Tracy Wolff - Shredded

He does as I ask, settling on the bed, and I curl up on his lap with my arms around his waist and my head on his chest. His heart is pounding fast and hard, and again I realize he really is just as nervous as I am.

“I met Remi when I was fifteen and he was seventeen,” I say, deciding it’s better to get it over with fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I fell for him instantly. It was hard not to, when he was pretty much every teenage girl’s walking wet dream.”

Z nods, and he looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “I know the type.”

I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he demands, offended.

“Of course you know the type!” I say, in between giggles. “You’re pretty much the king of it. All badass and gorgeous, with a dirty mouth and a surprisingly soft heart underneath all those tattoos and piercings. Yeah, you definitely know the type.”

He lifts a brow, half amused, half insulted. “I’m not quite sure that’s how I’d describe myself.”

“Trust me, it’s probably the best description of you that’s ever been given.” I pause, pretend to think. “Maybe I should call up Sports Illustrated and make sure they’ve got it for the article.”

He tugs at one of my curls, frowning. At first I think he’s going to argue, but then I guess he decides to focus on what’s important, because he asks, “So, Remi wasn’t one of those clean-cut college boys with his whole life mapped out in front of him?”

“God, no. Remi was a drag racer.”

“A drag racer? You dated a drag racer?”

“Yep. And a damn good one at that. Up until two days ago, he taught me everything I knew about driving.”

“A drag racer,” he says again, like he can’t get his head around it.

“Why do you look so surprised?” I demand. “I’m dating a snowboarder, aren’t I? The two aren’t that different.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks. “Dating?”

I freeze, afraid I’ve put my foot in it. “I don’t know,” I tell him as I pick some fuzz off his/my bathrobe. “What do you think we’re doing?”

He puts two fingers under my chin and presses up until I have no choice but to look him in the eye. “Since I’m not the one who slammed a door in your face after telling you to get lost today, I think I’m probably not the one deciding things.”

I knew he’d call me on my shit sooner or later, and I just nod. But I look away when I admit, “I’m scared, Z. I’m really scared.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. Being vulnerable is not something I’ve ever enjoyed.

“I get it. You were in an accident with Remi and you saw him die, nearly died yourself. Of course you’d be nervous—”

“Remi had a death wish.”

He freezes midsentence, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “What did you say?”

“He had a death wish. I wouldn’t call him actively suicidal, but he was an adrenaline junkie with a really rough past. At first I thought that was all it was. That he took things too far sometimes, looking for the rush, and bad shit happened.”

Z shifts beneath me, obviously uncomfortable all of a sudden. And that’s when I know that I’m right. That what I saw on those videos wasn’t accidental. It breaks my heart even as it gives me the strength to continue.

“But then I started noticing a pattern, you know? We were together three years, and there were definitely times when he was less careful, more stupid about what he did. Which car he’d drive, how he’d drive it.

“I’d try to talk to him about it, and he always told me I was making a big deal out of nothing. That he was fine, and could he help it if he was always looking for the next big rush?”

I pause now, caught up in the memories despite myself. I loved Remi, I really did, and part of me will always miss him. But there’s another part of me, one I don’t acknowledge very often because it does no good, that’s angry at him. Furious. Because he took the easy way out and left me holding the bag.

“You don’t—you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.” Z sounds sincere, but I can sense the tension in his body and know that every second I delay is only making the telling of this story worse for him.

I also know he recognizes himself in it, can tell from the way he’s sitting rigid, and from the way his hands are clenched in the comforter instead of around me. My heart breaks at the knowledge, more proof that Z is like Remi in all the ways I need him not to be.

“It was December, which in New Orleans is nothing like it is here. Half the time it’s still in the seventies or eighties and humid as hell. December was always a bad month for him. I don’t know why—he never told me. But the longer the month dragged on, the crazier the stunts he pulled would become. Everyone else loved it, because they didn’t understand. They just thought he was wild and fun, and so much of what he did worked out the best possible way—because he was so talented, you know? I’ve never met anyone who could drive a car the way he could.

“Anyway, it was December twentieth and I could totally see the tension building in him. He was just snappier than usual, you know? And the stuff he was doing, the races he was driving, the risks he was taking … they were trouble. Not just dangerous, but dangerous.

“So he gets this race. Two in the morning, across the Huey Long Bridge and back. And he takes it. He fucking takes it. It was total suicide, especially since the guy he was driving against was really bad news, you know? He won, a lot, but he won because he drove dirty. No one could prove it, but we all knew it. Despite that, he’d never been able to beat Remi before. It pissed him off.

“I begged Remi not to take the race, because I knew he was going to go balls to the wall with it. He’d do anything to beat Kye. Anything. And that bridge is so narrow, so tight, it gives no room for mistakes even if you’re driving the speed limit. Going faster … I was terrified he was going to end up killing himself.”

“So you got in the car with him.” Z’s voice has no inflection at all, no blame, no judgment. But his jaw is locked up tight, and his hands … let’s just say my comforter is never going to be the same.

“It was stupid on my part. But I thought—” I break off, sigh loudly. “I don’t know what I thought, honestly.”

“You thought if you were there you could keep him from doing something totally stupid. You thought you could save his life.”

