Gridlock: Full Velocity Series - Book 2

by Delaney, Tracie

  Gridlock

  Full Velocity Series - Book 2

  Tracie Delaney

  Contents

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  Books by Tracie Delaney

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  Tate

  Madison

  FROM ME TO YOU

  Inside Track - Blurb

  Books by Tracie Delaney

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  Acknowledgments

  About Tracie Delaney

  Copyright © 2019 Tracie Delaney

  Edited by Emmy Ellis at Studioenp

  Edited by Delphine Noble-Fox

  Proofreading by Love2ReadRomance

  Cover art by Tiffany @TEBlack Designs

  Photographer: Christopher John CJC Photography

  Model: Sean Brady

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Books by Tracie Delaney

  The Winning Ace Series

  Cash - A Winning Ace Short Story

  Winning Ace

  Losing Game

  Grand Slam

  Winning Ace Boxset

  Mismatch

  Break Point - A Winning Ace Novella

  Stand-alone

  My Gift To You

  The Brook Brothers Series

  The Blame Game

  Against All Odds

  His To Protect

  Web of Lies

  Irresistibly Mine Series

  Tempting Christa

  Avenging Christa

  Full Velocity Series

  Friction

  Gridlock

  Inside Track

  For Michael. Always in my thoughts

  Only take your foot off the gas when the fear of death overcomes the thrill of speed.

  Tate Flynn

  Madison

  Two years ago.

  My heart pounded against my ribcage, and my lungs burned as I sprinted as fast as the growing crowds would allow. The closer I got to where I needed to be, the slower the throng of people forced me to run.

  “Get out of the way!” I yelled.

  No one moved. Either they couldn’t hear me, or they didn’t care about the fear lacing my voice and the beads of sweat dampening my upper lip and forehead. I resorted to pushing, shoving, and elbowing my way through.

  Please, please, please let me get there in time to stop him.

  I made a final concerted effort to barrel my way to the front of the cheering horde, all vying for the best vantage point to watch the illegal street race, but I arrived too late. He’d already been strapped into the car.

  “Dean!” I screamed, an exercise in futility. He wouldn’t be able to hear me. Not over the roaring engines and the insane cheering. “Dean, goddammit, stop. Please.”

  The spectators jeered, whooped, and hollered around me as the cars almost pranced on the spot, a combination of applying the brake and the gas at the same time. A woman in a too-short skirt, a crop top, and high heels stood between the two vehicles systematically threading a white handkerchief between her fingers. Smoke billowed from the tailpipes, the foul-tasting emissions burning my throat and filling my lungs.

  She raised the handkerchief over her head, and the noise from the spectators increased to deafening levels, accompanied by the sound of the thundering engines.

  And then she dropped her arm, and the two cars sprang forward, hurtling down the road at lethal speed. My heart lurched painfully, and every drop of saliva disappeared from my mouth. Standing on tiptoes, I craned my neck to try to peer around the huge guy standing next to me. Dean’s car and his racing opponent were mere specks in the distance by now.

  I watched him make the turn. Even from this distance the sound of screeching tires reached me. Wisps of white discharged from the wheels, the result of burning rubber and overheated brakes.

  Dean snuck a hood length in front of his opponent, and for a few brief, wonderful moments, I dared to hope everything might be okay. That I’d get the chance to bawl out my baby brother for this reckless venture and find a way to prevent him from ever doing such a stupid thing ever again. I’d chain him to his goddamn bed if I had to. Anything to stop this crazy folly.

  As the cars grew closer to the finish line, they touched. Only the merest hint of physical contact, yet sufficient enough to send Dean’s car careening off to the right. The front wheel on the driver’s side hit the curb. I looked on, horrified, as the car catapulted into the air, like one of those stunts in a Seventies classic movie. Except this wasn’t a movie—and my brother wasn’t a stuntman.

  The gathered crowds emitted a collective gasp, while I stood there, frozen, unable to breathe, to move, to do anything other than watch helplessly as the vehicle rolled several times before it finally came to a stop on its roof. Everyone fell silent, the earlier noise reduced to a quiet, shocked hum.

  Thick gray smoke rose from the engine compartment of Dean’s car. My first thought was “fire,” and then I sprinted toward him. I didn’t have a single concern for my personal safety, driven only by my need to get to Dean, but at the same time, terror racked my body at what I’d find when I reached him.

  My sweet, wonderful, caring brother.

  “Please be alive, please, oh God, please, I’m begging you.”

