He grins at me, starting to move inside me, starting to kiss me and heat me back up, and he’s irresistible, the grin, the boy, all of it.
Racer
My dad once said I could feel it coming when I felt myself swing, like a pendulum, from one side to the other.
I’m the freaking embodiment of a pendulum right now.
We flew to Italy; during the flight I hunkered down with my music, trying to get my damn focus back.
Thoughts keep racing in my head nonstop now—preventing sleep. Preventing any peace of mind. It’s been two hours since I dropped her off at her room, and I’m blue as fuck.
It’s been building up, the mood swings, first, the high on my power and my strength, the high of fucking claiming her as mine.
And now the damn low is coming.
The monsters telling me, I’m an asshole. That she has enough worries with her dad, enough pain having lost the boy she loved, enough pain for me to bring mine on.
And yet I can’t fucking keep away.
Those damn eyes call to me like a siren song, every piece of her magnetizes me.
I fucking crave her like air.
I’ve been piling up the championship points. I’m currently second place between the two Clark drivers, and I need another first to knock my prime competition out of P1. I can’t fucking afford to go dark now.
Exhaling, I pull out my rope and jump on it, something my father does to calm himself down when he’s “speedy,” as my mom calls it.
Jumping rope doesn’t help. From manic I’m swinging now to depression, replacing the former urge to go to her room and wake her up, steal her away into the damned sunset, take her to church and fucking marry her, to now wanting to disappear from her life and save her from me.
FUCK.
I rummage through my duffel, stare at my pills, wondering if I should take them. Makes me slower. Makes my thinking slower. Makes me feel dead.
And I know, sure as fuck, that it won’t help to take my damn pills now. I’m immersed in this shit now—it’ll have to be something jammed up my veins to balance me out.
Tell her you’re having trouble …
No. Fuck, that’s not what I want.
Lana has been hurt before. And a part of me keeps niggling at me, telling me I’m a bastard for wanting her for me when I’m not good enough for her.
But deep down, I know I am.
I know she’s mine.
I know she was meant for me; that she’s the one for me.
I’m fucking good enough.
But when an episode looms it’s hard to believe that I am.
I wanted freedom in my life, and now all I want is for this girl to love me.
I grab the stuff for my duffel and shove them in, then stop, clenching my hands.
I slam my fist into the table. “FUCK!”
I clench my jaw; my pride sore for having to ask, even my dad. I’m a guy who likes to need no one. I like doing my things, feeling good. Feeling this low and worthless isn’t me. So I know after a whole night, I’m screwed.
I feel animal.
I stroke my hand across my hair and dial the only number I dial at times like this.
“Dad.”
I can tell he knows it’s on. There’s a silence, and he says, “I’ll get the pilots ready. Be there tonight. Italy. Right?”
“Right.”
“Son?”
I pause on the line.
“Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”
I just hang up, calculating how far the nearest body of water is, trying to stop thinking of how much I want to tie an anchor on my feet and throw myself in.
It’s like a switch goes off, and death seems better, just less of a hassle, death is peace, life is misery.
I growl and grab my keys and head to my rental, drive to the hospital, my phone ringing off the hook.
It’s the Heyworths.
I don’t want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I power off my phone, driving and turning on the music. Fall Out Boy has another good one, it’s called Jet Pack Blues, where the lady on the road tempts him to come home.
Lana
Love me back …
I shower early in the morning for practice for the Italian Grand Prix, then slip on my jeans and my team T-shirt. I want to do something pretty with my hair, so I blow-dry it and let it down, then I add some lipstick and look at myself again.
“Tell him,” I tell myself. Tell him how you feel, I think, and I’m so determined to tell him that I even smile at myself in contentment as I head to the track.
“Where’s Tate?” Drake asks when I arrive and anxiously scan our tent for the familiar sight of Racer in his Nomex suit.
“I don’t know.” I start in surprise. “He’s not here?”
“Not here. Not in his room,” Clay says in obvious worry and puzzlement.
“What?” I ask, and I grab my cell and dial … only to go directly to voicemail.
“We’ve already left a dozen messages, don’t even bother,” Clay says, sighing and plopping down on a chair.
I still dial again. Get voicemail.
“Hey. It’s Lana. Um, Alana,” I try to make light of it. “Call me?”
An hour later, I’m with my heart in my throat. Three hours later, there’s a black hole in my life where Racer used to be. All I know is that he’s gone and that my stomach is in knots because I sense, deep down, that he needs me. That he’s proud, that it’ll cost him everything to tell me that he needs me. All I know is that I’m lost without him, and that the last time I remembered this feeling was the day they told me my dad had cancer and was refusing treatment.
Racer
I hear him arrive sometime early morning.