Page 6 of Sweet Poison

“You’re never far away.

I kept you close to my heart even after all these years.” — W

The calm before the storm or so the shitty phrase goes.

Life has shown me just how true it is. When things seem to be going too fucking well, I’m always on high alert, waiting for what might go wrong next because I can never have a quiet day before something going terribly wrong.

Today feels like one of those days.

Fuck, even the weather matches my mood— the sky is gray, and rain will soon fall. There’s not one clear cloud in sight and the sun is a no show.

I lean against the pit wall, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber hanging heavy in the air. My car sits on jacks, hidden by my team of mechanics, as they make some adjustments and fine-tune it. The men’s chatter is a dull hum, I stopped listeningto about an hour ago. Usually I love the silence and the feeling of peace that settles over me whenever I’m here but there’s just something nagging at the back of my mind today. I can’t point out what exactly it is but the feeling is there in the pit of my stomach.

I’m lost in my head when a loud voice cuts through my thoughts. “Did you check the fuel pressure?” one of the mechanics, Jaime, shouts as he wipes sweat from his brow.

“Yeah, man, but I’m not sure about the readings,” another replies, peering into the engine. “I’ll recalibrate the fuel map.” The men keep talking among themselves while working on the car.

With a deep sigh, and the annoying feeling in my stomach, I look around and find Perry, my manager, standing a few feet away from me with his phone on his ear and a scowl on his face. His neatly combed, salt-and-pepper hair looks disheveled as if he ran his finger through it in frustration. He’s wearing a checkered blazer that looks like it had been plucked from a discount rack and paired with a bright yellow shirt makes him look like a clown.

I frown when I notice his shoes—some sort of faux-leather monstrosity that looked like they’d survive a flood. The man makes several million dollars per year, he can afford a decent wardrobe for fucks sake. I’m starting to think the fucker dresses like a circus clown just to fuck with me.

Suddenly more annoyed than before, I turn to Remi, my publicist. She’s pacing near the entrance of the garage, her eyes flitting between her iPad and me. Remi is a beautiful Afro-Latina, with chestnut curls styled in loose waves and a face that should be plastered all over modeling magazines. Instead, she’s stuck cleaning up my shit and working night and day on cleaning up my image in the media.

Half of the shit the media says about me is exactly that… bullshit yet she works extra hard on making me look good for not only the fans but for possible work collaboration and business opportunities.

She’s a beast and Perry is too but while Perry has a more gentle approach, Remi is a bulldog with sharp teeth.

Every single person here loves their job and even if they’re tired or pissed off they still find joy in the shit they do.

Then there’s me.

I stand back, watching all of them with bored eyes. Everything feels so dull and there’s no thrill to my life unless I’m racing. Every damn day feels like a repeat of the last. Nothing and no one excites me anymore.

Not the women.

Not the money.

Not the fame.

Nothing.

I’m at the top and is all I ever wanted and what I sacrificed so much for and now it just feels… empty.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I dreamt of this shit.

Danny wanted this for me.

Why am I not satisfied?

Will I ever be?

A vibration in my pocket pulls me out of my head. I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. It’s a notification from a news app. The headline reads:Tragedy Strikes Formula Two Champion Madden Hunt: Brother’s Suicide and Scandal Unfold.Read more here. I swipe the notification open, and my stomach clenches as I read through the headlines and social media posts. The news is everywhere.

My older brother, Milton, is dead.

The news reports it was a suicide.

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