Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

He puts his hands up in a mock surrender.

“Truce. No need to fight so dirty.”

The idea of Maya fighting dirty entices me.

Fuck.

I banish those thoughts, choosing to focus on having a normal conversation with my teammate’s parents. We all end up having a good time together until my dad shows up on the deck, sneaky like a snake with enough venom to match. I am surprised he showed up earlier than race day, a rarity that makes me regret skillfully avoiding his phone calls for two days.

The time we spend apart never seems long enough. Cold eyes land on me, two blue orbs as inviting as skinny-dipping in the Arctic Ocean. He keeps his dark hair slicked back and his suit perfectly pressed with not a wrinkle in sight. To others he comes off as welcoming, but his deceptiveness covers up all the darkness simmering beneath his skin.

Maya eyes him curiously. My dad ignores her family, passing by them without a glance. He comes to greet me, giving me a pat on the back, acting happy to see me. Nicholas Slade couldn’t give less of a shit if he tried. But since he cares about a show and his image, my life acts as a side project to keep him busy from decaying during retirement.

He watches Maya’s family suspiciously, paying attention to them for the first time by assessing each of them. Competitors getting along is his worst nightmare. And for a moment I forgot Santiago and I are just that, talking with his family like we don’t have a rivalry.

It felt nice. To be the three of us hanging out with their parents, the Prix on the backburner while they got to know me. Parents who actually seemed curious to ask me questions and learn about the man outside of a Bandini car.

“Son, a second of your time?” The tick in my dad’s jaw tells me everything words won’t.

“I’ll see you all later at the event.” I throw the statement over my shoulder as I follow my dad toward the suites.

“You ignored my calls. I fly all the way out here for you and this is how you treat me? I expect better from my son.”

Right, we both know why he comes out to these events.

I bite back a snarky comment. “I’ve been busy qualifying and getting ready for tomorrow. It’s good that you found me between events.” Lies. But I’ve learned from the biggest fraud of them all.

“Yeah. We need to come up with a plan for tomorrow.”

We enter my private room. My dad settles into one of the couches, a dark cloud against the white walls of the room as he sucks the energy from me. He grabs one of the red pillows and props himself up against it.

“How are you going to go about winning the race?” He jumps into it.

I haven’t seen him in almost a year, and he doesn’t even ask how I am, unsurprising, but still grating on my nerves.

“By racing the best I can?” I meet with strategists and engineers for hours each week to prepare for a Prix. Don’t need his shitty two cents.

?

??It’s Santiago’s home race. That means it’s a big one for him. You should have seen his parade today. Thousands showed up.”

“That’s awesome for him. A home Prix is usually the best for those racers. I can’t wait for the Austin one, to go back to the States and eat Southern food.” My mouth waters at the idea of barbecue food.

“Well, you obviously need to wipe the floor with him tomorrow. There’s nothing worse than losing in your hometown,” my dad sneers.

I struggle to hide my irritation. Racing fuels a passion of mine while easing the edginess inside of me. Yeah, it’s a job, but it’s much more because I enjoy it and compete against the best. My dad sucks the fun and excitement out of anything, making everything a rivalry. No wonder he had no friends back in his day.

“Sure, Dad. I’ll try my best.”

“You better. I’m here and the press will eat that shit up. They love a good father-son moment.” He treats me like a shiny accessory.

“I need to get going. It’s a busy night before the race tomorrow.” I throw him a wave before taking off.

Race day in Barcelona. The crowds bounce around in the stands, charged up with excitement. Machines buzz, drills hum, and computers beep in the pit. Sophie’s dad tests out the team radio in my ear to ensure we have an open line of communication.

I zip up my racing suit and put on my flame-retardant headgear. I look down at my helmet, savoring the moment of representing Bandini’s brand and appeasing my fans. This life is all I know, and it brings me comfort to put on my helmet. Honey, I’m home.

Crew members push my car toward my grid location. Liam has pole position, while I’m second, and Santiago’s third.