  Falling to my knees beside the driver’s door, I gasped at the sight of Dean’s upper body hanging out of the window with his lower half twisted in a grotesque manner. He was covered in blood, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from.

  “Dean!”

  No response.

  I drew on every ounce of strength I possessed and allowed the doctor within me to come to the fore. Pressing two fingers firmly against Dean’s neck, I felt for a pulse. Yes! Faint, but definitely there.

  “Hang in there, Dean. Please don’t let go. I’m here.”

  I glanced around at the shocked faces who’d crept a little closer, their macabre need to see a broken body overtaking the fear of the car explo
ding into flames.

  Shoving my hand in my coat pocket, I fumbled around for my phone. I stabbed in the emergency number, and in seconds, they answered.

  “I need an ambulance,” I said to the dispatcher. “RTA. Two cars involved. I’m with one of the drivers now, and he’s badly injured.” I gave our location then pointlessly added, “Please hurry,” because they were hardly going to take their time.

  I hung up and checked out the sea of faces. “You,” I said, jabbing my finger at a six-foot-two lump of muscle. “Help me get him out.”

  “Uh, shouldn’t we leave him? You know, until the paramedics get here.”

  “I’m a doctor.” I jerked my head at the still-smoking hood of the car. The potential of causing Dean further injury wasn’t important right now, because if the car blew up, we were all going to die.

  “For all we know, this thing could explode at any moment,” I said, laboring the point when the guy remained glued to the spot. “Now move it!”

  My barked order jerked him into action, and we managed to wrestle Dean from the wreckage and move him to a safe distance. I caught the other driver scrambling through the driver’s window of his crumpled vehicle. He shot a quick glance in my direction where I crouched over the broken body of my brother, and then he ran.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, and the crowd dispersed, including my unwilling helper. Undoubtedly, the police as well as the ambulance would be on their way, and no one wanted to be caught spectating at an illegal street race.

  Holding my hand in front of Dean’s mouth, I noted the shallowness of his breathing. I pressed my ear to his chest. Nothing. Oh God. He’d gone into cardiac arrest.

  I need my fucking medical bag!

  Dean required a shot of adrenaline directly to the heart, but until the medical crews arrived, I only had CPR at my disposal. I began compressions, pressing hard on his chest thirty times, unconcerned about a few ribs. Those would heal. It was paramount to get his heart started, essential to keep the blood pumping to his vital organs.

  I paused to blow air into Dean’s lungs before resuming the chest compressions. My arms ached, and my breathing became fast and urgent. I kept going, muscles burning, pretending it wasn’t my beloved Deano lying on the ground, clinging to life by the slenderest of threads. Nineteen years old with his whole life ahead of him. This couldn’t be his destiny. I wouldn’t let this be the end of his too-short life.

  The ambulance slid to a halt beside me. The sirens shut off, and two paramedics jumped out carrying heavy bags. They set them down beside Dean. The nearest paramedic touched my shoulder.

  “Step aside, miss. We’ll take it from here.”

  “I’m a doctor,” I replied without breaking stride on compressing Dean’s chest. “This is my brother. His name is Dean Brady. He went into cardiac arrest five minutes ago. I’ve been doing CPR ever since. He’s unresponsive.” I couldn’t believe how calm I sounded, but remaining in control of my emotions would enable me to cope. I needed to distance myself from the horror unfolding before me. I couldn’t lose Dean, the only person in the world, other than my parents, who I really, truly cared about.

  And it would destroy my mother. Dad would find a way to carry on, but Mum…

  “That’s really helpful,” the paramedic said. “I’m John. What’s your name?”

  “Madison,” I choked out. “God, please don’t let him die.”

  “You’ve done brilliantly, Madison,” John said calmly. “Keep doing those compressions for me if you don’t mind.” He switched focus to his colleague. “Okay, let’s defib. And get a blood pressure cuff on him.”

  They unpacked the defibrillator, and seconds later, John barked out, “Clear.”

  An electric shock fired into my brother’s heart. His body jolted, and I flinched. I’d seen countless patients being shocked, but when the paddles were affixed to a family member, no matter how impartial you tried to be, it became impossible not to react. Defibrillation was such a brutal thing to have done. On TV, it looked so innocuous, but unloading more than one thousand volts of electricity into a heart muscle could only be described as a violent act.

  It took three more electric shocks before they managed to find a heartbeat. By now, the police had arrived, but when they attempted to question me about what had happened, I waved them away with a dismissive flick of my wrist and climbed into the ambulance. Their questions could wait. My concern rested with Dean.

