JALYNN

I stopped by the office before heading to the hospital today. Bryce gave me time off so I could be by Austin’s side, but I had to pick up something before heading to see Austin.

On my first day of work with Sexton Media, I stupidly volunteered to write a story that I knew nothing about. For some reason, I felt the need to protect the man sitting next to me who caused such a stir in my life and body. Bryce and I put it off for as long as we could, telling Missy we were almost finished with it but it’s finally here.

I know it’s nothing like what Missy had in mind but I’m proud of the anonymous exposé we published in today’s paper.

Missy wanted to dig into the bad things of racing—the supposed fights, gambling and drugs happening on the track. But after Tyler’s tribute, I knew exactly what the article should be about.

The expose is my personal story. Starting from the first night I created a false start and wound up in the car of San Francisco’s most wanted street racer. Me, a girl who shies away from the wild side found a love for the adrenaline rush of a car being pushed to the max. That night, the stranger opened the door for me to understand the amazing community of racing.

These races are so much more than fast cars. They’re about the love of speed and that’s not a bad thing. In a city like San Francisco that’s riddled with heroin, where safety injection sites are being opened so addicts can get their release, the races have become an outlet for those who can’t find a way to express their feelings. These men and women don’t turn to needles. Speed is their drug of choice. It’s a safer choice.

I tell the story of a Marine who not only has his own battle scars, but lives with the heavy heart of being a survivor. Where society couldn’t give him an outlet for his hurt, racing gave him a way to breathe again. He orchestrates the events, finds the safest tracks and makes sure only the best drivers partake in the races. There are strict rules, and if you break the rules, you’re out.

My exposé was about the good in racing. The good in the people who come out and interact with one another rather than hiding behind devices and television screens. It’s a community of misfits, although who’s to say they’re the outcasts? Maybe we have it wrong. Maybe we’re the ones missing out.

I wrote about a young man who gave up on a college career to work so his mother could pay her mortgage. Tyler raced at night for fun and freedom from his day-to-day responsibilities. Three weeks ago, this young man died, not while street racing, but from speeding away from the cops. I was able to tell the story of the community who created a beautiful memorial for him, paid for his funeral and paid off his mother’s mortgage.

Austin doesn’t know I knew what he did for Tyler’s family. It’s just one more reason I’ve fallen for him. He did it because he felt it was the right thing to do. Nothing more.

I also touched on a third man who lost his confidence at the hands of his father. When he felt he had no control, the track gave it back to him.

Don’t get me wrong; street racing is dangerous and illegal. I included statistics on people who have been injured in street races versus those in everyday accidents. I included every danger these events impose. I interviewed the Mayor and all of his concerns are valid. These races disrupt the city and endanger the people—when conducted poorly. That’s why he has agreed to look into a way to allow these races to form in certain areas of the city.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope the people reading the article can see the beauty in the community and not demonize them to prison for their vice.

Sometimes things happen out of our control and we have to deal with them as they come. For now, I’m just thankful Austin is okay, and this assignment is off my plate while providing something I can be proud of.

I just hope Austin feels the same way.

I open the door to his hospital room and see him staring down at his phone. “Hey, doctor said no working,” I yell playfully.

“My favorite girl,” he says as his face lights up.

It’s the most gratifying thing seeing the love you have for someone reflecting back at you with it written all over their expression.

“I have something for you.” I hand him today’s paper.

He eyes me. “I thought you said no work?”

“This is different. Just look.”

I sit down next to him, nervously tapping my foot on the ground as he reads.

His eyebrows crease when he sees what the article is about, but as he reads his face softens, and the more he makes his way into the article the happier his expression gets.

“I love it. You nailed every aspect of why we do this. Missy’s going to hate it.” He laughs.

I shrug. “Bryce has been helping me. I had some help from an editor, too.”

“You’re brilliant. Don’t let anyone else take the credit when you are a star.” He reaches his hand out to me and I stand up, taking it in mine before leaning down to kiss his lips. “Thank you. Thank you for stepping up and offering to do this. Thank you for being by my side and saving me the other night. But most of all, thank you for being you.”

“It’s important that you don’t get it wet for a few days. Let the stitches heal and come see me in two days,” the doctor says as he rewraps Austin’s head in a bandage.

They’ve kept him in the hospital for two days to monitor the swelling, and he finally gets to leave today.

“You need to have someone with you at all times,” the doctor says.

Austin looks at me. “I guess you’re stuck by my side. Doctor’s orders,” he teases.

“Eh. With your money, you can hire someone. I have better things to do,” I say, laughing and lightly slapping his arm.

“That’s true. I could get a hot little thing to come and give me a sponge bath.” He waggles his brows, and I give him a death glare.

“Then, I guess I can return the cute little nurse costume I bought for your recovery.”

He gulps. “You didn’t?”

I raise a shoulder. “You’ll never know now.”

He swiftly grabs my hand and pulls it up to his lips, softly kissing the back of it before placing it on his lap and not letting go. “Yours are the only hands I ever want touching me for the rest of my damn life.”

