I Took Back the Wheel

Chapter 3 Out of Control

For the rest of the session, Jaxon corrected my hands and feet from behind me. I followed the motions while Arthur’s order repeated in my head.

That night, Arthur sat at the far end of our polished dining table and talked about the market and a yacht he might buy. He cut his steak into even pieces before looking up. “Still a bit clumsy out there, aren’t we? I expected Jaxon to have made more progress with you by now.”

I pushed a piece of asparagus around my plate. If I opened my mouth, I would tell him exactly what I thought of his progress.

Later, in our quiet bedroom, he came to me out of habit. His hands moved through the same routine they always did. In less than two minutes, he rolled away, breathless. I had barely moved.

His breathing soon evened out. I stared at the silk canopy and pulled the sheet back over myself.

“You’re like a block of wood, Willa,” he said into the dark. “You need to learn to relax. Maybe the adrenaline from the track will help.”

For years I had taken those words apart and searched myself for the defect. This time, I looked at the back of his head.

He had made me carry his emptiness.

Under the expensive suit and polished manners, Arthur had nothing to offer except my name and my compliance.

The next morning, I walked onto the track and went straight for the driver’s side. Jaxon approached, ready for the fear he had seen yesterday. I gave him no sign of it.

He got in beside me without speaking and set his hand on my thigh again, waiting for me to recoil.

This time, I didn't flinch. I didn’t pull away.

I put my hand over his. The muscles in his forearm tightened. I met his gaze in the rearview mirror and held it.

His eyes narrowed. He smiled and leaned closer, his hand starting to move higher.

Before he could, I took his hand off my leg and put it on the steering wheel beside mine.

“Teach me how to run this lap,” I said. “Then we’ll see.”

Jaxon studied my face, then looked at our hands on the wheel. His amusement faded. What remained looked close enough to respect.

He leaned back in his seat. "Alright, Ashford," he growled. "Let's drive."

The first lap brought pieces of my old timing back. By the next, I was braking later and holding the corners. I kept pushing until the engine screamed down the straight.

After I crossed the finish line, neither of us spoke. My hands still buzzed against the wheel. I had not felt that awake in a decade.

The club manager ran out of the viewing box, looking from the trackside timer to me. “My God, Ashford. That time.” He pointed at the glowing numbers. “We have a spot in the Grand Prix next month. It’s yours if you want it.”

I kept watching my husband in the glass box.

Arthur wanted the car to finish me. I kept my eyes on him and tightened my hands around the wheel.