Page 42 of Knot So Fast
Once we're settled with the door closed, I get straight to the point.
"I assume you've heard about the new Formula One regulations requiring Omega participation," I begin, watching their faces carefully for reactions.
Her mother's expression tightens immediately. "We've heard about that... development, yes."
"The question," I continue, "is whether you'll be pulling your funding from Formula One if it means Lachlan won't be able to compete without an Omega partner."
There's a long pause while they exchange the kind of loaded look that comes from years of marriage and shared decision-making. Finally, her father speaks.
"It can't possibly be that difficult to find an Omega driver who can be temporarily stationed with the team," he says, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced by his own words. "Surely there are qualified candidates who would jump at the opportunity."
I present the various options we've been considering—known Omega drivers from lower racing categories, some promising candidates from simulation racing, even a few Omegas who've been disguising themselves in the sport for years. The list is shorter than anyone would like, and the timeline is impossibly tight.
Her father listens carefully to each option, making notes and asking pertinent questions about qualifications and backgrounds. "I'll look into the possibilities," he says finally. "We've invested too much in Lachlan's career to withdraw support over a bureaucratic complication."
But before I can excuse myself and leave, he fixes me with a look that's equal parts warning and plea.
"Auren will take no part in this racing situation, yes?" The question is phrased as a statement, but I can hear the underlying desperation.
I meet his gaze directly, keeping my expression neutral despite the complicated emotions churning in my chest. "No one has any intention of bringing her into it."
"Good," her mother says with visible relief. "She's been through enough."
"But," I continue carefully, "do you honestly believe she won't find her way back into racing on her own? With or without our involvement?"
The silence that follows my question is telling. They can't answer because they know I'm right. Auren has always been drawn to speed and competition like a moth to flame, and memory loss isn't going to change the fundamental aspects of who she is.
"That rests my case," I say quietly. "Keeping her away from racing might be impossible, but it doesn't hurt to try, right?"
I leave them to contemplate that uncomfortable truth and make my way upstairs, my feet automatically carrying me toward Auren's childhood bedroom. I know exactly how to get there—down the hallway, past the guest rooms, third door on the right. I've made this journey countless times before, usually late at night after finishing "business meetings" with her parents that were really just elaborate charades to give me legitimate reasons to be in their house.
When I reach her door, I knock out the rhythm we used to use—three quick taps, pause, two longer knocks, pause, one final tap. It was our code, the signal that let her know I'd finished whatever formal obligations kept us apart and was ready to focus entirely on her.
I get hard just thinking about those stolen moments—the way she'd open the door with that mischievous smile, how she'd pull me into her room and kiss me like she'd been waiting her entire life for that exact moment. The steamy makeout sessions that sometimes led to more, the whispered conversations about dreams and fears and futures we thought we were building together.
I remember the first time I ever did that knock, the three-three-two-one, after a late night strategy session with her father. I was nervous as hell because I knew if her parents ever caughtus, it would be the end of everything—my job, my scholarship, my reputation, maybe even the parts of myself I actually liked. But when she opened that door with her hair a mess and wearing a borrowed team tee that barely covered her ass, she didn't look worried. She looked like she'd been waiting for me all night.
She'd grab me by the collar and drag me inside, always gentle until the door latched, then her hands were everywhere—my shoulders, my jaw, my back, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go for even a second. She tasted like mint and Gatorade and something sweet I could never put my finger on, but I craved it, craved her, the desperation and heat and honesty that always came with her mouth against mine. Sometimes she would climb into my lap and kiss me until my head spun, her legs tight around my hips, her laughter pressed into my throat as she bit down just to remind me she could.
We talked for hours, sometimes all night—about the future, about racing, about what we could be if the world would just stop moving for five fucking minutes.She told me secrets. I told her mine. She made it seem possible that someone could actually see me, the real me, and not the version I had to be around the pack or the press or the endless parade of people who needed something from me. With her, I was more than just a crew chief or a calculated risk.
I was wanted. I was necessary. I was loved.
There were nights we didn't even touch, just lay together on her bed, listening to the rain hit the window or the distant sounds of engines running diagnostics in the garages. She would curl up against me, her head on my chest, and talk about the stars or ask me if I believed in fate. I always said no, because I'd spent my whole life believing fate was just a pretty word for being trapped. She'd argue, try to convince me that sometimes fate was the universe pushing two people together, that maybewe were connected by something bigger than ambition or pheromones or even love. I wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.
But now? Now, all of it exists only in my memory. The code knock, the racing heart, the press of her lips and the weight of her body—it's all just fragments behind my eyelids. I raise my hand to knock, hesitating for a split second, because the part of me that refuses to die still hopes she'll answer the door with that crooked smile, eyes bright with mischief, and pull me into the past where things weren't broken.
I knock. Three sharp raps, a pause, two more, another pause, then a soft final tap. The silence that follows is longer than I remember, stretching out into a chasm that swallows every sound in the hallway. For one insane, aching second, I think maybe she's standing behind the door, trying to remember why her heart is racing, why her palms are sweating, if she should open her door for the man she doesn't recognize but who somehow feels familiar.
All of it exists only in my memory now.
I dare to let myself hope for just a moment that maybe the rhythm will trigger some kind of recognition, some buried instinct that remembers what that particular knock pattern used to mean.
But silence follows my knocks, confirming my hypothesis about her intentions.
I wait exactly thirty seconds before carefully opening the door, unsurprised to find that the room is empty and the window is slightly open. The curtains are blowing gently in the evening breeze, and I can see where she climbed out onto the roof of the covered patio that extends from the side of the house.
"She's such a rebel," I mutter to myself, but there's fondness mixed with the exasperation.