“Good save. Maybe, if you’re good, we’ll have those chocolate sundaes I promised you for dinner tonight.”

“With a cherry on top?” he asks, and I nod, my teeth skimming my bottom lip. “God, I love you.”

After the doctor finishes his exam and signs his release, we head toward the exit, ready to finally go home. I wheel him down to the lobby, fighting him to stay seated the entire way. The man might like a private sponge bath, but try to push him in a wheelchair, and he moans like a baby.

It’s not until we’re at the lobby doors that he bolts from the chair and declares his freedom. I roll my eyes and guide him through the parking lot to where Gregg brought his Jeep Grand Cherokee after taking the Camaro to storage.

When Austin sees it parked, he starts to laugh. “You sure you can drive that thing?”

I glare at him, confused. “I raced your Camaro. I can handle a simple drive home.”

“Yeah, down a straight road for a quarter mile. We have to drive the streets of San Francisco, and this thing is a beast.”

“It’s a Jeep,” I deadpan.

“It’s a Trackhawk.”

I stop mid-stride, putting my hands on my hips. “Do you really think I can’t do it?”

He shrugs with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I don’t know,” he singsongs.

I huff, ready to prove him wrong and put on a clinic about driving this beast, as he calls it.

His laughter grinds on my nerves, and I’m even more amped to set the record straight. I hurry my step, and he reaches out to me.

“How about we place a bet on it?” he says, and I turn to see him.

I want to be irritated with him, but his cheesy grin melts my heart.

“Is everything a game to you?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I think you already know the answer to that.” He steps up to me, placing his hands on the sides of my arms.

“So, what? You go from racing to betting? Is this a problem I need to know about?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to race you instead of bet you, but I figured, you know, due to recent events, you might not like that idea.”

“You think?” I say sarcastically.

“So, what do you say? Is it a bet?”

I eye him, trying to figure out what’s going on in that head of his. “Why am I scared to ask the terms of this bet?”

He smiles from ear to ear. “Because you know me too well.”

I step back, needing space from him so that I won’t agree without thinking it through. I narrow my eyes. “Lay it out. What do you have in mind?”

He reaches for me again, and I retreat again, tilting my finger back and forth in front of him.

“Uh-uh. Keep your distance. I don’t need you trying to unfairly sway things your way.”

He puts his hand on his chest. “Unfairly? Me?”

“Ha! Yes, you. Come on, give it to me.”

“Okay, if you make it home, without”—he holds up his hand, getting ready to count the terms off on his fingers—“squealing the tires, hitting anything, or getting a scratch on the truck, then I’ll hire someone to stay with me while I recover, so you’ll be off the hook.”

I purse my lips, thinking something is off. Would he actually hire someone? I don’t want him to. I’m kind of looking forward to taking care of him. But, honestly, I know I can make it home without any of those things happening. I mean, it’s a Jeep, not a Ferrari.

“Then, what happens if I lose?”

He pulls me into him. “You move in with me.”

I jerk my head back. “You’re not serious, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“Because that’s kind of fast, don’t you think?”

“Haven’t you already figured out that I like things ‘kind of fast’?” He holds up his fingers to make air quotes.

I chuckle, hitting his chest.

“Come on. Take the bet. Show me what you’ve got.”

My heart’s beating fast.

Does he really want me to move in with him?

I bite the inside of my lip, contemplating the idea. I honestly think I can make it home without breaking his terms. So, is this just his way of mentioning the idea? Rolling the dice to see how I’ll react, knowing I’ll win the bet?

He leans his head down to look me in the eye, raising his brows up and down. “What do you say? Do we have a bet, or are you scared?”

“Did you really just ask if I was scared?” I deadpan.

“Sure did. What you got?” He steps back, holding his hands out to his sides in a challenge.

“Fine.” I slightly tilt my head. “I’ll take your bet. Get ready to have some fat nurse with moles on her face that have hair sticking out from them and smells like Bengay taking care of you.”

“Why does she have to be fat?”

“Because, if I’m not taking care of you, you damn well won’t have someone hot doing the job.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” he says as we approach the truck.

“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s the nurse. Bitches be crazy when they know a rich man needs to be taken care of.”

He lets out a hard laugh, and I can’t hide the smile plastering itself on my face as I open the Jeep’s door.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” Austin says as he reaches for his own seat belt.

I crank the engine and put it in gear, gliding out of the parking spot with ease. We pull up to exit the hospital parking lot, getting ready to drive onto the busy San Francisco street.

I glance in his direction, and he’s sitting back, giving a nonchalant whistle, making it hard for me not to laugh.

An opening in traffic comes, and I press the gas, taking my chance, only to squeal the tires, sliding the Jeep from side to side before it grips and propels forward.

A yelp escapes my lips as I grip the steering wheel harder, taking a deep breath in once I have control of the car and am able to drive down the street with ease.

Narrowing my eyes, I chance a look at Austin, who’s grinning from ear to ear.

Leaning over, he kisses me on the cheek, and with a devilish grin, he declares, “I win.”