Present Day
“Jax, your breakfast is getting cold! What do you do all morning in your room? We threw out all your Playboy magazines years ago!” My mum’s voice buzzes through the intercom in my old room.
This is what happens when I visit my family during the winter break. Nothing says vacation quite like early morning wake-up calls and accusations about jerking off before my morning tea.
I groan as I get out of bed and press the button on the speaker. “I’m disappointed in you. The last thing I want to hear when I’m on the brink of orgasm is my mum’s voice.”
Her laugh makes the tiny speaker in my room crackle. “You’re disgusting. God forgive me for raising someone with such a naughty mouth. Get down here—your dad left for a meeting and I hate eating by myself.”
We’re that type of family, with intercoms and a full-time staff because Dad was a hotshot boxer back in the day who built a lavish life with nothing but his fists. He doesn’t fight anymore, but his investments speak for themselves.
We fall into the same upper-crust financial bracket as the wankers who used to laugh at Dad because he came from poverty. Welcome to the dark side; we have trust funds and more investments than the goddamn stock market.
“I’ll be there in a few.” I step away from the wall and enter my bathroom, wanting to wash away my morning grogginess.
I hadn’t planned on visiting before the start of the F1 season, but Mum begged me. It’s hard to say no to her, especially when she says I won’t be home for Easter. Plus, it’s not like I had many fun activities planned, seeing as Liam’s busy with Sophie, and Noah spends all his spare time with Maya. Our original trio is down to me.
God help us all.
I grab my medicine bottle from my toiletries bag. A pretty white pill stands out against my bronzed skin, tempting me to take the edge off. With a short half-life, an American doctor’s clearance, and F1’s mental-health clause, I’m able to take a Xanax whenever the mood strikes. And as of lately, it seems to be a fuck ton.
Me—a Formula 1 driver and arsehole extraordinaire—suffers from clinical anxiety. If people got wind of it, they might laugh their arse off before I kick theirs, showing them exactly what happens when I feel a different type of edgy. From the outside, I don’t look anxious, but on the inside, I’m a motherfucking mess.
Ever since I was a kid, my brain’s like a hamster on a wheel, focusing on the same issues over and over again. With anxiety comes panic attack symptoms. They hit me, with my knees nearly buckling, my chest feeling tight, and my fingers shaking to the point of uselessness.
The panic attacks started a couple of years ago, putting a damper on my mood and productivity. They usually hit when I’m stressed to my maximum like when I’m dealing with my parents or if I become overwhelmed with the future. They’ve progressively gotten worse over the past year. After one discreet attack last year in the middle of a race that McCoy labeled a “technical malfunction,” I decided pills were my only solution. I didn’t want to go to therapy, so I found an American doctor who would fix my problem without sharing my feelings. Now, Xanax keeps me sane enough to ensure my race car doesn’t end up in the nearest wall during every race.
I count the panicky feelings as my penance for living my life to the fullest while my mum suffers. The shit happening to me is a constant reminder of Mum’s similar symptoms. Huntington’s Disease is a bitch like that, stealing moments from her year by year. It makes her weak and feeble. My role model and light of my life experiences the worst kind of medical prognosis, yet here I am living a lavish life with F1. Panic attacks and anxiety seem small in comparison.
But you know what the professionals say: a couple of Xannies a day make the worries go away.
I swallow back the pill before exiting my room, no longer in the mood to hang around with my shitty thoughts. My footsteps echo off the marble floors as I walk through our luxurious home. The bright walls match the light tones Mum chose, creating a welcoming space I find hard to leave at times. Hotel rooms I live out of each week fail to compare.
My mum smiles at me as I enter the kitchen built for a chef. “If it isn’t my favorite son.”
“I’m your only child, which means I’m automatically the favorite.” I walk over and place a kiss on the top of her head before taking a seat across from her.
“You’ve always been a cheeky little thing who can never take a compliment.” Her shaky fingers pull at her blonde, straight strands.
I’m the loving result of my mum’s Swedish heritage and my dad’s Black Londoner genes. Kids used to call me a mutt. Although it used to bother me, I’ve since learned women dig the pouty lips from my dad and the fused hazel eyes from both my parents. Not to mention the soft curls I currently have cropped at the sides while unruly at the top.
“I apologize. Where are my manners?”
“Probably lost somewhere between here and Monaco. Jackie brings up your casino night every year like clockwork.”
“That story has outlived Prince Harry’s Las Vegas trip. I’d like to say I’m possibly the rowdier Brit after all.” I lift my brows up and down.
Our family maid, Jackie, places my breakfast and tea in front of me. “Even though your mother treats you like her little prince, you’re anything but a royal.”
“Ouch. You’ll be kissing my boots once I’m knighted.” I wink.
“By who? The bottle server at your VIP table doesn’t count.” Jackie crosses her arms as she leans against the kitchen island.
