Prologue
Exactly like rose petals
Lucia
I’ve felt pain before. I’ve had two concussions. I’ve broken four fingers at the same time in a carting accident when I was nine. I had my wisdom teeth out and got a dry socket when I was twenty-one. I had a pinched nerve a few seasons back that made it feel like I was driving with a barbecue skewer speared through the left side of my neck. But burn pain is excruciating and exhausting in a way that I’ve never known. And never want to know again.
“Come on Lucia,” Nick’s voice is soft. He’s never soft, but lately that’s all I hear. Gentleness and sweetness and encouragement. Add that to the list of shit I hate. “Just a few more reps.”
I drop the foam ball I’ve been squeezing and push back from the kitchen table. He stands as I do, and stares at me with the same face my dad would make if he were here now. But Dad isn’t here for a reason — because I don’t want to see that type of face.
“I need to go for a walk,” I announce and make my way through the apartment.
All the windows are open, and both sets of doors to the balcony that wraps the front of the apartment are also wide open. This is a great furnished rental in the heart of my favorite district, Le Marais, where my sister’s bestie and manager Jennie found us. It’s light and airy and decorated in pale pinks and seafoam greens that give it a soothing, retro feel. And yet it feels like a prison.
“Let me grab my jacket,” Nick says and heads off to the second bedroom. He’s been sleeping there for the last five days, as I requested. I told him it was because I get night sweats and toss and turn all the time with this stupid pain medication they have me on. But it’s not the real reason. The real reason is that he is suffocating me.
“Can I do this one on my own?” I ask trying hard to keep the bite out of my tone. He’s the definition of a doting boyfriend, and I should want that. But I don’t. “I promise I am just going to circle the block. Maybe grab a Starbucks on Rambauteau. I might pop in the Monop and see if they have a baguette for dinner. Are you still thinking of Fondue or maybe we go out? How about Tacos at that Speakeasy around the corner?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Nick says, his tone flat.
He stops moving toward his bedroom and stands there, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants. His hair is all over the place. He’s in a faded Motley Crew tour shirt he scooped up at a vintage shop, and despite being black, it’s almost see-thru. His skin is tanned from spending a lot of time on the balcony while my physiotherapist is here or I’m sleeping. Therapy and sleeping are my two main activities these days. The tan on his already dark skin makes his pale blue eyes pop even more than normal. He’s a gorgeous man, and he would do anything for me, and it’s making me itch like a rash.
“Don’t forget to take your phone,” he says, and I grab it off the console in the hall.
I stand there a minute, perfectly still, as a debate rages inside my heart and my brain. I need to tell him. But I don’t know what to tell him. Do I want him gone? Yes, but also no. What I want is for him to change. Back into that carefree, light-hearted, alpha roll guy who I wasn’t even sure I could keep interested in me. I want that back. That uncertainty and excitement and levity.
He’s at the other end of the hallway, in front of the bedroom door, just watching me. I can feel the weight of his stare pinning me the way the seatbelt did in that ball of fire. “You might want to take a jacket. It’s supposed to rain at some point this afternoon.”
I glance at the brass hooks on the wall beside me, next to the door. The only things there are his leather jacket, which he hasn’t touched since we got here three weeks ago, and a sweater of mine. I ignore them both and leave without another word.
Outside, the streets of Paris are ridiculously busy, as always. People are bustling by, sitting in every available chair at cafe terraces and sitting on park benches around Centre Pompidou. For a city that costs a ton to live in, no one ever seems to work here. I also like that the influx of tourists means you hear at least four different languages every block you walk. Having been raised by an Italian mother and a French father with a home base in Spain, but spending my formative years bouncing around the world, it’s nice. Paris is the melting pot America claims to be. It’s comforting, and that’s what I need right now.
Crashing my race car in an F2 practice session last season was terrifying. Not because I hit the guard rail at high speed — there isn’t a professional driver in this sport that hasn’t done that. But because for some God-awful, unknown reason, this time I went through the barrier. It tore the car in half and ignited its 120 kilos of fuel into a massive fireball. And I was stuck in the center of it, my seatbelt jammed, and the glove on my left hand melted, leaving my skin to get scorched as I frantically yanked at the belt clip.
