Revived

by Samantha Towle

  OTHER CONTEMPORARY NOVELS

  BY SAMANTHA TOWLE

  Revved

  Trouble

  THE STORM SERIES

  The Mighty Storm

  Wethering the Storm

  Taming the Storm

  PARANORMAL ROMANCES

  BY SAMANTHA TOWLE

  The Bringer

  THE ALEXANDRA JONES SERIES

  First Bitten

  Original Sin

  Copyright © 2015 by Samantha Towle

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  This is for all you Revved fans and #CarrickCrushers out there.

  Prologue: India

  Prologue: Leandro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue: Leandro

  Epilogue: India

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  TWO PINK LINES.

  I check the instructions again.

  Two pink lines…pregnant.

  No. Oh God, no.

  I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. I’m only seventeen. I live in a group home. I can’t have a baby. I can barely look after myself.

  It’s okay, India. Paul will know what to do.

  He’s older, responsible. He’ll fix this.

  But no one can find out that I’m pregnant. If anyone finds out that Paul and I have been sleeping together, he’ll be in trouble. Big trouble.

  I’m just afraid to tell him. What if he thinks I got pregnant on purpose?

  Kit. I need to tell Kit. He’s my twin brother, my best friend. He’ll know how to handle this.

  But if Kit finds out about Paul and me, he’ll kill Paul. My brother is really protective of me. And he might only be seventeen, but he’s big for his age.

  Oh God, what a mess.

  There’s a bang on the bathroom door at the group home I live in. There’s no peace in this place.

  “One minute!” I yell.

  My hand shaking, I push the test back into its box, shove it into my jacket pocket, and zip it up. After washing my hands, I flush the toilet and unlock the door.

  Zara, nosiest cow in the world, is on the other side. “You’ve been in there for ages. What were you doing?” She gives me a suspicious look.

  “Same thing as you’re going to do in here.” Without another word, I walk past her.

  I can’t go to my room. I need to get out of here.

  I need to talk to Paul.

  He’s not here today. He should be at home.

  I’ll go to his flat.

  I should probably text him to say that I’m coming to see him. I always have to text him to let him know.

  He worries that people might find out about us, so he says I should make sure that it’s safe for me to go.

  But nothing feels safe anymore.

  I’m going to have a baby.

  Leaving the group home, I artfully manage to dodge Kit.

  I catch a bus for the short journey to Paul’s flat.

  I get off and walk on trembling legs to his place and go up the two flights of stairs to his door.

  I ring the doorbell.

  No answer. But I know he’s here because his bicycle is outside in the hall.

  I ring again but nothing.

  Maybe he’s in the shower and can’t hear me.

  I decide to try the door. He rarely locks it if he’s in.

  Handle turns.

  I let myself inside and walk to the living room.

  Not there.

  Or the kitchen.

  I walk past the bathroom. I can’t hear the sound of running water.

  Then, I hear voices. Plural. Coming from his bedroom.

  And my heart sinks.

  No. Please no.

  Fear fills me like poison. I’m struggling to catch a breath. My body starts to shake, my heart banging against my rib cage.

  Forcing myself to move, I stand outside his bedroom door. With a trembling hand, I reach out and turn the handle.

  My sunken heart drops like a stone.

  Paul is lying on his bed. He’s naked with a woman astride him. A naked woman.

  They’re clearly having sex.

  Jesus.

  My hand clutches my stomach. The pain is so bad that it’s spreading outward to the rest of my body.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  He instantly sees me standing there, and his face blanks. Shock and fear fill his features.

  He grabs the woman by the arms, stopping her in her endeavors.

  That’s when she turns her face to me.

  Then, I see she’s not a woman at all.

  She’s a girl.

  A girl I know. Cassie. She lives at the group home where I live.

  And she’s fourteen years old.

  Bile rises in my throat.

  I stumble out of the flat to the sound of Paul’s shouting voice.

  I run out of the building, heading straight for the bus stop, which is thankfully empty. I hide around the back of the bus shelter, so Paul can’t see me.

  I swipe the tears from my cheeks.

  Cassie. She’s only fourteen.

  But wasn’t I fifteen when Paul started sleeping with me? It seemed so romantic that a man wanted me then, but now, after seeing him with her…it seems wrong.

  Why didn’t I see it then? Why didn’t I see what kind of man he is?

  Now, I’m pregnant—with the man who works at my group home.

  A man who likes to have sex with teenage girls.

  I can’t stop myself from throwing up.

  When I reach the point of dry-heaving, I try to steady my breathing. My mind is going a mile a minute.

