Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

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.

He sighs. “Money isn’t a worry anymore.”

“I know, I know. But I want to make a name for myself because I can’t live in your shadow forever.” My hand itches to twirl a piece of my hair, but I resist the nervous tick.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget how his bank account has a ridiculous number of zeros. The first paycheck from F1 paid for my college in full. No questions asked. Santi didn’t blink when he signed the check like he expects to provide for our whole family now that he’s made it big, which can’t be further from the truth. We appreciate everything Santi does. Him wanting to help in whatever way he can comes from a meaningful place rather than a sense of obligation.

When we were younger, our parents worked two jobs to save up every penny for Santi’s racing career. My dad repaired karts as a side gig while my mom cleaned houses on weekends. Unlike most wealthy “trust fund” kids in F1, my parents are middle-class on a good payday. Santi made a name for himself without the financial backing or a famous pedigree. He finally has sponsors who believe in him and his skills, making life easier and racing a hell of a lot more fun.

“I want you to come to my races this season. You can take the year to figure out what you want to do next. Plus it’ll be fun because this is our chance to finally travel together.” He sends me a goofy smile from behind his barbell.

Santi gets to live out his fantasy of being a top F1 racer with Bandini—the top team in the sport. Driving for them is my brother’s dream come true. I didn’t hesitate to say yes when he asked me to join him because my big brother is basically a superstar. His bombshell of a revelation at my graduation a couple weeks ago stung, but I pushed past it because he had a valid reason of not wanting us to find out from paparazzi. Unlike other siblings, I don’t mind sharing the limelight.

“That’s the plan. Your assistant sent me all the travel info and bookings.”

It feels odd to say he has an assistant in the first place. She runs all his gigs, like checking in on his hotel accommodations, making sure he has weekly groceries, and booking sponsorships.

“Did you get the camera I picked out for you?”

I have no idea how to pay back his generosity, especially with such expensive gifts. He still buys me things even though he pays for everything. Lately, I struggle between feelings of guilt and gratitude.

“Yes, thanks again. I have it all set up, and I’m pumped to vlog. I already bought a hand-held tripod to film F1 stuff.” I smile down at him.

He doesn’t miss a beat, lifting the weight over his chest as he continues to chat. “Can’t wait to watch the videos once you start. And you have all your stuff packed up?”

“Yes, Dad, I got everything ready two days ago like you asked.” I roll my eyes.

He chuckles as his almond-shaped eyes look into mine. “I hope I won’t have to put up with this attitude all season long. I can’t keep up with your teenage hormones.”

“You're a year older than me. Relax with throwing the teenager word around. Any hormone issues are a thing of the past. I’m twenty-three, not fifteen.”

His body shudders. Good. That’s what he gets for not thinking through his words. He needs to watch what he says since film crews will follow him around all the time.

He gets up and wipes down his gym equipment because that’s the kind of guy he is: put-together, organized, and responsible. Respectable people clean their workout equipment, making sure to put everything back where it belongs, while people like me never enter the gym to begin with.

Where Santi’s dependable and secure, I tend to have good intentions with poor execution. I respect my brother’s life decisions, but I’m in a transitional phase at the moment. So I get to travel the world, learn about myself, and grow up. Our family knows I have to pull it together eventually. And I most definitely will. But like a fine wine, I’m taking my time.

My time includes sipping drinks by the pool while Santi competes across the globe in twenty-one different races. No, I’m kidding. Like any other decent European, I love F1, which means I’ll cheer him on every step of the way, or wheel rotation. But you get what I mean.

My brother and I did everything together while growing up. His kart races were what we all did as a family activity, and no one was shocked when he became an F1 racer—all at a world-record-breaking age of twenty-one years old. I can’t imagine the gratification Santi experiences knowing that Bandini realizes his potential and wants to capitalize on it. His new contract reinforces his lifetime efforts in the racing community, representing a new chapter in his driving career.

Basically, my big bro has the talent and drive. Pun intended.

It’s in Santi’s weight room that I make a promise to him.

“I solemnly swear I’ll be up to good.”

His eyebrows draw together. “Did you quote Harry Potter to me?”

“Not really. I changed it up so it’s all me.”

He snickers at me. “You’re a piece of work.”