Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

“Jax, your breakfast is getting cold! What do you do all morning in your room? We threw out all your Playboy magazines years ago!” My mum’s voice buzzes through the intercom in my old room.

This is what happens when I visit my family during the winter break. Nothing says vacation quite like early morning wake-up calls and accusations about jerking off before my morning tea.

I groan as I get out of bed and press the button on the speaker. “I’m disappointed in you. The last thing I want to hear when I’m on the brink of orgasm is my mum’s voice.”

Her laugh makes the tiny speaker in my room crackle. “You’re disgusting. God forgive me for raising someone with such a naughty mouth. Get down here—your dad left for a meeting and I hate eating by myself.”

We’re that type of family, with intercoms and a full-time staff because Dad was a hotshot boxer back in the day who built a lavish life with nothing but his fists. He doesn’t fight anymore, but his investments speak for themselves.

We fall into the same upper-crust financi

al bracket as the wankers who used to laugh at Dad because he came from poverty. Welcome to the dark side; we have trust funds and more investments than the goddamn stock market.

“I’ll be there in a few.” I step away from the wall and enter my bathroom, wanting to wash away my morning grogginess.

I hadn’t planned on visiting before the start of the F1 season, but Mum begged me. It’s hard to say no to her, especially when she says I won’t be home for Easter. Plus, it’s not like I had many fun activities planned, seeing as Liam’s busy with Sophie, and Noah spends all his spare time with Maya. Our original trio is down to me.

God help us all.

I grab my medicine bottle from my toiletries bag. A pretty white pill stands out against my bronzed skin, tempting me to take the edge off. With a short half-life, an American doctor’s clearance, and F1’s mental-health clause, I’m able to take a Xanax whenever the mood strikes. And as of lately, it seems to be a fuck ton.

Me—a Formula 1 driver and arsehole extraordinaire—suffers from clinical anxiety. If people got wind of it, they might laugh their arse off before I kick theirs, showing them exactly what happens when I feel a different type of edgy. From the outside, I don’t look anxious, but on the inside, I’m a motherfucking mess.

Ever since I was a kid, my brain’s like a hamster on a wheel, focusing on the same issues over and over again. With anxiety comes panic attack symptoms. They hit me, with my knees nearly buckling, my chest feeling tight, and my fingers shaking to the point of uselessness.

The panic attacks started a couple of years ago, putting a damper on my mood and productivity. They usually hit when I’m stressed to my maximum like when I’m dealing with my parents or if I become overwhelmed with the future. They’ve progressively gotten worse over the past year. After one discreet attack last year in the middle of a race that McCoy labeled a “technical malfunction,” I decided pills were my only solution. I didn’t want to go to therapy, so I found an American doctor who would fix my problem without sharing my feelings. Now, Xanax keeps me sane enough to ensure my race car doesn’t end up in the nearest wall during every race.

I count the panicky feelings as my penance for living my life to the fullest while my mum suffers. The shit happening to me is a constant reminder of Mum’s similar symptoms. Huntington’s Disease is a bitch like that, stealing moments from her year by year. It makes her weak and feeble. My role model and light of my life experiences the worst kind of medical prognosis, yet here I am living a lavish life with F1. Panic attacks and anxiety seem small in comparison.

But you know what the professionals say: a couple of Xannies a day make the worries go away.

I swallow back the pill before exiting my room, no longer in the mood to hang around with my shitty thoughts. My footsteps echo off the marble floors as I walk through our luxurious home. The bright walls match the light tones Mum chose, creating a welcoming space I find hard to leave at times. Hotel rooms I live out of each week fail to compare.

My mum smiles at me as I enter the kitchen built for a chef. “If it isn’t my favorite son.”

“I’m your only child, which means I’m automatically the favorite.” I walk over and place a kiss on the top of her head before taking a seat across from her.

“You’ve always been a cheeky little thing who can never take a compliment.” Her shaky fingers pull at her blonde, straight strands.

I’m the loving result of my mum’s Swedish heritage and my dad’s Black Londoner genes. Kids used to call me a mutt. Although it used to bother me, I’ve since learned women dig the pouty lips from my dad and the fused hazel eyes from both my parents. Not to mention the soft curls I currently have cropped at the sides while unruly at the top.

“I apologize. Where are my manners?”

“Probably lost somewhere between here and Monaco. Jackie brings up your casino night every year like clockwork.”

“That story has outlived Prince Harry’s Las Vegas trip. I’d like to say I’m possibly the rowdier Brit after all.” I lift my brows up and down.

Our family maid, Jackie, places my breakfast and tea in front of me. “Even though your mother treats you like her little prince, you’re anything but a royal.”

“Ouch. You’ll be kissing my boots once I’m knighted.” I wink.

“By who? The bottle server at your VIP table doesn’t count.” Jackie crosses her arms as she leans against the kitchen island.

My mum lets out a loud laugh. “Do you have to leave in a week?”

“You’re the only one I’d ever consider quitting F1 for, even if it was for a whole two seconds.” I shake my head at her.

“That’s one second better than yesterday. Imagine if I keep you here for months, then I’ll probably get my way eventually.” My mum lifts her teacup to her lips. Her trembling fingers cause the liquid to slosh before half the contents spill onto her hand and dress.