Chapter 15 Lines In The Sand #2
Those storm-green mirrors of my own, currently glazed with drugs and pain and guilt that he's carried for years without knowing the full story.
I try to smile.
Know it doesn't reach my eyes, doesn't carry any genuine warmth or reassurance. It's the smile I wear at family dinners when relatives make comments about Omegas knowing their place. The smile I use when Alphas at the garage make assumptions about my capabilities.
The smile that protects everyone except me.
I lean down, whispering close enough that only he can hear.
"Hurry up and get better. It's annoying not having you to fight with. I can't deal with only Cale's obnoxiousness."
I straighten and move toward the door before this conversation can go any deeper, before the carefully constructed walls I've built around that particular trauma can crack.
"Sorry, I couldn't protect you," Roran whispers just as my hand touches the doorknob.
I don't turn around.
Don't acknowledge them because if I do, I'll break down completely, and there's a race in less than thirty minutes.
Instead, I blink rapidly, forcing back tears that threaten to form, and walk out.
The hallway is cooler than his room, the air-conditioned atmosphere a shock against my flushed skin. I lean against the wall for just a moment, letting myself feel the weight of everything before I have to set it aside and become Rory Lane the racer instead of Aurora Lane the damaged Omega.
Then I move.
The locker room is mercifully empty when I arrive; everyone else is already at their stations preparing for the qualifier.
I grab one of Roran's racing suits from his personal locker—we're identical enough in build when I'm bound and layered that it should work—and strip out of my tech coveralls with mechanical efficiency.
The binding comes first. Fresh wrapping because the one from this morning is still in the hospital waste bin. The pressure around my ribs makes breathing difficult, makes my injuries protest, but it's necessary.
The racing suit is form-fitting enough that any hint of curves would be immediately noticeable.
I pull on the fire-resistant underlayer, then the suit itself. It's slightly loose in the shoulders—Roran's been working out more than I have—but otherwise fits well enough.
The helmet is next, and I pause before putting it on.
The mirror shows Rory Lane staring back. Short blonde hair with strategic highlights. Sharp features that read masculine at first glance. The star crescent tattoo under my right eye currently hidden beneath makeup.
I reach for a makeup wipe and carefully, deliberately, remove the concealer covering the tattoo.
The star crescent emerges in sharp relief against my skin—identical to Roran's placement, one of the few physical markers that distinguish us as twins rather than just siblings.
If I'm going to do this—if I'm going to race in his place—I might as well look the part. Might as well be as close to my twin as possible for anyone who's paying attention.
The woman in the mirror stares back with storm-green eyes that carry too much history and not enough sleep.
Then I put on the helmet, and she disappears entirely behind the dark visor.
Now I'm just a driver.
Designation irrelevant. Gender immaterial. Nothing but skill and nerve and the willingness to push machinery to its absolute limits.
I grab my gear and head toward the garage bay where the second prototype is waiting.
Jenna's there, tablet in hand, coordinating the final checks with the kind of focused intensity that makes her invaluable during crisis situations.
"Cale's already lined up," she says without preamble, not looking up from her screen. "They're about to make official announcements. You need to be in position in three minutes."
I nod, sliding into the car with practiced efficiency.
The cockpit fits like a second skin—seat molded to accommodate driver dimensions, controls positioned exactly where muscle memory expects them.
It's not my usual environment, but the fundamentals are the same.
Steering wheel, pedals, gear shift, a dashboard full of information that my brain knows how to parse.
The engine rumbles to life with a roar that vibrates through the chassis and into my bones.
God, I've missed this feeling.
The announcement system crackles to life, pulling everyone's attention toward the screens positioned throughout the facility.
"Good afternoon, drivers and teams. Welcome to the emergency Formula One qualifier. The rules are as follows..."
The announcer's voice drones through standard regulations—track boundaries, penalty conditions, overtaking protocols. Things every professional driver has memorized since childhood.
But then comes the final rule.
The one that changes everything.
"...and finally, per the reinstated Omega Participation Initiative: each team advancing to the top twenty positions will be required to field at least one Omega driver in competitive Formula One races. Failure to meet this requirement will result in immediate disqualification from the league."
The announcer pauses, letting that sink in.
"Best of luck to all competitors."
The announcement ends, and chaos erupts.
I can hear it through the comm system—teams cursing, strategists scrambling, the sudden realization that half the field might not qualify regardless of performance because they don't have Omega drivers.
The techs in my ear are no exception.
"Fuck!"
"How are we supposed to—"
"We don't have an Omega on the team—"
"Roran can't race if the rule requires—"
I start moving the car toward the starting line, cutting through the panic with action.
Cale's voice cuts through the chatter, sharp with frustration.
"Where's Roran? How the fuck are we going to get into the top ten when we don't have an Omega driver now that they just announced this shit?"
I key my mic, keeping my voice pitched in that lower register that's become second nature.
"Well, everyone's stuck in the same boat standing at the starting line."
There's absolute silence on the comm channel.
One second. Two. Three.
Then—
"Rory." Cale's voice is flat, dangerous, carrying a note I've learned means he's equal parts furious and impressed. "That's fucking Rory in the car."
"Rory?" one of the techs repeats, confused. "But Rory's in the pit—"
"Man, Cale, you have some serious bromance obsession with our tech," another voice laughs nervously.
"No." Cale's certainty cuts through any doubt. "I know Rory Lane's voice. That's one hundred percent him."
I sigh, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at my lips even though no one can see it beneath the helmet.
"Can we concentrate on the race ahead, partner in crime?"
"You're so fucking dead," Cale growls, but there's something underneath the threat. Relief, maybe. Or recognition that I'm giving us a fighting chance when we otherwise had none.
I smirk, hands tightening on the steering wheel as the starting grid lights begin their sequence.
"Well," I say, voice carrying just enough challenge to provoke him, "you'd best catch me first if you want to kill me."
The lights turn red.
Five lights illuminated.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for the explosive acceleration the moment the lights go green.
This is it.
No more shadows.
No more hiding behind my brother's success or my own carefully constructed limitations.
Just me, a car, and a track full of drivers who have no idea what's about to hit them.
The lights turn green.
And I floor it.