Carter
Chapter twenty
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice finally breaking the silence that’s been stretching between us since we left the mansion.
He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "You’ll see, Shortcut."
Before I can push for more, his right hand leaves the gear shift.
It doesn't go back to the wheel. Instead, it settles on my thigh, his palm a heavy, grounding weight through the fabric of my jeans.
He doesn't move it. He doesn't squeeze. He just leaves it there, a silent, steady claim that makes the air feel twice as thick.
My pulse jumps under his touch, but I don't pull away.
I just lean my head back against the leather and watch the world go by, feeling the warmth of his hand seep through my skin.
The facility doesn’t look like a hospital; it looks like a manor house that decided to retire in the woods.
But the illusion cracks the second we step into the main lobby.
A woman in soft gray scrubs crosses the marble floor with a clipboard tucked to her chest, murmuring something low and efficient to the man beside her.
Across the room, someone reclines in a wide armchair with a blanket draped over their legs, an IV stand parked neatly at their side like it belongs there.We move into a corridor that smells of expensive beeswax and fresh linen—crisp, clean, and just shy of sterile, like the place is trying to dress medicine up as luxury.
Now, we’re standing in front of a door. It’s heavy, polished mahogany that reflects the dim light of the corridor, looking more like the entrance to a private library than a patient’s room.
He doesn't knock immediately. He adjusts his posture, his chest rising in a slow, controlled breath that he seems to hold for a second too long. When he finally reaches out, his knuckles rap against the wood in a rhythmic, familiar pattern.
The latch clicks. A woman in scrubs pulls the door back, her professional face melting into a genuine smile the second she looks up.
"He's here," she says softly, stepping back to let us pass.
Dominic doesn't just pass her; he stops, leaning down to pull her into a brief, easy hug. "Good to see you, Beth. How’s the knee holding up?"
"Better since you sent that specialist's number," she says, patting his arm before stepping aside. "She’s been watching the clock for you. You know how she gets.”
He pauses in the threshold. He turns his head just enough to catch my eye, and something in his expression gives.
He shoots me a small, lopsided grin—one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
It’s a look that doesn't belong to a billboard or a podium; it’s raw and startlingly young.
My stomach performs a slow, heavy flip, the kind that reminds me how much I’ve underestimated the pull of the guy beneath the track.
"Ready?" he murmurs, his voice barely a vibration.
The room is an explosion of light, filtered through massive floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the valley.
It’s luxurious but lived-in—velvet armchairs, a soft cashmere throw tossed over the foot of a bed, and books piled high on every available surface.
It feels warm, like a sanctuary, but there’s a distinct lack of the one thing I expected to see.
The air is clean and floral, smelling of the jasmine outside.
Near the bay window, a woman sits at a small table, her back to us. She’s staring out at the trees, her hands resting perfectly still on the table’s edge.
"Mom," Dominic says.
She turns, and the transformation is instant.
Her face radiates a glow that seems to push back the lines of the room, her features a softer, more delicate blueprint of Dominic’s.
As she moves, the chrome wheels of a wheelchair catch the light.
I freeze for a fraction of a second, the sight anchoring me to the floor.
It isn't a shock, just a sudden, quiet recalibration.
She reaches for the wheels, her movements practiced and fluid, but she only manages a few inches before Dominic is moving.
He crosses the room in three long strides, closing the distance before she can exert herself.
He sinks low in front of her, his large frame folding naturally to meet her level.
It’s a jarring shift—the man who carries himself with a sharp, defensive armor around his father is suddenly reachable, his shoulders dropping as he pulls her into a slow, quiet hug.
"You're late," she utters into his hair, her eyes bright with a fierce, protective kind of love. "I was beginning to think the road had swallowed you whole."
"Traffic," he lies easily, pulling back but keeping his hands anchored to the armrests of her chair. He looks up at her with a quick, playful narrow of his eyes. "And maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually miss me for once."
"In your dreams," she shoots back, tapping his cheek. Her gaze drifts to me, and that bashful tension returns to Dominic.
He stands, his hand finding the back of his neck to scratch at the nape. "Mom, this is Carter. Carter, this is my mom."