My mum lets out a loud laugh. “Do you have to leave in a week?”
“You’re the only one I’d ever consider quitting F1 for, even if it was for a whole two seconds.” I shake my head at her.
“That’s one second better than yesterday. Imagine if I keep you here for months, then I’ll probably get my way eventually.” My mum lifts her teacup to her lips. Her trembling fingers cause the liquid to slosh before half the contents spill onto her hand and dress.
“Shit. Let me help you.” I grab my cloth napkin and mop up the spilled tea, swiping away droplets from her pale skin.
“How embarrassing.” She sighs.
My heart aches at the resigned look on her face. I sense a wave of panic building in my chest, the burn making my lungs hurt with each breath. Xan, please feel free to kick in any time now.
I exude a calmness that doesn’t match my accelerated heart rate. “What did the doctor say yesterday?”
She sends me the smallest smile. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”
“Mum…”
She gives me the sassiest eye roll, replacing her distress. “Okay, fine. He said we can monitor the recent issues I’ve had with my mood and movement. But overall, I’m doing pretty well. They have high hopes.”
“Is that good news then? Maybe it’s not as bad as they think.”
Her trembling hand cups my cheek. “Well, they say I can potentially live a few years longer than expected.”
“So, you’re talking another fifteen years with us, give or take?” I resent how uncertain my voice sounds.
“It’s not a sure thing. I wish I could give you more information, but that’s all I have.” Her smile wobbles.
I push my plate aside, no longer in the mood for food. “And what did he say could fix the tremors?”
“The only thing we can do is monitor how bad they get. Oh, and he said to help with stress, my son should stop being stubborn and get—”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“The answer is no.” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I hate to disappoint you, truly, but there’s no point.” My hands shake beneath the table.
“I can’t help trying. Whenever I go to the doctor, I worry about you. I think of how anxious you get and the pills you started taking last year. Benzos aren’t even good for you, so don’t try to downplay it. I wonder if the shaking is because of—”
“Mum, please stop worrying about me.” My voice comes out in a whisper. Shit, I hate how she can get to me like no other, but I need to stay firm. “Can we please drop this conversation? Let’s enjoy the last week before I have to go. I don’t know how soon I can make it back with Liam gone and everything changing at McCoy.” My voice reeks of desperation, rasping and cracking as I look at her with wide eyes.
“I will, for now, but only because I fall for your puppy eyes every time. That’s how you ended up with four cavities by five years old.”
“I’ve always been a charmer.” I shoot her my most dazzling smile, hoping to ward off all her worries about the topic.
“Trust me, I’m quite aware of your Daily Mail headlines. You’ve tempted me to bleach my eyes one too many times.”
I cringe. “Sorry, Mum.”
“I look forward to the day you meet the right kind of woman and put those club days to rest.”
I laugh. “Meeting and committing are two very different things.”
“With that smart mouth, who could resist you?”
Jackie grabs my unfinished plate. “Any woman who thinks with her brain rather than her clit.”
Mum stifles her laugh. “Jackie, you’re awful.”
“I say it like I see it.” Jackie shrugs before heading toward the sink.
“Now after ruining my appetite, the least you can do is make your mum happy. You know what I love more than anything.”
“Dad?”
She snorts. “Good one. It looks like you got your jokes from me after all. Kind sir, please take me away to our spot.”
“Only for you.” I stand and offer her my tattooed hand.
She leans on me as I lead us through the house into the main living room. The grand piano gleams in the center of the space. I set her down on a comfortable chair before I sit on the piano bench, turning to look at her.
She claps her hands together and smiles. “The best decision I made as a parent was forcing you to take those lessons.”
“Really? Of all the options of things you’ve done, that’s the best?”
“Oh, yes. Your father can’t carry a tune to save his life, so you’re the next best thing.”
I smile as I turn my back. My fingers lightly run across the ivory keys before I begin playing the Jurassic Park theme song.
My mum’s voice carries over the music. “I can’t even say I’m mad about how you rejected learning the classics for this kind of music.”
“Once a rebel, always a rebel.”
“Don’t I know it. Who do you think you got it from? You grew up listening to bedtime stories of me ditching my family without a second glance back.”
“You were a rebel with a cause. That’s the best kind.”
“And don’t you forget it.” She winks at me. “Play me Clocks next. I know you love it, too.”
I lose myself in the music. Like a valve, I shut off my thoughts, letting the worries of my life float away with the melody.
The tune is hauntingly beautiful, echoing off the high ceilings. My mum smiles the entire time. She makes my whole visit worth it despite the ache in my chest every time she struggles.
Life resumes once I cover the piano keys and help Mum up the stairs to my parents’ room. Her shaky legs and cane rip my good mood away from me, replacing happiness with despair.
That night, after Mum becomes tearful after dropping her fork three times during dinner, I text some old party friends about hitting up a club. And like nothing, my foul mood gets washed away with alcohol and bad decisions.
