Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(3)
“You’re such a fuck-up, ever since you were born. The only reason you got this far was because of me and my investments since no other person would have sponsored your sorry ass. A pompous brat who acted out, pretending to be tough when you really cried into your pillow at night about a mommy who didn’t love you and a daddy who beat your ass weekly.”
I shrug, hoping to come off careless. Inside, my blood burns hot, edginess creeping up my spine in the hopes of a fight—an unlucky genetic inheritance from this man.
“Darn, Dad, sorry. Would you like to wipe your eyes with a couple of hundred-dollar bills? What a disappointment to raise someone who has three World Championship titles already.”
“The disappointment wasn’t raising you. It’s seeing the pathetic excuse of a man you’ve become. Enjoy your second-place parade. I know it’s been a while for me, but I heard the first-place view on the podium is best.” He sends me an evil smile before stepping away.
Check-fucking-mate.
1
Maya
“Maya Alatorre, Bachelor of Arts in Communications.” The announcer states my degree in both English and Spanish. My parents and Santi beam at me from their seats off to the side of the stage, waving signs amongst other parents of graduates from the Universitat de Barcelona. I clutch the most expensive piece of paper in my hands, the rough texture pressing against my fingertips, reminding me of my efforts to graduate today.
I sit myself back in the sea of students cloaked in cheap polyester gowns. After a few speeches, we move our tassels to the side, signifying the end of our university days. Five grueling years and two major changes later, I can happily say I graduated. Turns out I wasn’t cut out for a biology degree; I fainted during a dissection lab when my partner cut into a baby pig’s stomach. And pre-law didn’t exactly work out for me; I threw up in a nearby trash can during my first debate, forfeiting before the questions began. People would count these restarts as failures, but I think they built character. That and resilience for messing up.
It took me two internships to discover my interest in film and production. I add myself to the unemployed post-grad statistic because finding jobs in film is a lot harder than I thought.
My family meets me outside, the views of Barcelona greeting us while the cool December air brushes against my skin, which is poorly protected by the cheap grad outfit. We all pull in for a group hug before they take pictures of me. I get a boatload of congratulations and kisses, along with a slip of an envelope from my brother, Santiago.
“For the graduate. Took you long enough.” He sends me a smile before smacking the top of my cap. We look similar yet different, thank God. Dark, thick hair matches our light brown eyes, long lashes, and olive skin. Our similarities end there. Santi inherited a tall gene from a distant relative while I stopped growing by eighth grade. He rocks week-old stubble and a goofy smile while I prefer a more mischievous grin that matches the glint in my eyes. He works out seven days a week while I count climbing up stairs to get to class as my daily workout.
Santi’s phone rings and he steps away to answer it.
My mother poses me and takes more pictures. She and I look alike, all honey eyes, short stature, and hair with enough wave and volume to look good when I wake up.
“We’re extremely proud of you. Both of our babies are out doing good things in the world,” my mom says as she snaps a picture of me rolling my eyes. Her accent has a lull to it, a product of learning English from hotel guests at her job.
I groan when she smacks a big kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her lipstick.
My dad mumbles about her needing to treat me like a grown woman. Look at me, now called a mature adult, all at the toss of a graduation cap. His smile reaches his brown eyes, wrinkles creasing at the corners as he looks down at me. He has thick hair that competes with Santi’s, a short beard, and a lean frame. Santi looks like a younger, more muscular version of our dad.
“Who wants to grab dinner?” my dad says while rubbing his belly.
Santi steps back toward us, looking paler than usual. He comes up to my side and whispers into my ear, “Sorry about this. But they’ll get pissed if they find out from someone who isn’t me.”
I look up at him, confused why he needs to say sorry.
Santi takes a deep breath before he breaks out a smile. “My agent just told me Bandini offered me a contract for next season.”
Well, shit.
Santi doesn’t need to steal my thunder when he robs the whole damn storm.
I place Santi’s green smoothie on the table next to his workout bench. Four measly ounces of juice mock me, the goopy evidence supporting how I belong nowhere near a kitchen for the unforeseeable future. Especially since green liquid still drips from the kitchen ceiling. What a mess. It’s all fun and games until I forget to put the cap on the blender, making contents splatter everywhere, including my hair and clothes.
“I don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot. You should be out having fun because we won’t be back home for a while.” He grunts as he lifts a weight above his chest.
“I want to make myself useful and not feel like I’m taking advantage of you for a free place to stay.” I fidget with my hands while he counts his lifts, his deep exhales filling the silence.
Sleek equipment gleams under the overhead lights, a testament to his commitment to Formula 1. His new home is a far cry from the bedroom we shared while growing up. This new one has six bedrooms, a personal gym, a mini movie theater, and an Olympic-sized pool. A whopping six thousand square feet.