Page 130 of Off the Grid

I’ve tried to talk myself out of believing the only conclusion I come to time and again.

But the talking myself out of it doesn’t negate the facts that add up the same way no matter how I stack them.

Someone hurt her.

Possibly assaulted her.

And I hate him with every fucking fiber of my being.

I’ve debated having this conversation with her a hundred times. The timing never seemed right. I don’t want to be another person to hurt her. The excuses go on and on.

But after today, after that expression on her face, I hope she’ll tell me. I hope she’ll trust me enough to let me in.

“And . . . I think the man who hurt you remains a part of this very small community.”

Her brown eyes flutter open and well with emotion. But the slightest of nods tells me I’m right.

Fuck how I wish I weren’t.

My fists ball. My teeth clench. And every part of me wants to punch a fist through the wall at the thought of someone hurting her.

Who is it?

Whose face can I go rearrange?

Whose body do I need to go bury?

And then the thought hits me. Is it another racer? One of this band of twenty brothers?

Jesus fucking Christ.

What. Then?

I swallow down every demand I want to make of her. Calm down, Riggs. Your anger is the last thing she needs considering she’s already upset.

“Tell me only what you want to tell me.” Those are the hardest words in the world to utter because I want to demand she tell me everything. Want to shake answers out of her. But I keep my cool.

She’s silent a bit longer. Her breathing even and measured. “You’re right.”

Which part? About what?

“I was almost nineteen years old.” She pauses. “It was my gap year. I was . . . busy being young and wealthy and not having to worry about tomorrow. Sounds ridiculously entitled, but true. I lived at the track. In the paddock during race week. There was a group of us who were friends. I was the youngest by far, but they didn’t mind. The guys were old enough to get jobs with various teams and travel the world. We had this weird bubble of a life that no one understood except for us. We grew close. We hung out during downtime. We went out when we were off the clock.”

“Is he a driver, Camilla?” I have to ask. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. And I’m more than fucking proud of myself for keeping the murder out of my voice.

She stares at the ceiling and ignores my question. “We all went out. There was a club. There was drinking. There was fun. I felt safe.” She meets my eyes for the first time. “That’s what I remember more than anything. Being with my friends and feeling like I was safe.”

And then she resumes her position looking back at the ceiling. She can’t look at me and tell me, can she?

That guts me.

“We ended up back at one of the team hotels. We’re hanging out, having a few more drinks, playing music, just being young and having the time of our lives. There were a lot of us in the room . . . and then there weren’t.” She shifts on the couch, but I keep rubbing her feet. Needing the connection. Needing her to need it too.

And that’s a first for me. I’ve never felt that with another woman, like I need to be her strength. The one she can confide in.

“Christ,” I sigh, knowing what happens next.

“He started kissing me. I was more than buzzed. He was cute, and I was over the moon that he liked me. But then his hands were under my shirt and under my skirt and I tried to push him away. I told him no. I screamed no. To get off me. Sure, I’d messed around with guys before, but—”