Page 27 of Off the Grid

“Can we get this over with? So, see? I’m still broken.” I chuckle because it’s easier to do that than to admit how much that burns. To think I wasn’t—finally—and to realize I still am.

“You’re not broken. There’s no such thing. Look at it this way—you don’t shy away from the act of sex like many do in your situation. In fact, you’ve used it as a measuring stick to try to prove to yourself that it’s okay. That you’re okay.”

And it seems to only have proved that I’m not.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and then try again,” I joke, but am more than serious in my own mind. Indifferent. That’s how I’ve been, how I’ve felt toward sex for so long, that I crave something other than indifference.

“Sex has been your litmus test and that’s fine. But what you really need to do is quiet your head and just listen to your body. It’s okay for something to feel good and to want more of it. To kiss all the men in the room until you find the one that lights your skin on fire and when you do, hold on tight so you can burn together.”

“Is that an official prescription? I mean, sleep around? There’s a not nice name for that, that I’d prefer not to be called.”

“You make jokes when you’re nervous, Camilla. Just as you are now. That means whatever that guy made you feel sparked something inside you. Maybe scraped the wound open but offered a salve to tide you over. Who knows what might happen next?”

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Riggs

“He’s okay though, right?” I watch the replay on the monitor for what feels like the tenth time. Tires screeching. The car lifting. Flipping. Cartwheeling. The metal giving. The tires flying. The gravel spraying.

Then comes the fire.

I shake my head and hold my breath momentarily as I fight memories just as terrifying. Memories that have faded in clarity with time but not in the sucker punch to the stomach department.

But regardless of the visceral reaction, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the screen.

My stomach remains dropped at my feet as I watch each slow-motion replay even though I already know what happens next.

Maxim motionless as the car finally comes to a stop after skidding across the gravel.

His hands moving as they work frantically to unpin the steering wheel trapping him in the car.

His white helmet bobbing its way up through the flames.

His body rising through the halo and then falling, flopping onto the scattered tires that moments before were a safety barricade.

He stumbles. Then falls. Then crawls away from the heat until he collapses . . . seconds before the safety crew rushes to him and drags him away from the ticking time bomb of a car.

It’s every racer’s worst nightmare.

The wall rushing at you. The car collapsing around you. The fire engulfing you.

Maxim. His lifeless body. The crew doing their best to shield him from the cameras in case he’s gravely injured, and it’s not caught on camera to become a viral spectacle.

So his family doesn’t have to watch him die on camera. Like my mum did. Like we all did.

“He’s in the hospital,” Pierre says stoically.

“What does that mean?” I demand, my feet needing to move and every part of me antsy as fuck.

My days in karting flash through my mind. Hours on end spent hating the bastard for having everything he needed to succeed—the parents, the money, the sponsorships, the equipment—and then learning to love him like a brother once I realized he was just like me. Driven to succeed in a sport that single-handedly robs you of your confidence while becoming your one and only focus.

Maxim and I are competitors. There are days that I like the guy and others that I loathe him. We belong to an elite group of drivers all vying for one of twenty coveted positions on the F1 grid.

He’s gotten his spot there with Moretti Motorsports.

I’m still pushing for it.