Page 77 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Two hours later,the city lights blur past the windows of Maria’s sleek black Audi, a fitting chariot for our mission. We are on the warpath, two avenging angels with a thirst for justice and a toolbox full of payback. Ahead of us, Chad’s garage, a monument to his arrogance, gleams under the harsh security lights, a beacon of wealth and privilege that only adds more fuel to my simmering rage.

It’s a shrine to his ego, filled with vintage cars—a classic Shelby Cobra, a gleaming Ferrari, a vintage Porsche—each one polished to a blinding shine, a silent taunt to Cole’s passion and our shattered dreams. Every curve of their hand-stitched leather and every glint of chrome, whispers of Chad’s sense of entitlement, his belief that he is above the rules, above consequence.

Maria, dressed in black from head to toe, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, hands me a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters. “Ready?” she questions, her voice barely a whisper, but the excitement thrumming beneath it is palpable.

My lips twist into a smile, the first genuine one in days, a smile that feels a little dangerous, but very liberating. “Ready.”

The lock on the side door, a flimsy thing designed to keep out honest folks, gives way with a satisfying snap. We slip inside, two shadows melting into the darkness. the air is thick with the scent of leather and expensive polish, a testament to Chad’s obsession with material possessions and his need to flaunt his wealth.

My gaze sweeps over his pristine collection, each car a symbol of what he’s taken from Cole: the chance to fight for the championship, the joy of racing, the freedom of pushing himself to the limit. But more than that, Chad put the man I love in the hospital, his body battered, denting in his confidence and dimming the light that usually burns so bright in his eyes.

Rage, a cold, calculated fury, pulses through me, a potent fuel that drives away the fear and helplessness. This isn’t just about revenge. It is about justice. It’s about leveling the playing field, about reminding Chad that actions have consequences.

With a precision born of years spent working on engines, I kneel beside the first tire, the smooth black rubber the sole focus of my flashlight. The wire cutters, cold and heavy in my hand, slice through the tire with a satisfying hiss, a sound that mirrors the venomous whisper of my anger. Maria moves beside me, a silent wraith, her own flashlight and set of cutters a blur of motion as she attacks the other tires with a practiced ease.

We work quickly and efficiently, our movements synchronized, performing a silent dance of destruction. Our anger is a shared language, a silent understanding that needs no words. One by one, the tires deflate, collapsing onto the polished concrete floor with a whoosh of escaping air, a chorus of silent screams that echoed the rage in my heart.

By the time we finish, every car in Chad’s collection is crippled, grounded, a fleet of fallen angels brought down by two women who refuse to be pawns in his twisted game.

We exit as silently as we entered, two shadows slipping back into the night, leaving behind the faint scent of rubber and the silent testament of deflated dreams.

As we drive away, the city lights blurring past the windows, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders, a sense of satisfaction that has nothing to do with racing, with winning or losing.

It’s not about the cars, not really. It’s a message delivered. A message to Chad, to the racing world, to anyone who thinks they could get away with hurting the people I love.

I’m coming for him. A fierce smile spreads across my lips as I watch the city lights recede in the mirror. And I’m bringing reinforcements.

If there was anything wonderful in my relationship with Chad, it was my love for his mother. Evelyn Tane is a force of nature, a woman who has built a racing empire alongside her husband, only to have seen it crumble when his infidelity shattered their marriage. She has always treated me like a daughter, confiding in me about the pain and betrayal she’s endured, and she instilled in me a deep-seated hatred for anything that had even a hint of cheating, especially on the track.

I knew she’d understand.

I find Evelyn in her office, overlooking the track where Cole should have been testing the new car today, a stark reminder of what Chad has taken from us. Her silver hair is pulled back in a tight bun, her face etched with worry lines that mirror the turmoil in my own heart. But her eyes, a startling blue that are identical Chad’s, still hold a spark of the fire that has made her the legend she is in the racing world.

“Lola!” She greets when she looks up, a flicker of relief washing over her face as I approach. “Darling, it’s good to see you. How is Cole doing?”

I perch on the edge of the plush leather chair across from her massive mahogany desk, my hands twisting in my lap, the weight of what I need to say pressing down on me like a lead weight. “He’s… recovering. Physically, he’ll be fine. But…” My voice trails off, the memory of Cole’s haunted eyes and the emptiness in his voice when he spoke of racing, brings a fresh ache in my chest.

Evelyn reaches across the desk, her hand, surprisingly strong despite her age, covering mine in a gesture of comfort. “But what, darling? Tell me. Don’t hold back.”

This is harder than I thought. I despise Chad but adore Evelyn. I take a deep breath, steeling myself and gathering the courage I’ve learned from watching Cole push his car—and himself—to the limit, race after race. “Chad caused the crash, Evelyn. It wasn’t a racing incident. He deliberately rammed Cole off the track.”

The warmth in Evelyn’s eyes turns to ice in a heartbeat. She knows me too well, knows I wouldn’t make such an accusation lightly. “Are you sure, Lola? Absolutely certain?”

“I saw the replay, Evelyn. Multiple times. It was deliberate. He’s been targeting Cole all season, trying to sabotage him. I enlisted help from my brother. I’m sure you remember that he’s the sheriff. He was able to obtain circumstantial evidence of Chad tampering with Cole’s car. But this…” My voice cracks, the memory of the crash, the fear that had gripped me as I watched Cole’s car spin out of control, still fresh and raw. “This is different. He could have killed him.”

Evelyn’s grip on my hand tightens. “That damn boy,” she mutters, her voice tight with anger, the ice in her eyes thawinginto a fiery rage. “He’s just like his father. He thinks he can win by any means necessary. Thinks the world owes him something.”

A wave of satisfaction, cold and sharp, washes over me. Evelyn understands. She knows the cost of betrayal and the sting of deceit, the way it can shatter lives, families, dreams.

“He’s your son,” I say softly, my anger momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of sympathy for the woman who has always treated me like her own, the woman who understands the complexities of family better than anyone.

Evelyn’s gaze hardens. “He might be my son, Lola, but he’s not above the rules. And he certainly doesn’t get to jeopardize the life of another driver, especially not…” Her voice trails off, a knowing look in her eyes, a glimmer of understanding that goes beyond the racetrack and the world of sponsors and trophies.

I don’t need her to finish the sentence. She knows about my history with Cole, about the unspoken feelings that simmered between us, the way our connection went deeper than just teenage lust. She’d always seen more than just a professional partnership. She’d seen the spark, the potential for something real, something that transcended the high-octane world we inhabited.

“He’s off the team, Lola,” Evelyn says, her voice firm, resolute, echoing the steel I’ve always admired in her. “Effective immediately. I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior. He’ll be lucky if I let him back in the paddock, let alone behind the wheel of one of my cars. If you hear a peep from him, I want to know about it. Do you understand?”

I squeeze her hand, overcome with gratitude and a whole newfound respect for this woman washing over me. “Yes. Thank you, Evelyn,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “This means more to me than you know.”

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