Racer
“My sister’s off limits,” I hear Lana’s brother say as he follows me to my room.
“So’s mine.” I grin.
He smiles, then narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve got, I don’t think you’ve got much. F1 isn’t like the streets. But my sister went through the trouble recruiting you, so we might as well give you a shot.”
I know what he’s trying to do: intimidate the rookie, make him walk a straight line, draw the line, set the rules.
I break the rules.
I respect no line.
I couldn’t walk a straight line if I tried.
And intimidating me is impossible.
So I tell it like it is: “I don’t see many other guys lined up to take my place.”
He clenches his jaw, then he shoots me a look and bursts out laughing. I can’t help but chuckle too, our postures easing.
“My sister’s got it in her head to save this team—I hope you realize how lucky you got. I expect you out on the track at 7 a.m. Sharp.”
With that, he leaves, and I head into my room, toss my duffel bags into the ground and stare out the window, crack my knuckles. Far away from home. I was fine—racing making me happy. But always fucking restless. Going from city to city, looking for the next high. Dad said I didn’t take anything seriously.
Maybe it’s true.
Anything except racing.
And now her.
I don’t know what it is about her, but from the moment I saw her I wanted to claim, conquer, and own.
Fuck me, worst part is that I’m lying to her. I’ll lie to her whole family. I don’t want her to know.
I want her too much.
I want to race too much.
Be well, motherfucker, I curse myself. It’s been months without an episode. I feel good—I want to be better than good. I want to pretend that’s all behind me. Pull out my meds. I shove them back into the very bottom of my duffel bag.
