Page 2 of Whispers and Wildfire

I drove harder, faster, until sweat dripped down my temples and only two drivers were in front of me. Four laps down. One to go.

My engine didn’t purr, it roared like a lion. I flew past the starting line for the last time, my attention never wavering from the track and the drivers about to go down. A smile crept over my lips, and euphoria swept through me as I pushed my car to her limits, tires squealing on the turn.

I overtook the number two car, sneaking by him on the inside, and grinned at my glimpse of his shocked expression. He’d really thought he had me.

Dirt flew at my windshield as the driver in front of me hit the S-curves. The asshole had slowed down just enough to let his tires catch in the track, spewing debris behind him. Prick. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t slowing down. His taillights led me through the cloud, and in seconds, I was right on top of him.

No way was he letting me pass him on the inside, and Ionly had two turns left. I wasn’t going to fight dirty—I had no intention of crashing—but I needed the win.

Not for the money. Not even for the glory. It was all about the rush. I wanted the speed. The battle for the win.

I got behind him and faked like I was going to try for the inside. He moved over, and as soon as we hit the final turn, I floored it. My hands held the wheel in an iron grip and my muscles clenched tight as I fought my car to make the corner—as I bent her to my will.

“Come on,” I growled.

The tires were going to slip. I was losing control. I could feel it.

Gritting my teeth, I held on. We came through the turn, and I shot ahead as soon as my tires straightened.

Seconds later, I crossed the finish line. Winner.

I came to a stop to the sound of cheering. It wasn’t really for me. No one out there gave a shit about Luke Haven. They gave a shit about the money they’d just won betting on my win.

Still, the high lingered, and I got out smiling. Took off my helmet and lifted it over my head, letting the euphoria sweep me away.

People ran over to congratulate me with high fives, handshakes, and a few back-slapping hugs. The honest ones thanked me for winning them money. I laughed, still feeling the effects of the race. It was better than the most potent shot of liquor.

Kyle shoved an envelope of cash at me—my share of the winnings. I didn’t bother counting it. Just leaned against my car and took a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of fuel, dirt, and victory.

The woman in the crop top watched me from about ten feet away. Gave me the look. I’d seen it plenty of times. Knew exactly what it meant. She’d leave with me if I asked. Probably let me do all sorts of things to her, no strings attached.

I blew out a breath and looked away, the high already receding. The rush never lasted. I wanted to race again. To feel the tires almost leaving the pavement, their grip failing. I wanted imminent danger and the rush of knowing I’d cheated death. Again.

The cash, the girls, they were just… there. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the girl in the crop top looked like, I wasn’t interested. A younger me would have thought I was an idiot. How could I pass up such an obvious yes?

But I was already sinking, the darkness swirling around me, churning like a river at the height of the spring snow melt. Ignoring the girl, I got back in my car and tossed my helmet on the passenger seat.

The party around me was just getting started, but I wanted out of there. I’d already gotten what I came for.

I had to roll slowly to get through the people, but soon enough, I was making my way down the dirt road that led to the highway. A cloud of dust rose in my wake, and the exhilaration that brought me out to race again would soon be gone.

That was how it worked. Nothing I could do about it except wait it out and chase the next high.

Although it made me wonder if I was ever going to find what I was looking for.

CHAPTER 2

Melanie

The house was such a disaster,I didn’t even know where to begin.

Glancing around, I took a crunchy bite of my dill pickle. The mess was partially my fault. I could admit that. I’d known moving day was coming, and I’d let things pile up—quite literally. I’d take twenty-five percent of the blame. It was only fair.

My phone rang. There was the other seventy-five percent.

More specifically, his lawyer.

Eighty percent his fault. At least.

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