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I’m still praying his eyes will blink open and he’ll give me shit in his most insufferable tone. The only answer is the slow beep of machines, the deadly calm of Jameson’s utter stillness.

“If this is because you promised you wouldn’t let me lose, you shouldn’t be so literal.”

I think of our car feud, our study sessions in the library, making out on the back of his bike. He’s shown me he cares: gifting me my dream upgrade for the Fastback; protecting opportunities for me and my friends, even when it cost him; keeping quiet about my dad once I told him; being concerned enough to ask how I was in the fallout.

He had my back when I needed him. Who has his?

My hand presses against my chest, over the bump from my ring.

It saved you.

I hesitate before I reach up to unfasten the necklace and slide it off. It falls into loops of chain in my hand. I press it into Jameson’s, folding his fingers around it.

Then the nurse is here, pulling a cart of supplies into the room.

“How did you get in here?” she demands.

Another presence fills the room before I can answer. Luca Ashford stands in the doorway like he owns the building.

His gaze goes to Jameson. Then to me.

“I know you. You were at my house.” His voice is flat. “She doesn’t belong here.”

My hand tightens around Jameson’s. “I’m not leaving.”

Luca’s mouth barely moves when he speaks. “You don’t get a vote.”

“You did this,” I say. “You built a rivalry and told them it was a family.”

“Shay.” Theo’s voice breaks in, raw and breathless as he pushes past his father. “I got here as fast as I could.” He’s still wearing his fire suit, his face plastered with rain and sweat.

His eyes go to Jameson and he turns white. “Is he—”

“I don’t know.”

The nurse raises her voice. “Everyone who isn’t immediate family needs to leave.”

I let go of Jameson’s hand slowly. Putting space between us hurts.

“Theo.” I pause halfway to the door. “Look out for him, or I swear—”

“He’ll never forgive me?” He swallows.

“I won’t.”

31

Jameson

I can’t lift my arm without seeing stars.

Three days ago, I could take a corner flat out at two hundred miles an hour. Now, I can’t pull a fire suit over my head without help.

“Luca still wants footage of both?” The photographer whispers to the assistant.

“That’s what he said.”

Driving with an injury, particularly a collarbone fracture, is going to suck, but I’m in a sling for the next few weeks. At least I’m supposed to be, though my record for that has been dismal so far—I’ve already ditched the sling today for media.