Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(2)
Black spots fog my vision, the combination of being upside down and being hit twice is too much for my body to handle. I’m fucking helpless as the safety crew works to situate my car right-side up. I stew in my toxic mood and smack my hands against the steering wheel to the hammering of my heart.
I grunt at paramedics who check for any injuries. My body gets an all-clear with nothing to report except for a bruised ego and blood pressure through the roof. The safety team drops me off back at the Bandini suites, and I surge past the pit crew, not interested in pleasantries or fake claps on the back telling me how everything will be okay. I don’t want to hear people say how I’ll win the Championship next year.
I take the steps up to my suite two at a time, ready for who waits behind the doors. My lungs burn from taking a deep breath. Fuck, more like ten breaths, in and out, the rhythm finally calming me.
I open the door to find two people I’d rather not see anytime soon. Preferably not within the next ten years, give or take. My dad paces the small suite, his broad shoulders commanding the space, chest heaving in and out to the tempo of his feet. His dark hair looks disheveled for once, and his deep blue eyes narrow at me. Mother dearest parks herself on a gray couch. Her icy eyes don’t meet mine as she stares at her nails. Blonde hair perfectly coifed, her body is posed against the cushions like the has-been model she is. Lucky for her, she sunk her claws into my dad and snagged the ultimate prize of a child with a famous F1 racer. She hit the DNA jackpot with a son who rivals the man she married.
Quite the family, right? A broken, mangled history of missed birthdays, uncelebrated holidays, and empty bleachers at most Formula races. The only reason they both attended this Prix was because Dad wanted to reminisce while Mom showed off to her friends how grand life is for someone who birthed a racing all-star. Neither one came for me.
“What the fuck was that?” My dad’s voice grates across my skin like a knife. His pointed eyes cut into mine, assessing for any signs of weakness. He suffers from resting dick face with wrinkles marring the sensitive skin near his eyes. Unfortunately for me, I look like him. Dark hair with a wave, blue eyes that challenge the Caribbean ocean, and a tall frame that stands toe to toe against him.
I place a palm against my race suit. “Well, shit. Someone told me I was driving for a top F1 team, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.”
“Someone told me you were supposed to be a World Champion this year, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.” My dad’s voice snaps back.
Ah, there’s the viper we all know and hate. See, my dad may be a legend to everyone in the F1 community, but to me, he’s a snake straight from the pits of hell. One sent from the Devil himself. A venomous man who does nothing but scold me, funding my career with the lovely bonus of tearing me down whenever he has the chance. But in front of everyone else, he acts like a doting dad who supports my racing career, both financially and emotionally. He could win an Oscar for Best Supporting Jackass.
“Scared of me contesting your three-title standing? Thought you’d be happy with me staying in your shadow, forever trying to catch up to the legendary Nicholas Slade.” Distaste colors my voice.
He closes the gap between us and grabs me like the good old days. His fists tighten around my race suit, eyes barely concealing the rage that bubbles within. I can tell he battles between hitting me and verbally sparring with me.
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference despite my heart rapidly beating in my chest. “Your predictability bores me. What are you going to do? Slap me around to remember how much of a dick you are?” My voice stays firm.
My dad and I have a tumultuous history at best. The first three years of my life were fun, but ever since I began karting, it was game over. Ironic how the best years of my life became the worst. Gone was the dad who took me to the park to ride my bike or throw a football around. Every year he got worse when all I wanted to do was please him, pushing myself to become one of the best drivers in karts. Then it became Formula phases, forever seeking his love and approval at the expense of my childhood. Desperate for anything to stop his private rituals. Fans don’t know the real me, the shit I dealt with to impress my dad, the weekly beatings I received if I placed anything below first. My ass never met a belt I liked.
Slaps became punches that upgraded into verbal lashings once I reached his height. My dad stripped away my childhood at the expense of my humanity. Because to survive the worst of them, you eventually become them.
I stare into my dad’s eyes and look at the monster who made me. He got his wish. To please him and protect myself, I became everything he is, minus smacking people around. I’m an asshole with walls higher than the Grand fucking Canyon.
He leers at me, his words a snarl against his clenched teeth. “I lost thousands because of your shitty-ass display out there. Congratulations on being runner-up. Wonder how it feels to kiss a whole year of your life away. You can’t live in my shadow when you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me.”
His anger doesn’t faze my mother, who sits there and watches us, eyes cold and dead, just like her personality. A useless waste of space who plays the role of a mother whenever convenient. She chooses to turn a blind eye every damn time he gets this way, indifference evident in her blank gaze. I’d honestly forget she talks except for when she calls me to ask for exclusive tickets and backstage passes.
“Then you should step away. Don’t want to get near me because I hear being a loser is contagious.” I grip his hands and push him the fuck off me. He doesn’t back down, keeping eye to eye with me as he sneers.