Gridlock: Full Velocity Series - Book 2 Page 2

  Dad reacted calmly, as I’d expected him to, while Mum broke down. Her tortured sobs as she begged Dad to get them home would follow me to my grave.

  I returned to Dean’s hospital bed and waited.

  I must have dozed off, because the ITU nurse woke me. She handed me a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich.

  “Thought you might be hungry,” she said kindly.

  “Thank you.” I rubbed my eyes, then unwrapped the sandwich. Although not feeling particularly hungry, I needed to keep up my strength to be there for Dean. “Any sign of him regaining consciousness?”

  She shook her head. “He’s been through a lot. It’s his body’s way of coping. He’ll come around soon, we hope.”

  I didn’t share that, as a doctor, I understood the coping mechanisms of the human body when it had suffered major trauma all too well. It seemed egotistical somehow, so I nodded and thanked her again for the sandwich.

  Time passed slowly, and we entered a second night. It had been over twenty-four hours now since the accident, and about sixteen since my brother had emerged from surgery. Mum and Dad should arrive within the next couple of hours. I desperately needed their strength, their comfort, to have someone to share the burden with, to pray with, to hope with.

  I absentmindedly stroked his hand with my thumb. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm of it helped control my emotions. Inside, I was screaming, but outwardly, I presented the serene front I’d always been known for.

  I stood to stretch my legs and my back when Dean’s eyelids flickered, and his little finger twitched. Miniscule signs, but signs nonetheless, that he might be coming around.

  “Nurse,” I barked out, sharper than intended. “I think he’s regaining consciousness.”

  She rose from her chair and felt his pulse, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. His eyes flickered again, and then they fully opened.

  “Dean,” I said, leaning over so he wouldn’t have to twist his head to see me, to know I was there. “Dean, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Tears spilled down my cheeks, plopping onto the crisp cotton sheets.

  He blinked rapidly, then his lids fell shut.

  “Dean. Please open your eyes. It’s me. It’s Madison.”

  He licked his lips and swallowed. At last, he opened his eyes again. This time, they stayed open.

  “Mads,” he croaked. “That you?”

  “It is, sweetheart. It’s me.”

  He tried to move, wincing in pain.

  “Stay still,” I said as the nurse indicated to me she’d fetch the doctor. The door clicked shut, and then Dean and I were alone.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice rasping.

  “You crashed, Dean. Don’t you remember?”

  He frowned, his brows forming a deep ‘V’. “Think so. Tired.”

  “Get some sleep. Mum and Dad are on their way. They’ll be here soon.”

  His breathing evened out, and I thought he’d fallen back asleep, but then his eyes opened once more. “I wouldn’t change a thing, Mads. Racing… I live for it.”

  I started to respond with a platitude, even though I wanted to rail on his stupid love of racing, but I didn’t get a chance to utter a word because the machines suddenly went crazy. Fear sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through me.

  “Dean!” I screamed as the crash team rushed inside.

  They shoved me out of the way and started working on Dean. After five minutes of furiously pounding on his chest, the doctor stepped back and called it.

  I wrestled my way through the medical team, wanting, needing to check for myself. He couldn’t be gone. Not Dean. Not my baby brother.

  My hands trembled as I reached for his carotid artery. Two fingers. Press firmly down. Wait for the steady pulse.

  No pulse.

  Tears came, fast, furious, relentless, the ferocity of bereavement slamming into me with the force of a freight train. I stumbled backward, my breathing ragged. In that moment of loss, my world collapsed, the grief a tsunami, striking me in the chest. Unbearable pain.

  A sob broke from my throat.

  Dean might have lived for racing, but in the end, he’d died for it.

  Everything went red. Blood pounded in my ears, my rage building, twisting my insides. My resolve hardened. I’d find a way to shine a light on the dangers of the sport my brother adored, to force change, and to show kids the risks that came with speed.

  Starting with Dean’s beloved Formula One… and a certain Tate Flynn.

  World Champion.

  My brother’s hero.