“I got out,” I whisper to myself now as I cross the street and open the door to the Starbucks. “I got out.”
No one notices me muttering to myself. The line is six people long. The young servers behind the counter look frazzled. I turn around and leave. I can’t handle the wait, and to be honest, the last thing I probably need in this uneasy mood is caffeine.
I need to tell that sports psychologist about this. About Nick. I was so skeptical about seeing someone, but Dad insisted. He says the stupidest thing he ever did was wait until Mom died to see a shrink. He truly believes that he would have been a better driver and person a lot sooner if he’d had one as part of his race strategy from the get-go. I agreed to see her because it’s what everyone wanted, including the board that oversees my sport. I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to not give me the open spot in F1 on the team my dad owns and my sister Frankie runs.
Of course, they haven’t made it official yet — that the spot is mine. But I know it’s only a matter of time. They’re waiting until I have the all-clear from the doctors to race again. That’s why I’m here, working my ass off with physiotherapists and doctors and Carmyn, my psychiatrist.
But Nick is here because when that crash happened, everything between us changed. It was honestly like a chemical shift inside him. As soon as he walked into that hospital room, I knew that our relationship was never going to be the same. And even high on painkillers and foggy-headed with a concussion, I didn’t like it.
Nick, my sister’s bodyguard and my part-time bed buddy, was not the guy looking at me with a pained expression and wet lashes like he’d been crying. The guy who walked into the hospital room was a traumatized boyfriend. And I never asked for that. I didn’t want that. At least not in this way. It felt as jarring and unexpected as the crash itself.
And I’m shit with explaining myself to him, or anyone for that matter, so I’ve just let him do what he needed to do. Which apparently is take a leave of absence from my sister’s employment and move to Paris with me.
As I walk toward the Monop, for that baguette, dark ominous clouds appear out of nowhere. The rain starts instantly and without hesitation like someone in the sky just turned on a shower full-force. Big heavy drops tumble down. People scurry off terraces and rush into stores. But I don’t. I just keep walking down the street in my sandals and flowing dress and bandaged hand. Sunglasses on, like it’s not throwing down rain.
It feels horrible and yet lovely at the same time. I feel kind of free for the first time since the crash. Since I first saw Nick’s agonized face. That is until I see Nick jogging up the empty sidewalk toward me. He’s got my coat under one arm and is holding an umbrella with the other. Just what I don’t want — a knight in shining armor. Or, more accurately, a soaking wet 80s band T-shirt.
I put my hand out to stop him. “I’m not made of sugar. I’m not going to melt. You didn’t have to come out here to save me.”
I push past him on the sidewalk, leaving him there with my coat and the umbrella. He starts to follow me, and as I glance over my shoulder, I see him holding the umbrella out toward me, trying to cover me. I want to scream.
“You’re not supposed to get the hand wet, Lou. The skin grafts are still healing.”
“Fine,” I grab the coat from him and drop it over my damp bandages and keep walking. Only he grabbed the wrong coat. This one was a prototype from Mirabella Racing for the new jackets for next season. Frankie left it for me to try the last time she visited. It’s got a microfiber lining. It grazes my fingertips and every hair on my body stands up on edge. I don’t know how to explain it, but I detest the feel of microfiber. It’s a visceral reaction.
I try to swallow it down and keep walking. Nick is still behind me every step. Finally he says. “Lucia, are we ever going to talk about this?”
“About what?” I ask.
“About how you are freaking out about us,” Nick replies.
“What us?” I demand as I pick up my pace because thunder just boomed above. I don’t want to get electrocuted, and besides, he’s ruined the fun of the walk now anyway. “I am not freaking out about the version of us I agreed to, which was casual sex and snarky comments and occasional dick pics.”
“I never sent you a dick pic.”
