Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

“Yeah, and to be honest, we’re more afraid of Jax corrupting you.” Noah’s eyes slide from me to Elena.

Elena throws her head back and laughs. I can’t take my eyes off her, no matter how much I want to. Though I want to hang around her more, I can’t. Even something like today has pushed me closer than I should be with her.

When push comes to shove, I’m the first one to hit the road running. And I’m the type who doesn’t look back.

13

Jax

“I’m not talking to a shrink.” I shut the door to Connor’s office and take a seat across from him.

“Yes, you are. It’s in your contract.”

“Where? Please show me because the last time I checked, psych sessions weren’t in the fine print.”

“It’s under the clause saying you’ll do whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want it. Section 3B if you want to get specific.” He turns his laptop toward me, showing me the highlighted section.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“It’s a new company policy. Athletes speak to a psychologist once a week for an hour. Anything said between the two of you remains confidential.”

I clench my fists. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s not a personal attack. It’s healthy, and I hope other teams copy us. You guys deal with high speeds, collisions, stress, and a ton of other things. I’d rather have mentally sound athletes driving our cars. And don’t pretend you haven’t had other shit eating away at you.”

“That’s different. It has nothing to do with my driving skills.”

Connor scoffs. “Oh, sod off. Of course, it does. You taking a Xanax the day of a race says otherwise.”

“That’s not because of racing and you know that. It’s tough to be around tons of people. I feel like I’m constantly on, exhausting myself by trying not to say the wrong thing or act the wrong way.”

He shuts his laptop, giving me his full attention. “Exactly my point. Everyone can use someone to talk to, including you. I want my drivers to be in top condition this season.”

“So Elías has to do this too?”

“I can’t say who sees a psychologist, but I’m saying you will be doing it.”

“What if I don’t say anything during the session?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Then don’t. It’s your hour to waste however you want it. If you’re done, I need to make a call. And don’t be late for your first session.” He dismisses me with a nod toward his door.

I grumble a goodbye as I make my way t

oward the office of Dr. Schwartz, McCoy’s newest addition to my personal hell.

I knock on his door. He opens it, letting me into his office with a couch, low lighting, and a candle smelling like I walked onto the set of The Great British Baking Show. How fucking Zen of him.

“Welcome, Jax. It’s nice to meet you.” Dr. Schwartz takes a seat across from me. His brown eyes scream calm and welcoming while mine say I’d rather be fucked up the arse with a chainsaw than be here.

Graphic yet oddly imaginative.

“Well, Dr. Schwartz, I hear I’m stuck visiting you every week for the rest of the season.”

He runs a hand through his brown hair before he adjusts his thick glasses. “Please call me Tom. And yes, I’ve been told we will meet once a week, but I’ll be on call if you need me for more sessions.” His words carry a Southern drawl.

“Doubtful.”

He chuckles. “Most athletes are resistant to work with a psychologist in the beginning. At first, it can be intimidating opening up to someone, especially for those who are in the spotlight all the time. It’s understandable how you want to keep your private life private.”