Too Long: Hayes Brothers Book 6

READY.

A girl wearing a skin-tight, white top and a skirt so short her ass is showing points her manicured finger directly at me.

Same old, same old. You’d think they’d change how they start the races. Mix it up a bit, but no. Always the same routine.

Tonight, Chantel, the main organizer’s baby sister got the privilege. She’s turning eighteen tomorrow, and according to Curly, starting a race is a plausible gift. She’s smiling coquettish smiles, five feet from my hood, as she gets the crowd going.

The dry desert wind cuts through the night, breaching my car, every particle charged with palpable excitement. I can fucking taste the gasoline and the metallic tang of adrenaline in the evening air. Cars with neon underglows cast halos across the beaten airfield tarmac while people rush around, cash whirling from hand to hand with the speed of thought.

Thirty seconds left to place bets.

A cacophony of blaring horns, deep bassline, and chatter fills my ears. It’ll linger like an echo long after I get home. It always does.

A beefed-up Ranger with flame decals guns its engine. The exhaust’s roar mixes with the beat pumping out of its speakers—a background track for the girls dancing around it.

I fucking love it here.

Steady.

Chantel’s finger moves left to point at my opponent, Otis, sat at the wheel of his Supra.

It’s a sweet ride. Not as sweet as the custom V12 Camaro parked nearby, though, and not half as powerful. It has no chance against my Challenger, but that didn’t stop Otis running his mouth fifteen minutes ago, saying he’ll swallow me whole and spit me back out.

Wishful thinking.

Since I started racing almost three years ago, I only lost twice. Tonight won’t be the third. No, tonight, I’m taking Otis’s five grand and leaving it in the homeless shelter’s mailbox. I do that every weekend. Instead of hoarding the cash I don’t need, I choose between soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and animal rescue centers. They’ll make better use of the cash than I would.

I make enough in my day job.

Chantel lifts both hands, sending one last pointed stare at us before she drops her arms.

Go.

I floor the gas pedal immediately. The Challenger shoots forth, gaining speed faster than the onlookers can comprehend. Three seconds and I’m already a car length ahead of the cocky teen. He’s new here. Lacks experience, reflexes, and—by the looks of things—quite a bit of horsepower.

He could use a lesson in humility… a lesson I’ll gladly provide. Colt Hayes: self-proclaimed ethics teacher.

One, two, three: zero to sixty. Five, six, seven: one hundred miles an hour… Sixteen, seventeen: one-fifty on the clock. Half a mile in less than nineteen seconds.

Time to break.

I throw the car sideways, drifting around a metal barrel that marks the halfway point. Otis catches up with me on the drift exit point, but as soon as I press the gas, I fly forward.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, my heart pumps blood faster, and I feel alive.

More alive than I usually do.

I shouldn’t be here today. I should be at my parents’ house for the monthly get-together. My brother Cody made it abundantly clear I can’t be late because our older brother—he didn’t mention which—has some important news to drop.

It hardly matters. Regardless whose news, it’s definitely another wedding or pregnancy announcement. And that’s why I’m here, not there. That’s why I’m not impatiently awaiting the news like Cody is.

I dread the elated high that settles over the whole family whenever my brothers announce something big. The endless congratulations, cheers, and smiles…

Never aimed at me.

I love my family. I’m happy they’re happy, but I’m also incredibly aware I’m alone.

No big news.

No small news.

No news at all.

It’s tough being the last single Hayes. Even our three-years-younger sister Rose is in a two-year-long relationship. She’ll be dropping engagement news soon, I bet.

Seeing how happy my siblings are, I’m jealous. That’s all. I want what they have… I just can’t fucking find it.

So here I am… racing. Chasing my own brand of high. Chasing the only thrill that makes me feel remotely happy.

Shaking off the depressing thoughts, I focus on the stretch of tarmac ahead. I’m twenty-four, for fuck’s sake. There’s still time to find my happy ever after.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Too bad it’s harder to believe as the days pass. I didn’t even think about a wife and kids until Conor fell in love with Vivienne. It got worse when, against all odds, Cody went with Blair.

