“Oh, shit! Noah, brace yourself!”
A chill runs down my spine. Unable to move with my body trapped, I sit while Jax’s car swerves before ramming into mine, the turn from earlier making me vulnerable to another hit. Holy shit. My body shudders and my head painfully bounces against the headrest while our cars spin out of control. The hit jerks me, my body aching in ways I didn’t think possible.
I can kiss my Championship win goodbye. All thanks to Santiago and his stupidity, pulling a move he shouldn’t have to get seconds ahead. Fucking reckless of him. My head clouds as adrenaline wears off and my body gives in to the pain.
“Fuck you, Santiago. Enjoy your Championship win because it’ll be your last.” I don’t give a shit about everyone hearing my team radio. Let fans and him know I hate his guts. Santiago can act like hot shit now, but I’ll come back for him. Asshole started a fight he won’t win.
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.