“Yeah, but you could have. That was in the scope of our arrangement,” I explain.
“And this isn’t,” Nick is stating the obvious, not asking a question. He knows he’s crossed all the lines. “Me caring about you breaks our unwritten contract. Not because you don’t have feelings, but because we agreed not to talk about them. Or show them.”
Huh… my pace slows. He just hit the nail on the head. He does that a lot. Verbalizes my feelings when even I can’t. But still. “I don’t like to be forced into change.”
“Yeah well, it wasn’t exactly my plan to admit to myself or you that you’re a hell of a lot more than a bed buddy,” Nick says simply as he falls in step beside me on the narrow sidewalk so we’re both under his umbrella now. “But you almost died, and watching that happen kicked me out of my blissful ignorance. I’m sorry. I wish the transition to reality had come less violently for both of our sakes. But fuck it. This is the hand we were dealt, and thank God you’re still here so I can tell you I have feelings for you.”
I can’t handle the feel of the microfiber a second longer, because this conversation is all the uncomfortable I can take. I shove the jacket into his free hand. “It’s microfiber. I can’t stand it.”
“Right… like rose petals.”
“Exactly like rose petals,” I reply and almost shudder just thinking about the texture. I hate them, which is a real pain in the ass when you almost torch yourself and everyone you know sends you get well flowers.
My apartment building is just past the next intersection. I wonder if he closed the windows and door before he came looking for me. So I ask him. He chuffs out a heavy breath and squints his eyes at me. “I just told you I have real feelings for you, and you want to know if I closed the windows?”
Is he… are his eyes… is he crying? No. He wouldn’t dare. But his eyes are definitely watering. Oh my God, I am fully and completely not okay anymore.
“It’s a rental!” I bark back. I’m starting to get cold, which makes sense because I’m soaked. The city is starting to smell. Paris smells like an old basement when it’s wet, likely from all the ancient stone buildings. As we wait for the light to turn so we can cross the street, I watch a shimmer of oil ripple across the top of a puddle.
“If you don’t have real feelings for me, Lucia, I’ll back off,” Nick says quietly. “I know you hate change. And surprises. And this is all of that, and you’ve had more than your fair share of change recently. And trauma. So say it. If this isn’t real. If you really want a bed buddy and not a thing more, just say it.”
The light changes, traffic stops, but we don’t cross. I turn so we’re facing each other, and look up at him. His thick, dark hair is damp, but not soaked like mine. His t-shirt is clinging to his very defined chest and abs. Rain drops pepper his dark skin. I have feelings. And I’ve known it for a while, but when he walked into that hospital room, I felt… the responsibility of his heart. And I didn’t like it. He is falling in love with me, and I know that because I think I am falling for him too. But, he’s right. Change is not my friend. It’s my worst enemy, and there is so fucking much of it right now. He reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of my cheek, probably wiping at the rain drops. “You get me. Always. Like on levels no one else ever has.”
“I know.”
“How?”
I don’t expect him to answer that. In my head, it’s a mystery of the universe. So I close my eyes when he kisses my forehead and relax a little. But then he does answer. “Because I’m very familiar with neurodivergent conditions.”
What?
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard the doctor in Mexico mention that you might want to take depression medication because it can help with ASD symptoms. And I know about ASD firsthand. I have family…” Nick’s voice trails off as he looks above my head. “Shit we missed the light.”
“You think I have Autism?” I sputter back at him and step back. It feels like some kind of betrayal. I know he was there when the doctor made the flippant comment, but I didn’t think he agreed with the doctor. I certainly don’t. I mean… I would know about this already, right? I’m almost fucking thirty! I just thought it was a mistake, and I refused the prescription. “You heard me tell that quack doctor I didn’t need meds, right? You think I do? Because my brain is…off?”
He blinks. “I don’t think anything is wrong with you. And I never said you need meds.”
“But you think I have some disorder?”
