Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(13)
“Well, I assumed you were here for me, but now that you mention it, that sounds plausible." He hits me with a playful grin that sparks something inside of me.
I shake my head at him. “I just graduated, and I wanted to travel the world.” I hold back on mentioning my vlog because I don’t want to be judged by someone like him—a man who thrives and succeeds.
“Well you picked the right year to join. You get to see exotic locations with a bonus of me kicking your brother’s ass. You can’t Pinterest that shit.”
I throw my head back and laugh. His cockiness has no bounds, but I like the way he teases, uncaring with a glint of mischief in his eye.
“How do you fit your head in your helmet? I’m worried it must expand the more people stroke your ego,” I say with fake concern.
“I have one custom made to avoid that issue.”
We continue our banter until someone calls him away. He looks unenthusiastic at the interruption, his feet remaining planted to the ground.
“Duty calls.” I tilt my empty glass to him.
He sends me a smirk and mock salute as a goodbye.
I explore Melbourne on Friday since Santi has a busy day with practice and press events. As interesting as his plan sounds, I decline his invitation to join him.
I spend the day taking photos and discovering the city. A local street-art tour gains my interest, and I enjoy the ability to fade into the group while surrounding myself with fellow tourists. When I hang with Santi, it feels like I’m on display. The attention he receives stifles me. People always take pictures, ask questions, or request autographs. And I hate feeling watched. He tells me everyone eventually gets used to it and I won’t notice them after a while.
That type of complacency scares me.
The rest of the day goes by quickly. Newfound privacy comforts me so much that I eat lunch alone, at a table for two no less. My solo day seems short-lived when an old man sits in the chair across from me. He eventually gains the courage to strike up a conversation after fifteen minutes. I politely engage in the discussion of his arthritis, nodding along like I understand the struggles of chronic pain. He even shows me about one hundred photos of his grandkids.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for never saying no, because how can I look that poor older man in the face and decline seeing photos of his little tater tot? His words, not mine. I can’t. So I end up spending an hour entertaining a man named Steve, even offering him a signed Bandini baseball cap as a parting gift along with a promise to text him a picture of the Prix track on race day. I don’t know the risk of giving a grandpa my cellphone number. But he seems sweet, so I give in.
My mom calls me while I’m walking down a side street.
“Cómo estás?” My mom follows my vlog religiously, commenting on all my posts with encouraging messages and quotes. She’s cute like that. I even get texts with gifs as a way for her to express her feelings.
“I’ve been having fun so far. Santi’s pretty busy with the business side of things. I don’t know how he finds the energy.”
We stayed out late and he got up at the crack of dawn to go drive on the track. Meanwhile, I hit the snooze button about five times before I finally got up.
“He lives for the sport, so he puts up with the social side of things. Keep an eye on him because he works too hard.” There goes my mom, always the worrier.
“I’ll try my best. I can’t do what he does, schmoozing and boozing. People here are snooty and full of themselves.”
“I’ve been reading gossip about those different drivers. Men like Liam Zander and Noah Slade pop up all the time, and you should see what women say about them. Don’t get me started on Jax, that man has trouble following him like a bad smell.” Her voice fails to hide her disdain. I don’t ask for more information because gross details don’t interest me.
“Be careful what you read. They can start spinning stories about Santi one day. Reporters are aggressive. And they love an interesting story, whether it’s true or not.”
“Have you met his teammate?” She can’t conceal her curiosity about Noah, and I can’t blame her.
“Yeah, he’s not as terrible as stories claim. But he’s still the ass who thought I was Santi’s girlfriend.”
“Que bruto. Someone should’ve raised him better, given him extra love and attention. That must’ve been embarrassing for him.”
“I think that’s his problem. It must be such a lonely life for him, screwing around with whomever and having no one to celebrate wins with. His own family barely comes to the races. Like his dad visits a few times a year, his mom even less. Makes me wonder if there is more to this show he puts on. I doubt he even realizes it though, especially when people like him always think they’re happy until they aren’t anymore. But who knows, I’m speculating, and it’s not fair to judge.” Unfiltered words rush out of my mouth.
“Cuídate. Behind the glitz and glam, people live with lies and unhappiness.”
I change the topic, not wanting to talk about Noah anymore. It feels wrong to expose the small truth he shared with me last night about his parents. My mom and I catch up on plans for the weekend, and not soon after, I hang up the phone and go back to the hotel.
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