  Twenty minutes later, we reached the Accident and Emergency department. During the journey to the hospital, Dean had crashed two more times.

  If there is a god, then prove it. Let my brother live.

  Clasping Dean’s too-cold hand in my overheated one, I jogged alongside the gurney as the paramedics rushed Dean into the hospital. John briefed the trauma consultant on call, and then the medics pushed Dean into the crash room. Standing outside alone, I peered through the frosted glass.

  “Come with me, sweetie.” A nurse wearing one of ‘those’ expressions touched my arm and gestured toward the family room.

  I recognized her empathetic expression because I’d wear exactly the same face when speaking to loved ones when preparing them for potentially dreadful news.

  Time lost all meaning as the inky-black night slowly gave way to the promise of morning. The dawn of a new day, yet my nightmare carried on. I should call my parents, but until I knew more, I didn’t want to ruin their holiday. I needed facts. Facts were my safe haven. Conjecture was no substitute for the truth.

  I covered my face with my hands and quietly sobbed. Dean had always been such a headstrong boy. Growing up with a nine-year gap between us, I’d always been labeled the sensible one. Level-headed, calm, steady, my head often buried in a book, whereas Dean had been the rebellious one, always getting into scrapes of one kind or another. He’d grown up with a healthy interest in cars, but I’d assumed it would turn into a desire to be a mechanic, or an engineer, or maybe even a designer. Instead, Dean became obsessed with racing, spurred on by the falsehood promoted within the industry of motor racing’s glamorous nature—a sport where only the glory of winning mattered—instead of understanding the terrible risk each driver undertook every time they got behind the wheel.

  Dean had been sucked in to the public face of the sport he adored. Reading everything he could get his hands on, Dean never missed a race on TV, but unfortunately for my poor brother, he lacked both the financial backing and the skill to succeed as a racing driver.

  Instead, he found an alternative in illegal street racing, a fact I only discovered tonight when a worried friend had tipped me off. Apparently, Dean had had a narrow escape last weekend, coming perilously close to a nasty crash which had only been averted by the quick thinking of his opponent who’d braked at the last minute. His friend had told me that Dean had been taking more and more risks to compensate for his lack of natural talent. That information had resulted in my mad dash to the location of the latest gathering. But I’d arrived too late to stop him from racing. And now, my brother was lying on a stretcher fighting for survival. Even if he made it through, the catastrophic damage to his heart because of having so many cardiac arrests would change his life. The crash might have caused paralysis or brain damage from blunt force trauma, or the lack of oxygen every time his heart stopped.

  The door to the family room opened, and the surgeon entered dressed in green scrubs with what I presumed to be Dean’s blood smudged down the front.

  I leaped to my feet. “Please, is he, is he…?”

  He took a seat, encouraging me to do the same. I did, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting and pulling at the hem of my shirt. It’s splattered with Dean’s blood. The color on my clothes was dark brown, dried, and crusty, whereas the surgeon’s was bright red and fresh.

  Why am I comparing bloodstains?

  I must be going into shock. I began to tremble, and once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  “Your brother survived the operation, Dr. Brady, but the next twenty-four hours will be c
ritical. His left ventricle detached because of the accident. He’s lost a lot of blood and suffered irreparable damage to the heart muscle owing to the sheer number of cardiac arrests.”

  “Oh God,” I mumbled because I understood what that meant. If Dean survived, he’d need a heart transplant, and if a donor couldn’t be found, he’d die. There were hundreds of people on the transplant waiting list. The chances of finding a match before Dean’s beleaguered heart failed were extremely slim.

  “Can I see him?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I’ll take you to him now. We’ve got him under sedation so he’s unconscious, but you are more than welcome to sit with him for as long as you wish.”

  I walked into the private room where Dean lay in a hospital bed. My chest constricted as my heart sped up. I couldn’t breathe properly. Panting, I pressed a hand to my sternum while running an internal monologue. Stay calm. Breathe. In, out. In, out. Slowly, Madison. Take it easy.

  My legs wobbled, and I fell into a chair that had been helpfully placed next to my brother’s bed. I captured his warm hand.

  I sat with him for a few minutes, making inane small talk and praying he could hear me. But I couldn’t put off calling Mum and Dad any longer, especially now that I knew what we were dealing with. It was a good seventeen hours from Singapore, not to mention the difficulty of getting a flight out at such short notice. Kissing Dean’s flushed cheek, I stepped outside the room and made one of the worst telephone calls of my life.