“I think… I mean it might be worth looking into. The doctor made the comment because he saw signs, and thought you had already been diagnosed” he says, his voice so calm and placating that it makes me itch. “Have you talked to your sports therapist about the whole aversion to certain things, like microfiber? Or the way you kind of meltdown with change? Like when your dad and Adelaide announced they were having a baby?”
Now that tanned color is slipping off his face and into the gutters of Paris. Along with my ability to cope. This feels like a last straw situation, and I’m a camel. Something in me definitely breaks. “She’s there to help me get back into my sport. Not to help me deal with my daddy issues. And I don’t have autism.”
“ASD. You shouldn’t call it autism or Asperger’s anymore. Also, neurodivergent conditions are really common, and talking about them with a therapist can help you in life and racing, Lucia.”
“If you don’t like me as I am, then you don’t have to be around me,” I snap, and I have no idea why I’m suddenly absolutely furious, but I am.
I charge right out into traffic, which is basically gridlocked, so I’m not going to get smoked by a car on top of everything else. Nick calls my name, but I keep walking. He catches up to me at the apartment door. I didn’t bring my keys, so I have to wait for him. Fuck. He unlocks it. “If I didn’t like you the way you are, Lucia, I wouldn’t be here. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. You’ve been off since the doctor said that, and I feel like… you should talk about it.”
“I’ve been off because I’m tired. Tired of doctors. Of therapy. Of physical therapy. Of everyone looking at me and treating me like I almost died. I just want everything to be normal again,” I tell him, and as soon as the door to the building is unlocked, I barge through it and storm toward the staircase, ignoring the elevator because the idea of being in a confined space with him makes me feel like there are fire ants in my veins. “And now you think I need some stupid opinion on my brain on top of everything else I’m dealing with?”
I hold up my bandaged hand as if he needs proof of what I’m currently going through. “I’m not… I don’t have some disorder. There are a ton of women that don’t want relationships. Or that don’t like unexpected change. That don’t like the feel of a certain fabric or whatever. Fuck, Nick, back off.”
“Whoa,” he says, and for the first time since the crash, he’s got his bodyguard voice back. It’s fifty percent foreboding, twenty-five percent snarky, and twenty-five percent placating. All of which I used to get so turned on by, but now I hate it. “First of all, don’t act like I’m insulting you or calling you deficient because I certainly am not. Being on the spectrum doesn’t make you less. It makes you different, but that’s not less. And I’m sorry if I think the doctor might be right. But I also think that you’re perfect. And amazing. And that if you decide to get a second opinion on the ASD diagnosis, it changes none of that.”
“I am not on any spectrum!” I yell and it echoes through the stairwell. Great. We’re going to get a noise complaint. I reach our floor and stop in front of the door to the apartment. He hands me the keys instead of opening the door himself, so I let us in. “We haven’t hired you to hand out medical advice. So stick to what you know, Nick.”
“You didn’t hire me at all,” his voice is deep and with hard edges on every word. “I worked for Frankie. And I’m not here now because of that. I’m not even getting a paycheck. I’m here because I am in l—”
“You shouldn’t be here at all,” I interrupt because I can’t hear the end of that sentence. Not now. My brain is swimming in too many emotions, and I am sinking fast. “I think it’s time you went back to work. This isn’t helping me. You aren’t helping me.”
The words are like little daggers, and I hate myself for throwing them at him. He looks absolutely miserable. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look sad, and it’s brutal. I hate myself right now. “I just… I can’t do this right now.”
“Yeah. I think that’s clear,” Nick disappears down the hallway.
I stand there, shivering, dripping puddles onto the herringbone hardwood until he reappears. He’s carrying the simple black bag he brought with him when he moved in. He grabs his black leather jacket off the hook and comes to a stop in front of me. “I’ve called Mick. He’ll be here tomorrow in time to take you to your doctor’s appointment.”
He stares at me, but I stare at the puddles between us. Then he says. “Go change. Get warm. Call me when you’re ready.”
And then, he leaves. And I let him.
Fast Track will be available for $4.99 on Amazon (or FREE with KU) on April 28, 2023.