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That day in Hungary had been exactly eight years to the day he’d charmed his mother into the ride that had ended her life...the day he’d let partying too hard snuff out a life he’d now happily give his own to have returned.
Looking into Raven’s eyes just now, he’d known she was recalling her words, too; he’d seen the naked fear and remorse in her eyes. But he hadn’t been able to offer reassurance.
How could he, when he knew deep down she was right? Since his mother’s death, he’d lived in the special place in hell he’d reserved for himself. That no trespassing place where no one and nothing was allowed to touch him.
It was a place he planned on staying...
No matter how horrifyingly lonely...
His gaze darted to the lights as they lit up. Jaw tight, he tried to empty his mind of all thought, but her face kept intruding...her pleading eyes boring into his ravaged soul despite every effort to block her out.
Que diablos!
He stepped on the accelerator a touch later than he’d planned and cursed again as Axel Jung and Matteo, the teenage driver, shot past him on either side. Even in a showcase event like this one, a fraction of a second was all it took to fall behind.
Adrenaline and age-old reflexes kicked in but Rafael knew he was already at a disadvantage. He eyed the gap to the right on the second corner, and calculated that he could slot himself in there if he was quick enough. He pressed his foot down and felt his pulse jump when Axel, in a bid to cut him off, positioned himself in front of him.
In a move he’d perfected long before he’d been tall enough to fit into an X1 cockpit, he flicked his wrist and dashed down the left side of the track. Too late, Axel tried to cover his mistake but Rafael was already a nose ahead of the German. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other driver flick him a dirty gesture.
Where normally he’d have grinned with delight behind his helmet, Rafael merely gestured back and pressed down even harder on the accelerator, desperately trying to outrun his demons the way he had that day in Hungary.
You’re not all bad...
Yes, he was. Even his father looked at him with pity and sadness.
His father...the man he’d put in a wheelchair. The man who kept calling and leaving him messages because Rafael was too afraid...too ashamed to talk to him.
The car shot forward faster. Inside his helmet, his race engineer’s voice cautioned him on the upcoming bend. The words barely registered before disappearing under the heavy weight of his thoughts. He took the bend without lifting off the throttle or easing back on his speed.
He heard the muted roar of the appreciative crowd but the spark of excitement he’d expected from the recognition that he was still in fine racing form, that his accident hadn’t made him lose what was most important to him, didn’t manifest.
That was when the panic started.
For as long as he could recall, that excitement had been present. No matter what else was going on in his life, racing was the one thing that had always...always given him a thrill, given him a reason to push forward.
Fear clutched his chest as he searched for and found only emptiness. In front of him, Matteo had made a mistake that had cost him a few milliseconds, bringing Rafael into passing distance of him.
He could pass him, using the same move he’d used in Hungary. He had nothing to lose. The grin that spread over his face felt alien yet oddly calming, as did the black haze that started to wash over his eyes.
He had nothing to lose...
‘Rafael, your liquid level readings show you haven’t taken a drink in the last thirty minutes.’
Her voice...husky, low, and filled with fearful apprehension, shot into his head with the power of a thunderclap. He gasped as he felt himself yanked back from the edge, from the dark abyss he’d been staring into.
For a single second, he hated her for intruding.
‘Rafael?’
Sucking in a breath, he glanced up and realised Matteo had regained his speed and was streaking ahead. And still, Rafael felt...nothing.
‘Rafael, please respond.’ A shaky plea.
He didn’t, because he couldn’t speak, but he took a drink and kept his foot on the pedal until the race was over.
The shoulder slaps of congratulations for coming in second washed right over him. On the podium, he smiled, congratulated Axel and even felt a little spurt of pride when Matteo took the top step, but all through it he was numb.
The moment he stepped off the podium, he ripped off his race suit. He brushed away the engineer’s request for a post race analysis, his every sense shrieking warning of imminent disaster.
He rushed out of the garage, for the first time in his life ignoring the media pen, the paparazzi and news anchors who raced after him for a sound bite.