"It's so lovely to meet you," I say, my voice feeling thin in the wake of the intimacy I just witnessed.
She doesn't wait for me to come to her. She maneuvers the chair closer, reaching out to take my hand. Her skin is cool, her grip light but intentional, her eyes scanning my face with a sharp, intuitive curiosity.
"So, this is the famous Carter," she says, her smile deepening into something knowing. "He talks about you quite a bit. I was starting to wonder if you were just some figment he’d hallucinated between laps."
I feel a spark race up my neck, and I shoot a sideways look at Dominic. He suddenly becomes very interested in the alignment of the silver spoon next to the saucer on the table.
"The famous Carter?" I manage a small, dry laugh. "I’m sure he’s been complaining more than anything. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a migraine."
"A migraine?" Dominic interjects, his voice regaining its usual dry edge, though his eyes remain soft. "Don't flatter yourself. You're more like a persistent low-grade fever."
His mom lets out a silver bell of a laugh.
"A migraine that he can’t seem to stop mentioning," she muses, her eyes still locked on the way Dominic is standing just a bit closer to me than necessary. "But then, the Valerio men have always had a penchant for things that challenge them. Dominic’s father was the same way."
She says it with a light, conversational shrug.
Dominic’s reaction is instantaneous. The dry, playful look he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a stony stillness.
"Alright, that’s enough," he says. The dry humor is gone, replaced by a flat, clinical tone.
He reaches for the handles of her chair to guide her toward the table, but she simply places a hand over his. It’s a quiet, firm brush-off. Dominic’s mouth shifts as he lets go, stepping back to let her help herself.
He pivots to the table and pulls out a chair for me. He doesn't say a word, his movements fluid and mechanical, but he stays standing until I’m seated.
His mother doesn't miss a beat. She ignores the sudden, rigid line of Dominic’s shoulders as if the mention of his father was nothing more than a passing cloud. She leans back, her eyes regaining that bright, observant dancing quality.
"So," she says, adjusting as we settle in. Her eyes are bright, dancing with a warmth that makes the room feel less like a facility and more like a home. "I heard a rumor that you’ve officially joined the team? Bringing some much-needed logic to the garage?"
Joined? I think. Is that what we're calling it? My mind flashes to the way he practically cornered me into the position, a mix of arrogance and desperation. Or was I drafted?
"Something like that," I say, offering a polite smile. "I’m mostly there to make sure the telemetry doesn't lie as much as the drivers do. It’s easier to debug a system than it is to debug whatever is going on in his head.”
His mom lets out a laugh. "A noble pursuit.
Dominic was never very good with the finer details of...
well, anything that stays still long enough to be analyzed.
He prefers the parts of life that move too fast to read.
" She glances at her son, her expression sharpening with a playful glint.
"I imagine he made the recruitment process very difficult to ignore.
He can be quite... persuasive when he finds something he wants. "
Dominic lets out a quiet snort. The rigidness in his neck hasn't vanished, but the armor is starting to show its seams.
"He has his ways," I concede, catching her eye. "But I think his persuasiveness is just a cover for the fact that he can't actually read a spreadsheet without help."
"Exactly!" she winks at me, leaning in as if we're co-conspirators. "He used to hide his homework under his bed and tell me it was 'a calculated risk.' He’s lucky he’s quick-minded, otherwise, he’d be out of a job."
Dominic’s mouth works for a second, fighting back a reaction, but then a small, involuntary grin cracks his stony expression. He shakes his head, leaning back and finally looking at us both.
"I’m sitting right here," he mutters, though the edge is gone from his voice. He reaches for the water pitcher, his movements fluid again. "And for the record, the machine only does what I tell it to."
"Oh, I’m sure," she murmurs, her gaze drifting back to me with a look of pure, unchecked delight.
"He's just sensitive," I add, leaning a shoulder toward him. "Usually, when the sensors show a massive spike in brake temps, it’s because he’s decided the entry speed was a suggestion rather than a physics-based limit."
Dominic lets out a short, dry breath. "It’s called finding the limit. If I stayed as far back from the edge as your software wants me to, I’d be fighting for P12 with the guys who are just happy to be there."