Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(6)

I make it a long shower to avoid seeing the blonde chick again. Amber-Aly-whatever her name is—shit if I know since they eventually blur together, becoming one mindless fuck after another. Now with the season starting again, I won’t be drinking like I did last night. I have to stay sharp and keep the sponsors happy. Getting drunk isn’t a habit for me anyway because I have to keep myself in top physical form.

I’m one of Formula 1’s best, after all, which means I have an image to keep up.

See, to answer the chick’s question, I’m a dick. But I don’t exactly hide it. People like her don’t sleep with people like me in hopes that I’ll cuddle and say sweet nothings after a good screw. I find it hard to see where women like her come from, getting all flustered after a good lay, calling me all types of curse words. Can’t help being the “fuck them and chuck them” type. But ladies know the score, lining up at nightclubs to salivate all over my Gucci loafers for a chance to go home with me. They use me as much as I use them. A quick, meaningless fuck to let off steam.

And I have a lot of steam to let out.

A couple weeks ago, Bandini hired Santiago Alatorre as a second racer. My rival is now my teammate. A scrappy little shit who likes to go balls to the wall, consequences be damned.

I can respect the fact that he drives well, but he has a lot to learn about the sport. A shit ton of lessons I’ll happily teach. Like when to back the fuck off, or how to apologize for a nearly fatal crash. Crap like that.

Unbelievable how Bandini hired him despite our rocky history.

So I did what any reasonable person would do to pass time during winter break. I got shit-faced last night, where one drink turned into five and here I am, being called a dick by another chick. Some consider me nice. I make sure she comes multiple times before I do because my nanny raised a gentleman after all, no thanks to my parents.

But I can’t blame my terrible mood on a blonde chick with a sour attitude. My anger is all due to Bandini’s new contract with Santiago. Now I have to share my team with a guy I don’t even like, our rivalry burning strong since he hit me during the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. What a wreck, my car unrecognizable after that crash, retired and bent out of shape. My loss was Santiago’s gain. He won a World Championship thanks to my collision. Doubt he loses sleep over it.

Santiago comes across as deceptively careless. Even in those tense situations, he calculatingly thinks about the moves he makes on the course, doing anything to end up on the podium. Ballsy motherfucker.

I have little respect for him since our collision, but I don’t blame him like people say I do. At the time I did. But after lots of thinking, I came to the conclusion that he didn’t cost me the World Championship. That was all me. The real reason I can’t stand him is because his rashness almost landed me in the hospital, a memory not easily forgotten.

I plan on playing civil with him since we have to act like teammates. We don’t need to compare dick sizes to see who’s the best when my driving does the talking. He gets to come onto my team and into my house and show his skills. Meaning I can sit back and relax while he proves himself worthy of the money they paid him this year. It will be intriguing to see where it goes and who performs better. No more excuses, because an even playing field means the better driver will win. And we all know who that is.

My phone rings on my dresser. Father.

I battle between picking up the phone and letting it go to voicemail. Deciding on the latter, I step away before the phone rings again. Clever man knows I avoid any contact with him. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, I take the call.

“Dad. How are you?” I shuffle the phone between my shoulder and ear while I grab my workout bag.

“I read the news. Bandini added that child to the team. What are they thinking? He’s barely proven himself.” His gruff voice reverberates through the small speaker, skipping over pleasantries.

“Nice to hear from you too.” My words pack their usual bite because asshole genes run in the family.

“Cut the shit, Noah. This is serious, especially after he screwed you over before. You’ve got to stay sharp this season and not let him get the upper hand.”

“We can let the crash go since it was forever ago. I’m not worried about a racer who got lucky once.” I double-check that the chick from earlier left, not wanting another encounter with her. All clear. I grab my keys and lock up my Monaco apartment.

“I didn’t invest a ton of money into that company for them to mess around with your career. If they think a kid is going to get the best resources without showing his worth… What a sad mistake.”

I rub my eyes. “We can see how he does before you pop off on some Bandini rep. I doubt he can beat me like that again since it was a fluke. A lucky hit where I lost control.”

“Damn straight he won’t. Don’t fuck it up again; you don’t want to crumble under pressure when you’re at the height of your career.”

Thanks for the love, Dad.

“Yup, sounds like me. Talk to you later. Bye.” I don’t wait for his reply before I hang up.

My dad can’t help being an asshole, but the public likes him, so he saves all his pent-up issues for me. He gets his way no matter what. His solutions to problems include money, threats, and throwing his weight around. Me moving across the Atlantic Ocean hasn’t put enough distance between us. Even with an insane time change between Europe and America, he finds a way to contact me.