  Moving away from the stench of my own vomit, I stand around to the side, still staying out of sight. Hand pressed to my stomach, I lean my back against the shelter. I slowly pull my phone from my pocket and speed-dial the only person in the world I have.

  Kit answers on the first ring, “What’s wrong?”

  Twin intuition. Kit and I al
ways know when there’s a problem with the other.

  “I’m in trouble.” Tears tumble down my cheeks.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I-I…I’m pregnant.”

  Silence.

  But I can hear him breathing down the line.

  “Kit?”

  “Where are you?” Disappointment laces his voice.

  It slices me wide open.

  A sob escapes me. I take a deep breath. “I’m at a bus stop.”

  “Where?”

  I hold my breath before speaking next, “The one near…Paul’s flat.”

  More silence.

  He doesn’t need to say anything. I hear it in that silence.

  That’s how Kit deals with things. He doesn’t rage or shout. His silence is his anger, and it speaks volumes.

  “I’m coming to get you now.” There’s a barely restrained edge in his voice.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Kit. Please,” I sob.

  “I’m not angry with you, India.” His voice is marginally softer.

  But he always calls me Indy. He only calls me India when he’s angry with me.

  “I’m angry with that motherfucker. No, I’m fucking beyond angry. I’m livid. I’m gonna kill that motherfucking pervert!”

  “Kit…no! Please!”

  “I’m coming now, India. And don’t you fucking move from where you are. I mean it.”

  Then, he’s gone, and I’m left clutching the phone in my hand. Feeling like my life is over, I pray to God to fix this.

  CLOSING MY EYES, I recite the words of my hero, the great Ayrton Senna, in my head, as I always do before each race.

  “Being second is to be the first of the ones who lose.”

  Right before I climb into my car, I pray it works for me this time.

  I can’t lose.

  I have to win this race.

  My points are down, but I am on poll today. But still, that pain-in-my-ass Carrick Ryan could beat me again if I don’t pull it out of the bag today.

  I can fucking do this.

  I’m Leandro Silva, for fuck’s sake.

  I’m the man who men want to be.

  Pulling on my helmet, I slide in the cockpit.

  Focus is everything right now.

  My life is fucking great. And I can make it even better if I take the gold home today.

  Brazil will love me even more if I win today.

  My mechanic hands me my steering wheel. I fix it in place.

  I’m ready to go.

  I give a nod to let my mechanics know that I am ready. The voices in my ears start talking.

  I pull out into the lane and begin my warm up lap.

  Then, I’m in starting position, along with the other drivers.

  My engine is revving, and I am more than ready.

  Red…

  Red…

  Red…

  Red…

  Red…

  Go!

  I slam down hard on the accelerator and start moving alongside all the other cars, gaining traction.

  Soon enough, I’m in the lead. Ryan is hot on my tail, but I keep this up, and I’m golden. I’m in for a win for sure.

  Winning in my home country…nothing better. Well, apart from winning the championship.

  I reach a corner. I steer through it.

  What the fuck? She’s sticking. I can’t turn.

  Fuck! I tug at the steering wheel, trying to turn, but she won’t give, and the corner is coming up too fast.

  Panicked voices are in my ears. They know something is wrong, but I can’t speak, too focused on what is happening right now.

  Come on, baby. Turn.

  No matter what I do, the steering wheel is stuck, and I’m not going to turn in time.

  Oh God.

  I know there’s nothing I can do.

  This is it. I’m fucked.

  The wall comes at me fast. I close my eyes.

  The impact is as hard as I expected. I feel my body shatter.

  Pain…excruciating.

  My skin…hot.

  Smoke in my lungs.

  Can’t breathe…

  Blackness.

  YOU EVER HAVE THE KNOWLEDGE of why you are somewhere, but you’re not really sure if it is the right place to be?

  That’s how I feel while sitting in the waiting room of my new therapist, Dr. India Harris.

  Well, I say new because this is the first time I’m meeting with her.

  How the fuck did it come to this? When did I turn into this version of myself? A man who needs to see a therapist.

  Of course I know the answer to that question.

  The day of my accident. The day I nearly died.

  Well, technically, I did die, but the doctors managed to resuscitate me.

  Shame.

  Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better if they hadn’t. Now, I am less than half the man I used to be. A pussified version of myself, who can’t climb into a regular car, let alone my race car.

  I can’t drive. And without that, I am nothing.

  Now, I have to see a goddamn therapist as my last-ditch attempt to get me back into a car.

