Page 1 of Racing Dirty Trilogy Box Set

Prologue

Izabella

Heartbreak.

I know this word.

I live this word every single day.

Someone once told me, ‘ If you never experience heartbreak, you’ve never truly loved.’

Well, they can shove that advice where the sun doesn’t shine.

My heart has been shattered for five years.

No matter what I do, I can’t move on. My hands still ache to run through the silky strands of his jet-black hair.

His scent lingers in my lungs, haunting me like a ghost. There are days when I swear I feel the burn of his blue eyes watching me.

The ocean air, the chirping birds, the roar of an engine, something always reminds me of him.

Even moving thousands of miles away wasn’t enough to escape the pain.

It hurt.

I hurt.

I hurt my dad.

I hurt my friends.

I even hurt him.

A jolt snaps me back to reality as bodies move around me. The flashing white figure on the crosswalk signal reminds me to keep walking.

I have my earbuds in, drowning out the noise of L.A. traffic as I weave through the crowd. Someone bumps into me, nearly knocking me off balance.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, not that he hears me. The city is too loud for that.

My long blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of my head, I’m wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses hiding my soulful green eyes. Ripped blue jeans and a white cotton t-shirt that reads, ‘If it isn’t dirty, it isn’t racing’ finish my wardrobe, along with my black, badass racing boots.

With a cup of Starbucks caramel macchiato in my hand, I hitch my colorful messenger bag higher on my shoulder and continue toward the towering white building that has been my home for the past four years. The former IBM Aerospace Headquarters is now Otis College of Art and Design.

Five years ago, I left everything behind and moved to Los Angeles to become a graphic designer. I should have graduated last year, but I took a year off when I first moved here. Healing a broken heart takes time.

I inhale deeply, pushing the past aside as I enter the building. My final exam in the creative arts class I’ve been taking is today, and I need to focus so I can receive my degree.

Two hours later, I drag myself back to my dorm, exhaustion settling into my bones.

I gently open the white door leading into the shared room.

Ashley, my roommate, is still in class, so I have the room to myself.

I drop my messenger bag to the floor and head straight to the bathroom, washing the grime of the city from my face.

The moment I collapse onto my bed, my body sinks into the mattress.

Sleep has been a rare luxury these past five years. Every time I close my eyes, I see piercing blue ones staring back at me, caressing me, loving me. Some nights, I let myself get lost in the memories. Other nights, I fight to stay awake, unwilling to relive the past.

Before my heavy lids close, I glance around the dorm room. In a few weeks, I’ll have to pack up and decide, go home or stay here and build a future. The thought unsettles me.

The quaint, cozy room has been my home for the last four years and it will be hard to leave.

There’s a counter with built-in dressers beneath to the right of the door as you walk in and a full bathroom on the left.

Two beds on opposite sides take up the back part of the room.

A bright carpet covers the floor and is soft under the feet.

The walls are a pristine white and both Ashley and I hung posters all over them.

My roommate, Ashley, has movie posters and hot guys on her side, typical L.A.

native wall candy. Mine are street racing cars and graphics of my dad’s racing theme, which are my designs, on my wall.

There’s a black and white bedspread on my bed, to the right of the room.

There is an enormous bay window above the double beds that take up the entire back wall and at night, I gaze out the window and reflect on my past and the reasons I’m here.

The night sky and radiant stars remind me of loving someone who didn’t love me back enough to keep fighting for us, he let me walk away.

I pull out my cell phone from my jeans pocket and check my messages. Mia, my best friend from home in Michigan sent me several texts while I was in class.

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. Mia.

Mia: Izzy, call me.

Mia: I know you’re in class, but I really need you to call me.

Mia: Call me, it’s important.

Mia: You won’t believe who came into my work and asked me out.

Mia: Okay, you’re busy, but I’ll keep annoying you.

Twenty unread messages, all from Mia. Typical.

Mia is very eccentric and doesn’t care who she bugs or how often. She will keep going until you answer her.

I silence my phone and toss it onto my nightstand.

I love Mia, but I’m not in the mood for her antics tonight.

I’m not in the talking mood either and don't want to be bugged by anyone. I’ve been off all day and need to get my head back on straight after my dream last night.

I dreamt of my ex-boyfriend, his betrayal, and the heartache of that dreadful night, even though it’s been five years.

True love hurts, and I haven’t been able to move on. I’ve dated a few times, but none of the guys here match up to one particular guy, who smells like performance racing fuel and leather. Sometimes, when I let my guard down, his scent invades my senses and grief surrounds me.

I roll onto my side, facing the wall, and let my exhaustion pull me under. My phone lights up, but I don’t hear it as my eyelids become heavy. I dream about racing cars, a man who stole my heart, and the betrayal following quickly after.