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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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Isla always saw the car first.
The Williams was a twisted pile of rubble, smoking gently, a tea kettle under pressure. There weren't any flames. She remembered thinking that was strange. I can smell the burning hair, she'd thought numbly. Where's the fire?
In her nightmare, Isla heard screaming. There hadn't been any that day. She'd been too far away from the crowd, and Sebastián hadn't spoken. Not at first. But this was a dream, and the rules here were different.
A disembodied voice began to sing.
Fire, wire, glass or gas;
If you see these, do not pass.
It was a rhyme that Isla had learned during a lifeguarding course when she was fifteen. She'd thought of it in Monaco, looking at all the glass and bits of burning tyre. In her nightmare, it was usually her mother singing it. Occasionally, it was Matthew.
Sebastián's voice came next.
"Help! Ayúdame!"
Isla surged towards him, but the glass cut up her feet. She wasn't wearing shoes. Slow, she thought, I'm too slow. Sebastián screamed in agony.
"Mamá!"
Panic ripped through her. She hurtled towards the burning car, but it slid away, always a step out of reach. Burning glass cut into her toes.
"Ayúdame, por favor, Mamá, me da miedo la oscuridad!"
"Sebastián!" The word was ripped from her throat. "I'm coming!"
His cries of agony grew louder. The car shrunk back.
"Please," Isla sobbed, and now she was the one begging, crawling on hands and knees over broken glass. "Please, somebody help us! Help him!"
Something shook her. An earthquake?
"Red," a voice said. "Wake up."
"Please," Isla gasped, her chest tightening. "Please. Save him!"
"Isla!"
She jolted awake.
A dark figure loomed over her. She caught the slice of a cheekbone, the hint of a strong jaw. Lucas, she thought in relief, and then froze. The person had blond hair. Why did he have blond hair? Fresh panic washed over her.
She swung out instinctively.
"Isla," the person grunted, forcing her hand to the mattress. "It's okay. Calm down."
She thrashed. "Let—me—go—!"
"It's me." The voice was low and insistent and achingly familiar. "Look at me, Isla. You're here with me. You're safe."