Now that I’m the last man standing, I feel like an outcast in my own family.

In my chaotic, unpredictable life, racing is the constant that keeps me grounded and relatively patient.

The engine roars beneath me, marshaling my thoughts. Not even flying a hundred and thirty miles an hour down the straight keeps my head in the game these days.

Still, I try.

I started racing for fun, but as the years went by, fifteen seconds of adrenaline rush turned into my escape from reality. Something to keep me centered, focused, and sane.

I grip the steering wheel tighter. Every nerve in my body tenses like a drawn string. It’s the good kind of nerves, exciting, freeing… until everything changes.

In the side mirror, I catch a flash of the Supra gaining unnatural speed. He’s on my tail within a second, not a feat he could pull off without a nitrous boost.

Looks like he didn’t get the memo. Curly doesn’t allow this shit here. It’s fucking dangerous.

This will be Otis’s first and last race.

I’m in a losing position, waiting until the fucker leaps ahead, but before I can fully register it, there’s a sudden jolt as the Supra’s front end clips my rear bumper, sending my Challenger into a spin.

Not good. At this speed, spins are never good. My mind fucking soars as I try to regain control. The world blurs. Neon colors and sharp lights from the sidelines whip past. Tires scream against the beaten tarmac so loud I can’t hear anything else. My heart jackhammers in my chest as I grip the steering wheel with all I’ve got, fighting against the violent swing of my car. But it’s too fast, too sudden.

And then I notice where I’m heading. Directly at the neatly parked cars ahead. Time slows, each millisecond dragging like I’m underwater, every movement slow, exaggerated. The front of a Dodge RAM flashes before my eyes, and the realization hits like a punch to the gut.

This might be it.

The end.

Game over.

The distance between my Challenger and the RAM evaporates and no matter what I do… nothing works. The steering wheel has no effect. Slamming the brake doesn’t change a thing.

The only way to stop is to crash.

Memories whip through my mind. The infamous life-flashing. My brothers, my parents, my friends. Countless laughs and fights. Endless family dinners filled with pregnancy, engagement, and wedding announcements. The happiness surrounding me daily but is never my own.

My life doesn’t have the same sweet taste my brothers get to savor, and in this slow-motion descent into death, I realize I haven’t truly lived.

Regret gushes through me. The thought of dying before I found my purpose terrifies me more than the impending crash. Amid the noise of screeching tires and distorted shouts, a haunting quiet fills my head.

I haven’t found my meaning yet.

I can’t fucking die.

It’s too soon.

And just as this thought sinks, I hear the deafening sound of my Challenger colliding head-on with the RAM.

Metal twists.

Glass shatters.

The pungent smell of gasoline fills my nose. My head jerks back and the seat belt cuts into my chest as the exploding airbag almost gives me a heart attack.

For a moment, the ringing in my ears overpowers everything. Then, slowly, muffled gasps, shouts, and cries filter in. It’s blurry around, like I’m looking through a dense fog. I think it’s my eyes before I realize clouds of smoke are hissing from the hood. Or what’s left of it.

Blood fills my mouth as I shake uncontrollably, crushed between the bent steering wheel and the seat.

Distant shouts, thumping of feet against the tarmac, panicked cries… it all comes and goes as if someone’s tapping the mute button again and again and again.

My mind’s swimming. Every breath is a chore as my lungs struggle against the weight pressing down on my chest.

A voice breaks through, muffled but familiar.

Cody?

No.

He’s miles away. Or maybe he’s right here, pulling me out of this twisted metal coffin.

No… it’s not him. It can’t be. My mind’s playing tricks on me as it slowly switches off.

Darkness threatens to pull me under, the weight of regrets even heavier. It’s fucking painful… maddening, excruciating. A mental anguish rivaling the pain that floods every inch of my body.

And so when the darkness comes, I don’t fight.