  Darling of the sponsors, every advertiser’s wet dream, the worst offender at glamorizing the sport.

  The man who’d caused the death of my brother.

  Look out, Tate. I’m coming for you.

  Tate

  Present Day

  My helicopter swooped low, offering a great view of the Silverstone track, one of my favorite circuits on the calendar. Not because it was the best technically, but because Silverstone was my home race. I always received fantastic support, not to mention racing here meant I could spend some time at my place in London. I didn’t often get to sleep in my own bed, and believe me, bedding down in hotels got very old, very fast.

  My blood fizzed with excitement. Hyped and ready for the weekend ahead, I couldn’t wait to get started. Only seven points separated me and my teammate, Jared Kane, at the top of the leaderboard. It was paramount I not only maintained the pressure, but further extended my lead in Sunday’s race. I could do without the added stress of him nipping at my heels during the second half of the season.

  As I did during the approach to every European race, I scanned the entrance to the track, finding myself looking for one thing in particular.

  My resident stalker. Madison Brady.

  She’d appeared out of nowhere two years ago, and now, whenever we raced in Europe, I couldn’t shake her off. Wherever I went, she followed, waving her homemade protest flags calling for changes to the industry, for us to implement more safety measures and reduce the speed of the cars.

  She clearly didn’t realize that Formula One was already one of the safest motor sports in the world. The powers that be regularly searched for ways to not only reduce the risk to drivers, but also to engineers, mechanics, marshals, and the paying public.

  In a way, I felt sorry for her. She clearly believed passionately in her cause. But at the same time, she irked the shit out of me because she judged what she didn’t understand and made no attempt to.

  Weirdly, though, she wasn’t there. Maybe she’d fallen ill, too ill to come be a pain in my arse this weekend.

  No, I couldn’t get that lucky. She’d be here. Probably putting the finishing touches to her latest voodoo doll.

  The helicopter landed, and I went straight to the motorhome to dump my bag and change into my racing suit. My stomach rumbled. Better grab a quick snack now. Once we got down to the business of the day, the chances of finding time for a bite to eat were minimal.

  I unwrapped a granary roll and removed a slab of cheese from the fridge. Cutting through the hard cheddar, I wondered what the possible reasons for Madison’s absence could be. As much as she pissed me off with her uninformed ideals, I’d begun to look forward to seeing her. I relished our regular sparring bouts, like two heavyweights going at it, each one determined to land the winning punch.

  Clearly, I wasn’t paying attention, because the knife slipped and sliced through my hand.

  “Fuck, goddamn son of a bitch!” I yelled. It took a while for the blood to come to the surface, but when it did, I instantly knew a plaster wouldn’t suffice.

  I reached for a towel and wrapped it around my hand, but in seconds, the towel turned red. Snatching another off the side, I pressed down hard, trying to stem the bleeding.

  I refused to allow a fucking cheese sandwich to come between me and this weekend’s racing.

  I texted my boss, Jack, to let him know what had happened and set off for the medica
l center. Nudging the door open with my hip so I didn’t have to release the pressure on my hand, I stepped inside. Hospitals of any kind gave me the jitters, especially given all the time I’d spent in one as a kid. This wasn’t exactly a full-scale medical facility, but my brain revolted all the same. The smell of disinfectant always turned my stomach. Urgh.

  Dr. Kaz Ewart, the track doctor who traveled the world with us, glanced up as I entered. She smiled, then dropped her gaze to my bloodied hand. “Shit. What have you done?” She hurriedly got to her feet and rushed over.

  I briefly wondered how much blood I’d lost, but when I started to feel woozy, I pushed that thought from my mind.

  “Sliced my hand with a knife,” I said, holding the offending limb in the air.

  She pointed to a chair. “Let’s take a look.”

  I sat, gritting my teeth when Kaz peeled away the towel. Blood oozed from the wound, but the flow had stemmed somewhat. That had to be good, right?

  She opened a packet containing an alcohol swab and wiped the cut. I winced.

  “Fuck, that stings, Doc.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” she responded, handing me a fresh wad of gauze. “Keep pressure on it. I’ll be two ticks.”

