Keep Me In | DR3 | BOOK 1

41 - It Could Have Been Worse, Right?

"And, we don't have to talk about it now. When we're back in London, we can grab lunch, or go for a hike, or something? How about Wednesday? I've got training in the morning at the office, then we're looking at data from Bahrain briefly, but I can swing by O.M.C. and pick you up. That is, if you're free to take an afternoo-"

I interrupted Daniels plans, audibly drawing in a sharp intake of air. My focus shifted from Daniels' voice to a flash of brown as it whizzed down the mountainside in the corner of my eye. All the tears dried away instantly, my eyes focusing on the fast-travelling animal. It was coming straight for the highway. Directly in my trajectory.

Swerve toward the tail, right? Brake? Or don't brake, let go of the throttle? Hit the throttle, out-run it? Shit, what do I do. I'm moving so fast, it's moving so fast, what do I do.

What do I do.

--

"Your full name?"

"Alexa Rae October."

"Date of birth?"

"September 4th, 1994."

"What day is it today, Alexa?"

"March 28th, 2021."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Uhh," I gazed around me. It was bright in the back of the ambulance, and they had parked it at an angle at which I couldn't see my car. Whatever remained of it, at least. Maybe that was a good thing, I don't think I wanted to know. "On the side of the highway. Just outside of Monaco."

"Do you mind describing the events that led you to..." the paramedic trailed off, gesturing with his hand to the scene around us. I nodded, beginning with my fight with Mason. A relevant recounting of it, at least.

Never in my 19 years of racing had I ever crashed a car. Nor in my years of road driving. Nothing more than that time Fox tapped the rear of me in Monaco, an event that was inconsequential to me at the end of the day. I got my license as soon as I could at 16, whizzing around the Toronto streets in Dads Range Rover Sport with Eric in the passenger seat without a care in the world. And up until now, I had never been in an accident. Over 10 years of clean driving, down the drain. Not even a fender bender, rear-ender, not so much as a curbed rim.

I had been minorly bumped around in Karting a couple of times. Once, really badly, actually, now that I think about it. Carson and I had been competing against each other for the first time, and he was mad that I was ahead of him in the championship standings. I was first, he was second. So what does he do? He brake-tests me into a corner. We both flipped our karts, coming out of it kicking and screaming. I think that was the worst fight he and I had ever been in. Dad threatened he'd sell our equipment, reminded us for weeks after how embarrassed we should feel.

I was in no way prepared for how it would feel to project one of my favourite cars I had owned to date into a highway barrier going over 170km/h.

Except, physically, of course. As physically prepared as a person could have been to be thrashed into a concrete barrier multiple times in a row. The paramedics were surprised when they pulled me out of the jumbled mess that was once a Porsche, that I myself was not a broken mound of human remains. The years of neck training and driving around at ungodly g-forces paid off, it looked like. I had passed out, though, coming back to when the ambulance and fire trucks arrived.