For me, anyway. It was like watching NASCAR. Left turn, left turn, left turn. Guess what’s next. Yeah, left turn.
But cars interested me. Racing definitely interested me. So Zack and I had pooled our resources and stepped up the game. High school races Friday nights. College-and-beyond races Saturday nights. We struck a deal with Dirk Benson, the farmer on whose land the track sat, and got permission to pave it. Only instead of being a rounded square circling a pond, the track now had kind of a Hershey’s Kiss–looking top. We’d included the long driveway leading into the track as part of the race now. Drivers did their turn around the track and ended by racing to the end of the driveway, skidding to a turn, and racing back to the finish line.
We’d also constructed another dirt track through the forest between his farm and the highway and incorporated off-roading races as well. Sometimes they ran simultaneously, but we usually tried to keep them separate.
Best of all, the races were almost fully legal—except for the betting—and now they were wired in as well. GoPro cameras were installed on all the vehicles before the races so viewers could access footage on their phones and iPads with the Web Site I’d created. This feature was especially important for the off-road races where the viewers couldn’t venture.
Zack took care of scheduling drivers, making sure they signed our disclaimer forms, and the money. I took care of the tech stuff, planning new events, and alterations to the track.
After all, this would eventually get boring, too, so things had to keep changing.
And thankfully this kept me busy. During the school year, when I attended college, my class load, plus the track, was enough to keep me out of trouble. The fall and spring were my safest times. School was in session, and the weather was good for racing. The winter and summer were shaky. Either school was out or the track was dead.
My leg vibrated, and I inhaled a deep breath before looking down.
I blinked long and hard, my stomach turning as I dug out my phone.
Yeah.
My father called regularly, and I did nothing to stop him. Jared didn’t know, his mom, Katherine, didn’t know, and I wasn’t running from the bastard.
I answered the phone. “You’re boring me,” I said right away. “Come find me when you get out, and we’ll have a real conversation then.”
“That may be sooner than you think.”
A bad taste filled my mouth, but I tried to keep my face even as I swallowed.
“Good,” I replied. “I still play with knives.”
I heard his quiet laugh on the other end of the phone line.
I had no idea how he called me. I could find out if I wanted to, but for some reason, I didn’t want to keep him away. I’d never try to avoid him. I wanted him to avoid me.
“I only want what I’ve always wanted,” he stated. “A chance to make amends. I raised you, Jax. I’d like to show you that I’m better than I was.”
“No, you want me to take care of you,” I shot back. “You’re not using me to pay your way. Not anymore, you sick fuck.”
When I was little, my father used me—and Jared—to make money. Stealing, breaking and entering … A kid could get in where an adult couldn’t, and my father knew that.
“You forget, you little shit,” he growled, and my stomach rolled with the memories his insults invoked. “I know where your mess is buried.”
But his threat didn’t hit home, because I made damn sure I’d always have the upper hand.
“And you forget,” I countered, “that I’m not a kid anymore.” I jumped off the hood and strolled around to the door, tossing the iPad through the open window onto a seat. “There’s a guy in there with you. Christian Dooley. You got a beating from him, right?”
The phone was silent, so I continued. “Just happened to be right after the last time you threatened me?” I taunted, knowing my meaning was clear. “Threaten me again, and you won’t make it out of those doors alive.”
And I hung up, putting my palms down on the roof of my Mustang and lowering my head.
He wasn’t a man, I told myself. I was strong. I was worthy. And I was clean.
I could feel the sweat on my brow cooling me as the light wind hit it, but now my back was nearly drenched, and I wanted to rip off my shirt.
It was after eight, but the day’s sunlight still warmed the air. It had to be over ninety degrees.
“I know where your mess is buried.” My hands shook, and I clenched my fists.
The mess I’d made the day I’d had enough. Enough of the hands touching me. Enough of people looking at me and hurting me. Enough of being weak. My only regret was that I didn’t bury my father with them.
I had come a long way from that scared kid. I never wanted to be weak or surprised in any relationship or situation, and so I’d assumed absolute control over everything in my life.
But as much as I’d never wanted to feel like that unclean kid again, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dirt on my skin. I took two showers a day. I had someone clean my house twice a week. I always counteracted one shitty thing I said or did with two decent things, like volunteering or donating money, but I still felt unclean.
Nothing was clean enough.
“Well, you got me here.”
I raised my head at the sound of her voice and twisted around to see Juliet.
She stuck her hands in the pockets of her seriously faded, ripped, and tight jeans, and my chest filled with amusement at the sight of her loose black tank top that hung low in the back but showed off her belly button in the front. It had one of those “Keep Calm” logos, but instead it said “I will not keep calm. I will raise hell and break shit.”