  She disappeared through another door, but when the same door reopened a couple of minutes later, it wasn’t Kaz who walked through.

  “What the hell…?”

  I stared at Madison Brady, open-mouthed. She looked equally stunned to see me, although I had a helluva lot more right to be here than she did. She was holding a silver tray with a few medical utensils laid out on top of an off-white cloth. Annoyance that the damned woman had breached the safe haven of the racetrack sped through me. She already followed me everywhere. At least inside the guarded walls of the race circuit, I thought I could escape her. Turned out I was wrong.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “My job,” she spat, her furious expression telling me exactly what she thought of me.

  I’d hazard a guess that she’d prefer to lie in a bath filled with cockroaches than spend a second in my company.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, frowning. When she stubbornly refused to answer, I said, “This is my turf, and I have every right to know why you’re here. If you’ve given security the slip, you’re in a whole world of trouble, sweetheart.”

  She slammed the tray on a nearby table, the utensils clattering. She glared at me, fire shooting from her golden irises, singeing my skin. Madison had the most captivating eyes, but whenever she turned them on me, they were always filled with distaste, hate even. That might be a strong word, but fairly accurate when it came to Madison’s feelings about me.

  “I’m not your sweetheart. I am, however, the new track doctor. Kaz is going to be taking a break for a few months.”

  Oh no. No fucking way. Inviting Ms. Ban the Race into the inner sanctum of my sport was like inviting a vegan to a steakhouse. What stupid game did the race director think he was playing?

  “Over my dead body.”

  She clenched her jaw and fisted her hands. “Given the obvious dangers of this sport, that’s not a very smart comment.”

  I snorted. “Change the record, Madison. That one is old and boring.”

  She planted her hands on her hips and let out a heavy breath through her nose. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to stop shining a light on the multitude of things wrong with this sport, and with drivers like you who refuse to publicly acknowledge the dangers. Well, too bad. Hell will freeze over first.”

  “If you hate this sport so much, why on earth would you take a job here?”

  She jutted her chin, her lips flattening. “My reasons are my own. They’re none of your concern.”

  “I think you’ll find that—”

  “Right, let’s get that hand fixed up, Tate.” Kaz appeared, immediately assessed the situation, caught on to the tension burning in the air, and then turned her attention to my nemesis. “Ah. I take it you’ve told him.”

  “Oh, she’s told me all right.”

  I still couldn’t believe it. Madison Brady is going to be the fucking track doctor.

  That meant there’d be a greater chance of bumping into her every five goddamn minutes. The issue, though? If the idea of regularly being in contact with her irritated me, then why was my heart beating as fast as a gazelle’s being chased by a lion across the damned Serengeti? Why had my breathing become labored, and why did I have sweat prickling along the nape of my neck?

  And that was before I even dared to acknowledge my dick getting hard.

  Madison kept her gaze at eye level, thank Christ. The last thing I needed was for her to think for one second I found her attractive.

  I was not attracted to Madison Brady.

  Come the apocalypse, if I fucked her, it wouldn’t be for fun. It would be as a way of getting one over on her for making my life difficult.

  Don’t screw with the best, darling, cos you’re likely to get burned.

  Wait, hang on a second… Why was I thinking about fucking Madison Brady?

  What the hell is going on?

  “You’re looking a little pale, Tate, and you’re sweating.” Madison moved closer and placed her hand on my forehead.

  I flinched. Her palm was freezing, but that wasn’t the reason I recoiled.

  No, I reacted like that because her touch dispatched a current of electricity through my veins. And she smelled so fucking good. Like ripe peaches I wanted to lick and suck and taste.

  “Will one of you just fix my bloody hand?” I snapped. “I’ve got a strategy meeting to get to.”

  “Ooh,” Kaz said. “Who refused to suck your dick this morning?”

  Madison snorted a laugh. Even when I glowered at her, the smile remained in place, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  I stuck out my hand, palm up. “Stitch it up, Kaz, and put a couple of stitches in your mouth while you’re at it.”

