Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

“You can work on your delivery a bit, Noah.” Her voice carries like a melody through the phone. A siren who calls to men with wallets and trust funds, luring them in before ripping their hearts out.

I grunt, unable to produce words.

“Well, I’m spending time with Clarissa and Jennifer in Dubai, and we thought about visiting for the Prix. What do you think about getting us some tickets? Preferably in the VIP section with a better view, not that one near the stands.”

Because God forbid, she actually has a view of the finish line. Grandstand VIP sections don’t come with complimentary champagne and Instagram street credit.

Every time my mom asks for tickets, I get them. In the whole scheme of things, I never thought to say no because it was easy to do. Easy to give in to my toxic parents. Simple to not put up a fight, not wanting to make waves like my dad despite how sick it made me feel to be used over and over again.

But like I did with my dad, I want to give her one last chance. Being around Maya has made me a forgiving person.

“I can message my assistant. How are you doing?” I hold the phone to my ear, having no interest in asking about any tickets.

She scoffs. “Is it that man who prattles on the phone forever?”

If she means Steven, who likes to ask her about her day, then yes.

“Yup, the same one I’ve had since I started with Bandini. Can you believe it’s been seven years since I began racing with the team?” Bet you a weekend on my yacht she doesn’t catch my mistake.

“Nope. But with the end of the season means your birthday is coming up. How are you celebrating your twenty-ninth this year?”

I’d say she blacked out for her entire pregnancy except she couldn’t drink. Surprisingly she remembers the month I was born, most likely because my father drops a large sum of money in her bank account as a “thank you for birthing my spawn” gift.

“Actually, I’m turning thirty-one. But numbers blur after so many years.” Insert obligatory eye roll here.

“Exactly. My mistake.” Her laugh sounds similar to nails scratching a chalkboard.

I hate every second of this call, of the battle waging inside of me to not hang up the phone. But I want to show myself why I need to let go. Why I can’t fall back into a damaging relationship with my parents because their love is conditional. And if I learned one thing in therapy, besides the fact that crying makes my face puffy as fuck, is how love doesn’t come with conditions. No ifs, ands, or buts. It should make you a better person—not because you have to be, but because you want to be. I want to be the fucking best for Maya and myself. Need to love myself and all that jazz.

“Yeah, your mistake. Did you know I met someone while competing this year?”

“That’s sweet.” She distracts herself with talking to someone else in the background.

That’s sweet. Although an upgrade from my father’s comments about Maya, she can’t say much more than that?

“Clarissa is asking if you could also access some VIP passes for the after-party? We personally like the one with the champagne company, but we aren’t against others.”

Looks like she can procure more than three words at a time. But like a gumball machine, she only works when you put money in her.

“You know, I don’t think this is going to work.”

Time to rip off the Band-Aid. Because why the fuck not, with everything else in the Slade family going to shit.

She sighs. “What do you mean?”

“You, me, your ex-lover Nicholas. The whole thing. I can’t do this to myself anymore, trying to be a son I thought both of you wanted. Instead, you only contact me when convenient. And shockingly you withheld your one-stop user card for the whole year until now. But in case you didn’t know, I got into the worst crash of my career two weeks ago. And how many times did you call on me to check? None. Hell, how many times have you called me this whole season? Besides the one misdial?”

Her silence does nothing but encourage me.

“I appreciate you for giving birth to me, for being whatever you tried to be. But it’s over. You should have protected me from him. The first time he hit me, you walked away because you didn’t want to threaten your allowance. Time and time again, you let me down. So, by all means, let it be my turn. I can’t get you tickets. Not now. Not next year. Not ever again. If you have an interest in calling me to get to know me as a person, let me know. If not, have a good life.”

I wait, holding the phone to my ear, willing her to say anything. Closure is a funny concept. Everyone talks about how cathartic it feels, but no one describes the pain you experience before. The courage needed to push through tough situations. How much it rips a person up to know they need to let go, not because they want to, but because they have to.

My whole life, I lived chasing an unattainable prize of my parents’ love. I sped down racetracks and life, willing it to go faster, but now I want to slow down. Enjoy the moments with people who matter, who want to remember my birthday, or who know five facts about me that can’t be googled.

The dial tone greets me.

I clutch my phone, my lungs taking in the fresh air. For once, I have no ill will toward her, only wishing her the best. Everything falls into place. My therapist said I needed to face my past to embrace my future. Looks like I went to hell and back, scoring an angel along the way.