Page 142 of Racing for Redemption
William drops his backpack on the floor next to the couch, his eyes still wide with adrenaline from the show. His hair is damp with sweat, that ridiculous band shirt clinging to his torso in ways that make it hard not to stare. My ears are still ringing, body buzzing from the wall of sound that engulfed us for the past three hours.
"I still can't believe you actually came," he says, flopping down beside me. "The great Violet Colton, in an underground death metal show, in that tiny venue, screaming her lungs out to 'Bloodbath Euphoria.'"
I roll my eyes, trying not to smile. "A bet's a bet. And for the record, I wasn't screaming. I was... appreciating enthusiastically."
"You were headbanging!" He mimics the motion, his curls at the top flopping wildly. "During the second encore! I saw you!"
"Momentary insanity." I pull the blanket tighter around me. "Temporary possession by whatever demon was powering that lead guitarist."
William laughs, the sound rich and warm in my modern, usually too-quiet penthouse. He looks around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase London's glittering skyline, the minimalist furniture, the distinct lack of personal touches.
"Your place is exactly what I expected, and nothing like I imagined at the same time," he says, running a hand along the leather sofa. "Very sleek. Very Violet. But also..."
"Sterile?" I suggest, knowing how it must look through his eyes. His countryside home is so lived-in, so personal. Mine is a showpiece I occasionally sleep in. Some pit stops are longer than the time I spend in this place.
"I was going to say 'incomplete.'" He meets my eyes. "Like it's waiting for something."
Unsure how to respond to that unexpected insight, I deflect. "Want something to drink? I have wine, or—"
"Whatever you're having." He sits up on the sofa, leaning toward me. "But mostly, I just want to be here. With you."
I unfold myself from the blanket and pad to the kitchen, feeling his gaze follow me. When I return with two glasses, he's examining the single framed photo on my side table—me with my dad and mom at my university graduation, all of us smiling stiffly at the camera.
"You look like him," William observes, taking the glass I offer. "Same determined eyes."
"So I've been told." I settle back onto the couch, closer to him this time. "He would have liked you, I think. Your driving style, at least. He appreciated aggression on track."
"High praise." William raises his glass in a small toast before taking a sip. He makes a small sound of appreciation that does things to my insides.
"My mom, too. She had a soft spot for tattooed guys. She was a painter, so I can imagine her asking the stories behind all your tattoos."
"That would have been fun." He says, side-hugging me gently as he changes topics. "So, we survived a season together. Who would've thought?"
I laugh softly. "Certainly not me, especially after that first meeting."
William snorts at the memory. "I can't believe I actually begged you for a seat. Like, on my knees. Groveling."
"It wasn't your finest moment," I agree, taking another sip of wine. The warmth of it spreads through my chest, matching the warmth of having him here, in my space. "But it worked."
"Desperation is a powerful motivator." He traces idle patterns along my fingers. "After that crash in Abu Dhabi, watching Paul celebrate that championship while I was still seeing double from the impact... I thought my career was over."
I turn to face him properly, tucking my legs beneath me. "You never really told me the full story. What happened between you two before that race?"
William's expression darkens momentarily. "We were teammates in karting, then rivals in every category after that. He always had more money, better equipment, but I usually beat him anyway." He clenches his jaw. "Until F2. His teammate deliberately took me out in that final race, and suddenly, Paul was champion instead of me."
The vinyl player stopped, the sound of the rain intensifying outside, drumming against the windows, taking over the soundscape.
"I never thanked you properly," he says quietly. "For taking that chance on me."
"You did. With every point. Every race. Even if the season was far from perfect." I squeeze his hand. "That podium at Silverstone."
He shakes his head. "No, that was me thanking myself. Proving I could do it." He laces his fingers with mine. "You gave me the opportunity when everyone else wrote me off as damaged goods. 'Too aggressive,' 'too emotional,' 'liability.'" He mimics the criticisms in a pompous voice.
"I saw potential," I say simply. "And I was right."
"You were." He shifts closer, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes. "I'm going to make you proud next season. The contract might say three years, but I'm thinking longer term. I want to build something at Colton."
"Like what?" I ask, genuinely curious about his vision.