  Kaz wasn’t remotely upset by my rudeness. She’d have heard worse by spending time with a bunch of highly charged, testosterone-fueled guys all vying to be number one, but this wasn’t my usual jam. My parents had instilled politeness in me from an early age, and bad manners were not tolerated. They were met with a good old-fashioned crack across the back of my head.

  Kaz dragged over a stool, adjusted her glasses, and peered at my hand while Madison looked on like a rubbernecker at a motorway pileup.

  “Seeing as you’re such a tough guy and all, you won’t be needing anesthesia now, will you?” Kaz said with an evil grin.

  Bitch.

  If she expected me to beg for pain relief, she’d be in for a long wait. I offered her a smarmy grin. “Right on, sister.”

  Madison

  “Ooh, the sexual tension in here could start a wildfire,” Kaz teased after Tate had left with five stitches in his hand. When I sent a scowl her way, she added, “Yeah, baby, yeah,” in her best Austin Powers impression.

  “Bugger off, Kaz,” I said. “Otherwise I might change my mind about this gig after all.”

  Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

  I flopped into a chair. I hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with Tate ‘Thinks He’s God Almighty’ Flynn quite so soon, and I definitely hadn’t been prepared for a one-on-one altercation.

  Whenever I’d come into contact with Tate previously, I’d been surrounded by my fellow protestors, each of us attempting to make life uncomfortable for the authorities, the drivers, anyone involved in motor racing, in the hope they’d take our concerns seriously. Although, quite honestly, I’d like the whole damn sport banned. It was a pipe dream, of course. Billions of dollars rested on the success or failure of twenty drivers hurtling around a track every couple of weeks. But since Dean’s death, being a thorn in Tate’s side had given me a purpose, a place to channel my anger. Laying the blame for the loss of my brother firmly at his door soothed my tortured soul.

  When Kaz had approached me to inquire abo
ut my interest in a new challenge for a few months while she took a break, I’d thought long and hard about it. In the end, the fact that tipped the scales was the hope that, somehow, I’d have a better chance of pushing my agenda from the inside.

  A false hope, of course. I wasn’t stupid, just sad and grieving.

  And now, after being in the same room with the man I’d held responsible for Dean’s death for the past two years, I knew I’d made a dreadful mistake. Seeing Tate in such close quarters, and on a regular basis, would be like pouring vinegar in the open wound where my love for Dean resided.

  But when I caught Kaz’s worried expression, I sighed. I couldn’t let her down. I’d committed, and now I’d have to see it through. Besides, Kaz really needed this break. She’d been burning the candle at both ends for far too long. Kaz was a cardiac surgeon and worked Monday to Wednesday in the operating room at a busy hospital in London. As soon as her shift finished on Wednesday evening, she’d jump on a plane and fly to wherever the next Formula One race happened to be, and then work at the track until Sunday. Rinse and repeat. If she didn’t grab some downtime soon, she’d burn out.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m teasing you.”

  Kaz theatrically swiped at her brow. “Phew.” She sat beside me, her hand covering my clenched fists. “I know how you feel about this sport, and about Tate in particular, but he’s not a bad guy. This sport isn’t run by bogeymen looking to lure unsuspecting youngsters to their deaths. It isn’t Tate’s fault that Dean adored him and wanted to emulate him, but, unfortunately, went about it in the wrong way.”

  I clamped my teeth together. This wasn’t the first time Kaz had tried this approach with me, but it wouldn’t wash.

  “It is, however, Tate’s fault that he only ever talks about the glamor, the girls, the thrill of winning, the excitement of going Mach 2 with his hair on fire. Has he ever mentioned the risks? No. Does he ever outline the discipline and the skill required to succeed? Hell, no. And what about the hard work and effort, the hours sweating it out in the gym to maintain a high level of fitness and ensure you were healthy enough to manage these powerful machines? Nope. Not a bloody word. If he’d shared more of the reality required by the sport, then maybe Dean wouldn’t have been so starry-eyed. Maybe he’d still be alive today.”