It’s just a word. Just a casual comment.
