[**ON HIATUS**]
Noah Wood is a Mercedes driver. Scrappy, charming, and far too handsome, Noah is one of the best drivers on the grid. But a newcomer is threatening to steal his seat, and Noah must win this year's Grand Prix - or risk being booted ou...
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Noah didn't think; he lunged forward.
He grabbed for something — anything — and yanked. They stumbled backwards, a whirl of arms and limbs. His fingers sunk into something soft, and then the wind went out of him in an oof. His head cracked against something. The wall? The floor? Amelia made a small noise, and he sat up, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Are you okay?" He searched her face. "You're not hurt?"
She winced, rubbing at her neck. "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
"I'm just a bit sore. That's all."
Any concern vanished, replaced by a blinding, all-consuming anger. The sort of anger that he hadn't felt in a long time. An anger that frightened him. "Christ, Cartwell, you are an idiot. You could have seriously hurt yourself."
"I had it—"
"If you say under control," Noah said, clenching his teeth,"I will actually beat you to death with a weight."
Noah got to his feet. Every part of him felt shaky with adrenaline. He wanted to hit something; he wanted to hug her. He settled for picking up his water bottle, squeezing the metal so tightly that he thought it might snap.
Amelia's gaze was cool. "Please. As if you care."
Noah laughed, but it sounded all wrong. Hollow and lifeless. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a complete jackass. Watching your untimely death in a hotel gym in Australia would, actually, upset me."
Amelia blinked. "Oh."
Noah crossed to a bench, putting his head in his hands. A sick feeling curdled in his chest, sour as spoiled milk. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. He tried to summon Noah Wood — Noah, who always had a smile and a joke; Noah, who was the first person on the dance floor — but all he could see was the fall of that weight.
Would it have crushed her?
He thought of the angle it had fallen at, the speed and weight of it. It was heavier than Amelia was. And it would have struck her spine, Noah realized; maybe her skull, depending on how she fell. The sick feeling intensified, and he pressed a fist to his nose.
"Wood?" A tentative hand touched his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Fine."
It came out as a grunt. The hand hesitated.
"You don't look fine," Amelia said.
He took a deep breath. "I'm not good with... Blood. Hospitals."
"You're in the wrong sport, then."
There was a long pause. Amelia sunk on to the bench, her face unusually soft. She looked at his hand, as if she was thinking about taking it, and then looked away.