  So, I’m here to see Dr. Harris because she’s apparently one of the best.

  She’ll fix me.

  Part of me is intrigued to see if that is even possible because I know how truly fucked up I am. And it is going to take a fucking miracle worker to bring back the Leandro Silva of before.

  The Leandro the world wonders what the hell has happened to.

  Am I here by choice? No.

  My team is making me. Well, making me sounds harsh. They didn’t drag me here, kicking and screaming. I’m under contract, so I’m currently being paid to do nothing.

  I sit on my ass and drink and fuck women.

  I don’t work for my money.

  At the last meeting, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn’t pull my head out of my ass and start racing again, my contract would not be renewed.

  It makes sense. Who would want to spend millions of pounds on a racing driver who can’t race?

  My mother would happily never have me race again.

  But my colleagues and friends think it’s time I sort my shit out.

  Particularly, my friend—a person who, twelve months ago, I would never have thought I would call a friend—Carrick Ryan. Once my rival, he’s now, surprisingly, my closest friend.

  After my accident, he and his then girlfriend and now wife, Andi, came to visit me in the hospital back home in Brazil.

  Every time they were back in Brazil to visit Andi’s mother or to attend a race for Carrick, which was regularly, they would come see me.

  Then, Carrick and I started talking on the phone.

  When I realized he wasn’t the dick I thought he was, we became friends.

  Dr. Harris is Andi’s therapist. She recommended the doctor to me. Andi has been seeing her to deal with her fears over Carrick’s racing, which are related to her father dying in a race when she was a small child. Her dad died in front of her. It royally screwed her up.

  Both Andi and Carrick assure me that Dr. Harris will be able to help me.

  Hence, why my ass is in this chair in the waiting room.

  Impatient, I glance at the clock, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair.

  My appointment was due to start five minutes ago.

  I hate waiting.

  I’ll wait five more minutes, and then I’m out of here.

  My eyes move to the magazines on the table. A sports mag is peeking out from under the fashion mags. Leaning forward, I pull it out, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

  On the cover of the magazine is a picture of me with the caption, What the Bad Side of Formula 1 Looks Like.

  Nice.

  So, now, I’m the bad side of Formula 1. Good to know.

  I already know what the media say about me. How I’ve turned from a great racer into a drunk and a whore.

  They’re not wrong on the whore pa
rt. Well, whore is a bit harsh. I don’t charge for my services. And I wouldn’t say I’m a drunk. I just like to drink—a lot.

  I shouldn’t read the article. I know this, but the sadistic part of me has me turning those pages.

  Finding the article, eyes scanning the text, I pick out the usual shit.

  Why is Silva no longer racing? Physically, he’s healthy. Is it mental problems? Fear over racing because of his accident? Is that why he drinks—drowning his misery in alcohol? Such a shame to see a once great driver fall from grace so dramatically.

  Frustration and rage grip my chest like a vise.

  Fuck this. I don’t need this shit.

  Even though I can’t race, it’s not like I actually need to.

  I don’t need to race. I just need to drink and fuck. That’s all I need now. All I will ever need.

  Liar.

  I’m a liar and a chickenshit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room to see a therapist.

  Maybe I am beyond help.

  Tossing the magazine back onto the table, I get to my feet, ready to leave this place, just as the door opens, revealing the epitome of what I could really do with screwing right now.

  My eyes trail up the tanned, toned legs to the fitted pencil skirt that I would happily hitch up to see the magnificent pussy that I bet lies beneath. A pale-pink blouse is tucked into that skirt, covering what looks like a fantastically sized pair of tits. Silky blonde hair sits on her shoulders. Hair that I would enjoy getting my hands all tangled in while I fuck those bright red lips of hers, enjoying seeing that lipstick smeared all over my cock.

  My dick pulses in my jeans, more than ready to proposition her with the offer.

  “Mr. Silva.” She steps forward. “I’m Dr. Harris. But please call me India.”

  She’s Dr. Harris?

  This hitch-your-skirt-up-and-let-me-fuck-you-right-now woman is my new therapist.

  Well, that’s just fucking great. It’s not like I can bang my therapist.

  I put my cock on hold and give her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, as I say, “And you can call me Leandro.”

  “Leandro. Okay.”

  I see a definite flush in her cheeks. The same flush I see in all women who want to fuck me.

  Stop it. She’s your therapist.

  Not yet she isn’t. This is only my first session to see if we like each other.

  We might not.

  Who am I kidding? I definitely like her. Well, I would like her right up until I came, and then I wouldn’t want to see her again.