I nod, because he’s right. “That’s exactly what I thought. Remi had always been pretty protective of me. Not like you, but still. He took good care of me, and it never occurred to me that that wouldn’t matter. That he wanted to die more than he cared if I lived.”

I shake my head, start to close my eyes, but when I do I can see the wreck, hear the crunch of metal. Feel the drop, then the cool rush of water.

“You know, that’s the worst part,” I went on.

“That he tried to kill you too?” His voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“That I’ll never know if he did or if he just lost control. We had the race. We had it. We’d already done most of the course—the bridge, the neighborhood on the other side. All we had to do was get back across the bridge. Remi had it. I knew he had it. I could feel it. Kye wasn’t even close to us. And then, suddenly, Remi just jerks the wheel to the right. We go flying and …

“He drowned. I mean, he was really badly injured, so he might not have made it anyway. But he was trapped in the car and the water was coming in too fast. I couldn’t get him out—”

“Wait a minute. You went off the bridge with him? You were trapped in that car in the fucking Mississippi River?” Z’s hands are on my shoulders now, his face in mine, his eyes livid with so many emotions I can’t even begin to sort them all out. “He went off the bridge with you in that car with him?”

“Most days I don’t think it was on purpose.”

“Jesus Christ, Ophelia. Jesus Christ.” He pulls me to his chest, holds me so tight I can barely breathe. But I don’t complain because it turns out this is what I needed all along—even though I didn’t know it.

For so long friends back home have blamed me—for getting in the car, for letting Remi drive that race, for not doing more to stop him. Oh, they never come right out and say it, but I can hear it in their voices, see it when they look at me. They don’t understand I was doing everything I could to save him. All they know is that he’s dead, and they think that by going with him, I encouraged him to wreck.

I don’t know—maybe there’s a part of me that thinks the same thing.

But not Z. He’s swearing under his breath, slowly, steadily, furiously. Not at me, but for me. I find myself sinking even more into him. It feels so good to be held like this, like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Remi never held me like that, and neither has anyone else. Ever.

Because he’s there, and because I can, I wrap my arms around him just as tightly. And hold on with everything I’ve got.

Motherfucker.

Bastard.

Goddamned son of a motherfucking bitch. If Remi was in front of me right now, I’d kill the asshole myself. Slowly. Painfully. Deliberately, so that he knew I meant it.

What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he thinking?

Letting Ophelia get in that car with him? Racing with her when he knew how fucking dangerous it was? Fucking crashing that car with her in it? Totally irrational though it is, it’s killing me that he’s already dead. That I can’t tear the motherfucker limb from fucking limb.

I need to walk, need to move. Need to do something before the top of my head actually blows the fuck off. But there’s Ophelia to think of. Ophelia, who he never thought of, is curled up in my arms, her whole body wrapped around mine.

I don’t think she realizes that she’s shaking, her body trembling so violently that she’s actually moving the bed. I pull her closer, wrap my arms around her more tightly … and that’s when I realize. She’s not the one who’s shaking.

I am.

Goddamn fucking son-of-a-bitch motherfucking shithead. How could he do that to her? How could he tell her he loved her and then do that to her? I’ve seen her scars. I’ve touched and kissed and caressed them. I know how badly she was injured, and to think that some fucker with a death wish did that to her … I just can’t understand.

I may be on the brink of self-destructing, but if it happens, there’s no way I’m taking anybody with me. No way I’ll ever take the chance of hurting someone I care about again. Remi should have known better. He should have fucking known better. If you have a girl like Ophelia, you protect her. You don’t fucking put her in the line of fire. You fucking treasure her.

Bastard.

The need to kick the shit out of something is riding me hard, as is the red haze of fury that’s all I can see. All I can think about. But that isn’t what she needs from me right now. No matter how much I want to rage. No matter how much I want to go back in time and kick that motherfucker’s ass, I need to rein it in. Because Ophelia trusted me with something here. She told me why she’s scared, and now it’s my job to hold her and comfort her and make her unafraid. I may not know much about relationships, but I know that.

The only problem is, I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never comforted anybody in my life. Never even thought about it. But she needs it from me, so I’m going to fucking figure it out. Right here. Right now. I refuse to be just another asshole who let her down.

Not sure what else to do, I run a gentle hand down her back, stroke my fingers through her hair. Press my mouth against her ear and whisper a bunch of nonsense words that don’t seem to make much sense except that they soothe her. She relaxes against me, and I can feel her heartbeat finally start to settle as she cuddles even closer.

I want to hold her like this forever. Want to take away all the pain and bullshit she’s had to go through in the past and just make it all okay. She deserves more than what that bastard did to her, deserves so much more than the hand she’s been dealt.

Hell, she deserves so much more than me—a selfish prick who spends too much time playing around with his own fucking death wish. But that’s just too damn bad because I’m not going to give her up. It’s obvious she has ridiculously fucked-up taste in guys—present company totally included—so it’s not like I can turn her loose on the world and hope she ends up okay. Because she obviously won’t. Which means I’m going to have to do something more. I’m going to have to be something better. Because Ophelia fucking deserves it. She fucking deserves everything.